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The Exeter Advocate, 1895-4-26, Page 7.•••••••••••••*a.. BY HELEN B. iHATHEAS, (COrrriettnen.1 "Sometimes! only, to tell you the 'truth, they are getting rather beyond me. Were yeti angry when I slapped you -this afternoon ?" "Very 1 I hope you will never do it again," "But then you must never do it again." "But I did not." "If you...were I," I say, seriously, "you 'would be sick of the very name of kiss - Ing, we have such oceans of it at home !" "Ah1 suppose so. Your father must be very fond of you all ?" "Very !" I say, with a wry face, "but it is not he who i lavish in that respect, 'it is my sister ; she is engaged, you :kno•w." 4. "To Lovelace! So I have heard." "I am gooseberry, you see," I continue, "ancl'I do get so tired. of it all. Do you think our fathers and. mothers ever re - A quire gooseberries?" "I don't know " he says, laughing ; '"but I suppose they did pretty much the :same as their children do." The polka is over, and very hard work 'the dancers have apparently found it, for they are all, boys and girls alike, rerieason. By and by we dance a quadrille, young •Mr, Tempest and I, and he guides me throughthe mazes of that mystic dance • with much discretion. I wonder why the sight of two people chaeseing to each other always reminds me of two amiable ponies, who curvet about face to face 'with each other, preparatory to turning cround and letting out their heels in good 'hone3t kicks? We do not kick up our -heels though; and when the dance is over go to supper, where we eat chicken and tipsy cake with the hearty and unjaded :appetite of youth, and then, for it is past 10 o'clock, we all say, "Good night, and thank you,' and go away to put on our -cloaks and hats, Balaam's Ass is waiting for Dolly and • me, and George Tempest takes my little red cleak from her hands, and ties the :ribbons under my chin. "Good -by, little Bed Riding Hood," he says, "and shall I ever gee you again?" "I shall be sure to run up against you, esooner or later," I say, nodding ; "St, Swithins is so very little; besides, do you :not live at Silverbridge, and are you not going back to live there some day ?" CHAPTER VI. We are in August now, and there is no -coolness anywhere, not in the house, nor in the garden, nor in the sea; twice to- day have I dipped in its salt waters, and each time I have come out of it ten de grees hotter than when I stepped in. Through the dining -room windows yon- -der we can hear the manly bass of the governor, and the shrill little pipe of the Mummy, following each other in friend - Ly and out here under the big linden tree, are sitting Jack, young Mr. Tempest, and. I. The weather has surely softened papa's brain, for, not content with shaking hands with Mr. Tempest, he invited both 'him and his son to dinner, and has just peaceably parten of the same with them; mother, Charles Lovelace, and Alice, be - :lug also of the company. George and I are old friends now, and he gets on very well with Jack, so ke has forsaken claret for our company ; and very sociable and merry we are as we sit and fan ourselves with cabbage leaves, for, oh ! though the aun is sinking, he has heated the earth so thoroughly that it is red hot through and through ; it is impossible to think of 'even the hours of the night being cool. Yonder, in the winding ways of the formal garden, Alice and Charles are walking with their heads touching ; she is holding up her white silk train with one hand and her pietty little feet are peeping in and out, while the white rose in her breast and hair are no fairer than her round arms and. neck. "I wish we were at Silverbridge !" I -say, swaying my cabbage -leaf gently ; -'"it goes to my heart to be sitting here, gooseberryless, currantless, raspberryless, ' while all the little Dorleys are, I am cer- tain, taking their nasty little fills! Mother wanted to have the fruit sent to us once a week, but papa said it was to be preserved." "I hate preserves," says Jack, "nasty apologies for fresh fruit; blackberry jam is good, though." wish I knew where to get some blackberries now, large, juicy, soft ones, -like raspberries ; bat it's full early. I -don't think we'll get any worth having before September." "I saw a lot this morning," says Georg "as I was riding across the lower" ("Jack 1" calls mother, in the distance, "I want you") "landslip," finished George, as Jack goes. "Would you like -to go and get some ?" "So much !" I say quickly. "Are there :many?" "I think so ; why cannot you and Dolly -eome with me to-merrow morning?" "We are forbidden to go out alone," I esay, thoughtfully; "you won't mind .Amberley coming?" "Indeed, I do," he says, laughing. "What do you want with that stupid old woman? We could have each a jolly .morning." "So we could," I say, considering; "I 'think I could dodge her all right ; but how about the governor ?" "He goes for a ride sometimes ?" !'Yes, but not always. Supposing he -were to inquire for us and we were missing?" "What then?" "'What then ? Oh, nothing !" A. vis- ion rises before me of the condition of the household under the circumstances, and his simple question makes me stnile. "Don't take any notice of him," says 'George, indifferently, "I shall be waiting on the Parade for you to -morrow morn- ing. at 11 o'clock punctually." "I am afraid you will have.to wait," I .say, disconsolately; "but never mind, if we don't come, you will know it is not our fault !" "The governor !" signals jack, beckon- ing in the distance; sowithout waiting for farewells I hastily decamp. We have slept, risen, dressed ourselves, listened to prayers, eaten our breakfast, and scattered hither and thither to our several pursuits and occupations. It is holiday time or lie, so I am not expected in the echoolroom, and Iny present oc- cupation in lite is to ascertain what the governor is doing, where he is going and 'whether tiler is any dire chance 1 his catching Dolly and me just as we are •trotting off to ''pasturenew." 1 eare-, fully track him to the library, and ,tm presently surprised and relieved by the appearance of his man of businese, who is shown to that sanctum by Sirepkins, and left ler four good hours, I hope. Aed now to find Dolly. 1 have not mentioned to that young person that meditated taking her out, or her eyes would heve become so round that everybody wc d have suspected she was tip to misehio • and on searching inquiry she would cer- tainly have let it alleout, I discover her in the nursery with Man, learning Seripture history—the fag -toed of a pun- ishment given by papa weeks ago. I give nurse a hug—dear old soul! is she not like a second mother to us ?—but wish she would turn her back; for if she is loving she is shrewd, and is too well acquainted with Any knack of getting into serapes to trust any one of her charges to my tender mercies. She is hemming dusters and rating Balaam's Ass, who with her usual obstinacy has been doing that which she ought not to have done, and leaving undone such things as she ought to have done. • Apparently she has been taking the air on the leads, for nurse is remarking with a violent sniff, that "rent will soon be dear in these ports if so much beauty is seen disporting itself on the til,s," "Like Bathsheba," says Alan. "Nurse," says Dolly, looking up from her book, "who was Bathsheba ?" "Nobody in particular, Miss Dolly; no- body you have any cause to ask about. A woman." "She was an improper person," says Alan, unexpectedly. `41 "Sakes alive !" ejaculates nurse, hold- ing up her hands; "whatever is the boy talking about? Iold your tongue, Master Alan, and mind your book." "I shan't," says Alan, "You know it as well as I do. I heard Jack humming something the other day about: " `That naughty little dragon, And she without a rag on'; And I asked him who she was, and he said Bethsheba. And I looked it out, and I shan't ever think much of David again, Psalms and all." Takingadvantage of her departure to quells riot among the boys in the next room, I catch Dolly's hand and pull her away with me. "May not Alan come ?" she asks, look- ing back. "No," I say in a whisper; "I only want you." I trot her iuto my bedroom, and. having informed her of the trip I propose taking, ask her if she can get her hat and jacket without nurse's knowing. Yes, she can, and, all delight and round eyes, she departs on tip -toe, ob- tains the coveted articles, and in five minutes, after careful and patient dodg- ing of mother, Amberley, Simpkins and Alice, we stand on the high road, and are stamping away as fast as we can pelt toward the Parade. Eleven o'clock is striking as 'we reach the Parade. and at the far end is George. Seeing us, he steps out briskly, and in another two minutes we are shaking hands and laughing over the success of our undertaking. "We must be very quick though," I say, "for some unlucky spirit may put it into his head to ask for us, and then—" "How do you do, Miss Adair ?" asks a voice behind me. Turning I see Bobbie Silver and two or three other young fel- lows, friends of Jack. "How do you do?" I say, rather chapfallen ; they will see Jack pres- ently, and tell him they saw me down here alone. Oh, the ways of disobedience are very crooked! "And where is the duenna ?" asks I am opening my mouth to answer him, when in the distance I espy Balaam's Ass. bearing down upon us with a por- tentous mine that betokens some deadly tidings. The words I am about to speak die on my lips ; my open mouth remains open; my widening eyes enlarge to their fullest extent, and remained fixed: The young men, marveling, turn to ascertain the cause of my petrification. "If yllen please, Miss Ellen and Miss Dolly," says Balaam's Ass, appearing in our midst, "your pa says you're to go home and go to bed directly 1" She might have whispered. I do not look at Bobbie or George. I look no- where ; I see nothing. Why does not the earth open and swallow us? Somehow, I do not know how, to this day, we got ourselves away." "How dare he do it?' I say, "just as we were so happy, Dolly ! How shall I look one of them in the face again ?" And I am fourteen years old! Truly "pride goes before a fall !" CHAPTER XII. My last little escapade has oost me dear. Not only have I been condemned to a week's imprisonment in the house and grounds, but the edict has gone forth that I shall be sent to school without loss of time. I have long ago wept my eyes dry. I do not think that I shall ever be able to cry any more, not even when I find myself set down in the midst of a crowd of nasty, spiteful, odious, chatter- ing gids; if there were a few boys I would not mind, but to have nothing but petticoat company for five months, will, I am certain, drive me mad. If Dolly were coming even, it would not be so bad, we could at least hold together and talk about home ; I should not be so mis- erably lonely then ; but no such luck, Amberley is still good enough for another two years' cultivation of that little per- son's mind. How I shall hate the needle- work, and the bread-and-butter, and the making my own bed every morning! and, oh! how I shall have to mend my man- ners and revise my vocabulary! Remarks that are merely spicy among ourselves might be regarded by a schoolmistress in a different light, and our freedom and ease of invective and retort be considered immoral. Everybody is out this evening, papa and all, and I have not a soul to speak to but Paul Pry, who does not understand if I do talk to him. I cannot even make myself of use by playing gooseberry. How Alice will miles me when I am gone! The ghost of's tear comes into my eye at this touching thought. They cannot choose but miss me, though, I befear me, the cense of my being so regretted will be but selfish. Love on, poor lovers ! By Christmas your billings and cooings will be over, and you, Mr. Charles, will be sent to the right-a...out. How the gover- nor's patience has lasted. as long as it has done, I can't imagine. It is dull work marching about here all alone, with no fruittrees to rob, or sociable soul to ex- change remarks with. I have not seen George since that fatal day, although he has been here two or three times. 8orae- how I cannot forgive him for having been a witness to my dispace, and I owe him a grudge for haviog a nasty little father who did see Dolly and inc wheri we bolted into the chemist's shop, and meet- ing papa on the hill, told him, but with no malicious intentthat he had just seen us; hence the catattrophe, There never was anybody DA unlucky as 1 am; everything has gone wrong with rae ever since I was born, and everythingwill continue to do until my death, which is certain to take place in some unseemly unexpected manner, at some unsuitable time and spot, I suppose my own bad conduct is at the bottom of most of my misfortunes, though. As I stroll along the eoppiee that vides our grounds from hear a gay young voi Love She's but a Las quite cheerful, an spirits, 1 hope he wil ly, for, oh ! I do hate out a human voice have not looked upon t man, woman, or child for a , to see anybody would be comp mount the heige preparatory to small peep over it. Even a commercia traveler or a rustic Lubin waiting for his sweetheart, would be nicer to look at than these still, straight trees and the stupid, silent grass, Popping my head somewhat suddenly over the hedge, I find myself face to face with George Tempest. For a moment I stare speechlessly at him, then I drop the boughs, vanish from his sight, and run fleetly down the coppice. I hear his voice calling, "Nell! Nell 1" after me, and in another minute he has overtaken me, and stands in my path. "Won't you speak to me, Nell ?" he asks, rather blown and out of breath with his exertions. "Cant't stop now," I say, distinctly, turning a scarlet countenance over my shoulder; "sometedy is calling me," " Nobody is calling you," he says, quickly ; "are you angry with me, Nell ?" Angry !" I repeat, turning round my face, which is, I think, assuming its nor- mal tint, 'why should. I be angry ?" " Come back into the coppice for a lit- tle while, then," he says ; you can't be going in yet, it is only seven o'clock." For a moment I hesitate. I am ashamed to look him in the face ; but will it not be intolerably dull all alone in the empty house yonder? I turn and. walk beside him. Do you know," he says, " that I have been looking out for you every day, and all day for the last fortnight, but I have never caught a single glimpse o you ?" "For the best of all reasons,"I answer; "did you not know I was in punish- ment ?" "No !" he replies indignantly. "What a shame! and pray whose doing was that?" - "There is only one person in the world who has the power to make me misera- ble," I say, "and you know who that is" "But you have not been locked up," he says, looking puzzled, " for one day I was here with Jack, and I am certain I saw you in the distance, and went in hot pursuit, but you had vanished, When I got back I asked Jack why you ran away, and how it was I never saw you now, and he said he didn't know." "Good boy !" I say, laughing, " he would not betray me. It is not nice, is it, when one is beginning to be grown up to be kept a prisoner for a fortnight?" "He is a wretch," says George, vigor- ously " how he can have the heart—" "I want to ask you a question," " I say, looking up at his face, reassuredby the unsmiling look it wears ; " did you—did you—laugh much ?" "About what, dear ?" "That—that morning, when we went out blackberrying." "No," he says, gently, "I was far too angry for that." "And. Bobbie Silver ?" I ask, " did he laugh ?" "I don't think so," says George, with some slight confusion in his voice, that plainly tells me whatever he did not do the others did. "I shall never forget it," I say, turn- ing my red face full upon him—' never! ou see I am just beginning to be grown up—" "Never mind I" he says, gently, " it is he who ought to be ashamed of himself, not you !" "And you will promise," I say anxious- ly, " never to laugh, never even to think of it, or I could never feel comfortable with you?" "I promise," he says, gravely; " and now tell me, is it true you are going to school?" "Quite true !" I answer, " honibly true! To -day is Friday, and I am going next Wednesday." I thought I had no such things as tears about me, but some- how they have got into my voice, and, as I turn my head away, George takes my hand with a gentleness that Jack never knew, and keeps it. a 0 eve "I wish you were my brother," I say, with a sob ; "of course, 1 could never have loved anyone so well as Jack, but yon would have been kinder to me." "If I had had a little sister," he says (how soothing his voice is ! how quiet his ways are ! He is not like anyone I have ever known before. Can it be because he has no brothers and sisters?) "I should have liked her to be just like you, and I should have loved her beyond every- thing ; but it is too late to think of that now." "Yes, it is too late," I say, releasing my hand to pluck a sorrel -leaf that is close to my elbow (we are sitting down on the warm, burnt grass); "but if you had only thought of it before, say ten years ago, you could have asked your fa- ther to marry again, could you not?" •"Yes," says George, looking rather puzzled. "And then, you know, you would very likely have had a sister. Step -brothers and sisters are not the same as one's own, though ; sometimes they quarrel dread- fully?" "Nell," says George,bending his fair head to look me straight in the face "do you like inc?" "Very much," I answer, promptly ; " next to mother, Jack, Alice, and Dolly, I don't know anyone I like so much," His face falls a little. "I can't expect you to have much room in your heart for me," he says, "you have so many to fill it, while I have— nobody." "You have the Mummy." "Yes " (laughing) ; " but I have room for plenty more." "So have I ! Now, I should not won- der if in a year or two, when I get to know you better, you know, I were to like you very mucb indeed—almost as well as jack ; yap are always so good to me!" "Dear little Nell," he says, heartily. "I only hope you will. You'll have plenty of opportunity of getting better acquaint ed with me, for my brother talks of go- ing to Silvorbridge, next midsummer to live at The Chace. "How delightful" I say, clapping my hands ; " but, why not before midsura- trier?" ," We are going on our usual wild -pow expedition round the contineut, and a lively time I shall have of it" 'and ister ot you. r be mar- er, indiffer- tier or later. maid, with no is it not ?" y notion of what your o be like, Nell ?" • "My husban . repeat, breaking into a peal of laughter. "How droll it sounds! it is like playing at a least; and yet mother knew a lady who was married at sixteen, her mother at fifteen and her grandmother at fourteen !" "Then it is high time you were mar- ried ! But you have not told me what he must be lie ?" "Dark," I say, pursing up my mouth. "Very dark ; and he must have black or very dark eyes, and a long black mus- tache that sweeps, but is not waxed." eyes.), "He must keep me in rare good order, and not let me get my own way, for, though I love to have it, it is bad for me; but ho must never slap me or call me names." "Good heavens !" exclaims George, "does a gentleman ever do that ?" "Sometimes And he must be very fond of my people, and have them to stay with us very often, and let me go and stop with them." "And you are quite sure he must be dark ?" "I think so; but if he were very nice and kind I should not mind so much about his complexion." "Do you think that I should do, Nell ?" asked the young man, half eagerly, half jestingly, "when you are quite grown up, eighteen or thereabouts ?" "You!" I say. staring at him. "Oh, George, do you mean it; are you joking?" "Not a bit of it! You are the dearest little girl, the nicest little girl and the prettiest little girl that I ever saw, and you'll only be dearer and nicer and pret- tier as you grow older, and I'm fonder of you than anything or anybody under the sun." "Including the mummy ?" I ask, rally- ingifrona the shock his calling me pretty has caused me. "Including him!" "George," I say, beginning to male again, "don't think me very rude, but is it a real offer you have made me ?" "I suppose so," he says, beginning to laugh too ; "why ?" "Because not one of us, not even Alice, had an offer made her at the age of four- teen before. I'm certain no one ever ask- ed Milly to marry, and I don't think any one did Jack." "Highly improbable. But you have not answered my question yet. "Papa could not send me to bed. if I were married, could he ? or set me chap- ters in the Bible, or box my ears ?" "Certainly not." "And you would always live at Silver - bridge, close to the Manor House, so that I could run in and out every day ?" "If you liked." "Then," I say, stretching out my hand, "If you are quite sure that you will al- ways be polite to Jack, and never call me names, or make a row about the house- keeping bills, or keep the key of the kitchen garden, I will marry you ? Not for years and years, though—when I am twenty or so.".. "That would be much too old to be married," says George. "It would be a pity not to come to The Chace while you are young and able to enjoy the fruit. Eighteen is the proper age." "Too soon," I say, shaking my head, "let us say eighteen and a half ; but, of course, if see ally one I like better you won't mind. my having him ?" "Not mind !" he says, blankly; "but I shall mind very much indeed. However, I'll take care chat you never have the chance." "You need not be afraid," I say, con- solingly; "no man living is ever seen in Silverbridge who is not married or old or a fright. Besides, who would be likely to fall in love with me ?" "Everybody," he says, warmly; "they couldn't help it." "I think," I say, disregarding this pretty compliment, "that it would be safer to promise conditionally. Most likely you will see some one or other who would just suit you, and then you might feel uncomfortable about me , and though it is very unlikely that any one else will ever want to marry me, for at home we see nobody, it is just possible that I might run up against somebody I liked better, or I might not care about being married. at all. you know ; so we will leave it open until I am eighteen and a half." "And it is a promise ?" he says, holding my hand between both his own and look- ing very kindly into my face. (How his mother would have loved him if she had lived, he had such lovable ways.) "You will not forget ?" "No," I say, promptly. "I always keep my promises ; ask Jack if I do not— that is one reason why he says I ought to have been a boy. But look how dusk it is growing. I must go. Good -night!" "Good -night." he says, standing over me, tall and fair in the gathering shad- ows. "Perhaps this is the last time I shall have a chance of speaking to you alone before you go, dear," "I suppose so.' "Then, Nell, as you're going to be my little wife some day, and I have no sister, you know—nobody to be good to me, won't you give me a kiss, just a,Little one, before you go ?" "Of course. I will," I say, touched to the heart by the allusion to his narrow, loveless home life; then, as he stoops his head, I lift myself on tiptoe and. kiss his cheek as heartily as though it wore Jack's. "I wish you were my brother," I say, warmly—"I do wish it with all my heart." CHAPTER xm. Tho next morning my departure has arrived. The carriage is at the door, my boxes are on the roof, and if anything could console me at this trying moment it would be the knowledge of the number of good things one bursting hamper con- tains. As itis, I am vaguely conscious of some pleasant morsel at the back of my mind that will by and by emerge to the front and comfort inc. ('ro nr1 CONTINVIN).) London's rate of taxation has ''434:na fixed at 20 9-10 mills on the dollar. 1N( WAS irillANKATED rgreat J.i proeossiou ofh that next comes the scien- , third the philosopher. This reminds me of Torn King, the beet man 1 ever knew. Toni was an old negro who lived in my native village. He had tasted the bitterness of slavery. There were scars on his wrists and welts on his broad back. When I first saw Tom he was in his prime, a man of mage nificent proportions, a Hercules in stat- ure and in strength. He could stand on the bottom of a canal boat moored to the village pier and toss a barrel of flour out upon the wharf. The muscles under his black skin were then supple and sinewy, his giant-like form was as erect as the pine, and men turned to look as he pass- ed them in the street, says Ernest Jerrold in Harper's Weekly. In his early manhood Tom was not a good man, One :winter a noted revival- ist came to the village and opened ser- vices in the little Methodist church under the hill. He compared the quiet little hamlet te iudom and Gomorrah, and thundered his denunciations in a man- ner which struck terror to the hearts of his listeners. Tom's only surviving rel- ative was his daughter Dinah, who be- came greatly exercised over the spiritual welfare of her father, and after weeks of pleading persuaded him to go to meeting. This proved to be the turning point in Tom's career. The horrors of the fate awaiting the sinner in the future world filled Tom with remorse, and he resolved to go to the altar. It was only after a week of brooding that he made up his mind to take this step. To make the ef- fort as easy as possible, he went to the church early and secured a seat near to the altar -rail, and to bend his gigantic frame in an attitude of prayer. His mind wasin a chaos. He felt as if he wanted something, but he could not tell what it was. For the following week he was a miserable man. Ho began to examine those great problems as freewill and foreordination. He went to the preacher, but obtained no relief. Tom remained in this mental condition for several weeks, when suddenly his mind was relieved. A sense of rest and happi- ness filled his breast. The preacher told. him that he had been converted, and Toni believed him. He did not know what conversion meant, but he told his daugh- ter, "Once I was dark inside like a coal - cellar, but now I's got a candle in mah soul." Tom shook off the vices which cling to weaker men as a lion might shake au- tumn leaves from his mane. It was the blossoming of a human soul into an ex- quisite goodness. Very simple, child- like, and. beautiful Tom's life became. He believed in the Bible literally. With the sensuous imagination of the negron and the occult divination of a mind. which dwelt continually on high planes of thought, he even aspired to translate the mysteries of the book of Revelation. Tom never troubled himself about current events, but after supper he would open the well-worn Bible and pour over the wonderful book with constant delight. And as the spiritual horizon widened, and all malice and un- charitableness departed from him, leav- ing a gracious kindness and sweetness which irradiated his rugged features. The portion of the Bible which fascinated Tom more than any other was the story of the translation of the prophet Elijah. In thew iconoclastic days, when the hammers of materalisna have been com- ing down with a crushing force, there are many who laugh at the story of the fiery chariot and. the flaming horses, but doubt of the truth never crept into the roomy chambers of Tom's faith. His Oriental fancy saw the chariot descend and rise again with its living freight. With beatific vision Tom would close the holy book after reading the story over again, look up with eyes of faith through the ceiling until the meteoric vehicle was swallowed by the sky ; then clasping his callous hands in religious ecstasy he would sing: "Whar, oh, whar is de good Elijah Whar, oh. whar is de good Elijah, Who went up in the chariot of Sah? Safe, now, in de promised lan'." By a process of reasoning peculiarly his own the idea took possession of Tom's mind that "when the summons came to join the innumerable caravan" he would be translated just as the prophet had been. This was not egotism on his part, it was simply an outgrowth of his faith. He had read the words of the Christ about faith like the mustard seed, and its application to the removal of a moun- tain, and he applied this literally regard- ing the fiery chariot, Then old age, with its coneomitance of partial blindness and rheumatism, came upon him, his once stalwart form was bent, and his great arms began to wither like the limbs of a tree smitten by lightning. But his faith, clarified by years of self -communion and humility, supported him in his adversity. The little oases of refreshing in the desert of his physical weariness Tom found at the weekly prayer -meeting. He always sat in a high-backed wooden pew near the door, remembering sadly that he was of an alien and contemned race. One hot August evening, when the brethren and sisters were paying more attention to the moths fluttering around the gas jets than to the iteration of time -worn supplication and exhortation, the preacher awoke from a half -doze, and without rising from his seat, said : "There still remain a few minutes be- fore the close of the meeting. If any one wishes to say a few words or to lead in prayer he uow has the chance.", From far away on the drowsy evening air came the notes of a whippoorwill. Then the silence was broken by a blundering June -bug, which flew into Sister Jones' ear, provoking a shriek and a snicker. Then silence again. The preacher was about to close the meeting, when old Tom King pulled himself, by the help of the seat in front, to an erect position. He looked like a gigantic oak which was fast decaying, and there was a trembling cadence in his voice as he said, "Let us pray." Tom paused for a few seconds, as if trying to gather all the powers of his finite intelligence in the effort properly to fix his feeble utterance to the task.of addressing the infinite. Then with pro- found. pathos and humility he began : "Our Father who art in heaven,we Thy leetle ehillun look 'way tra' de night shad !ors into do ca,'in lan' boyon' de sea. To -night, our Father, do fogs ob unbelef an' de mists ob doubt am bein' swop' away by do strong wind ob faith, an' we can see do crystal ribber an' de bleomin' fiefs of Paradise. De road has been torble long an' dusty, Father. Some- times do water has been seece on de road, an' de sun has burned hotter dan. dc fun'ace ; but, Bross de Lord ! do promis' lan' an:1'011y a leetle ways yander..Qw eyes am a.gittin' dim, but we can see de sun aeshini.n' on de jssper gates an' de glory floodinl de walls ob de holy city. .D • steeples an' de winders am a-blazige wiv de light, W's on'y a settin' on de steps ob heaven to res' bac,' dehosses ob fiah an' de chariots of erimson come down to take us into de green fiel's whar de flow'as is eber bloomin', In de sweet fiel's ob Eden we esu see do Solomon lily an' de roses ob Sharon, an cle bleediD. heart honeysuckle, all sweeter dais de honey in de comb. De leetle bees, wiv gol'en wings are a hummin'. Oh, Lord, Send quick de hosses an' de chariots to carry us home, 'cause de misery am got us in de legs, an' de as'my am a-chokinl Here Tom, halted in his prayer, swayed back and forth, and. fell heavily upon the bench, A. scene of excitement ensued. With tender, reverent hands the brethren laid him upon some cushions taken from some of the front pews. Already the pal- lor of dissolution was spreading over his face. "Tain.'t no use fo' to' Fen' fo' de doctor honey," he whispered to Sister Jones. "I's got mah call." The radiance of an electric light was shining in at the window from the street. The gleam caught Toni's fading gaze, and a glad smile overspread his face a:s he murmured: 'See de light of de hosses ! See de shine ob de fiery Weels ! Keerful, keerful, Gabr'el ; keerful, chile ! Drive dem fiah hosses slow! I's comin'—comin'—comin' And so Tom King was translated. A Chance For Rini. The gentleman on the stump had been caught in the act of riding a horse which did not belong to him, and which, again, he had not borrowed, He had fallen in- to the hands of a number of pro ainent citizens of Titus County, Texas, and pur- suant to the traditions and customs of the country, he was about to pay for the animal. "If you got anything to say," remark- ed the leader, "now's yer time and clip it close." "Gentlemen," responded the culprit, "I'd like to say that this is my first of- fense and I never would 'a' toc k the boss if I hadn't been dead tired and I seen him croppin' the grass along the road and I kinder thought I might as well make him useful. I wasn't a goin' to sell him, ner nothin', but turn him loose aft.r I had got rested." "Let up on that," interrupted the leader. "You're done with the past ; what you've got to look out fer's the future," "But I don't want to be hung when I ain't guilty," insisted the prisoner. "I didn't steal the hoss and wasn't goin' to steal him. I ain't half as bad as you gents think I am." "You stole a hoss," said the leader curtly, as if that expressed the superla- tive degree. "Say I ad steal him," responded the offender, "which I didn't; you ain't got no right to count the bad things ag'in me that I am without yoii count them that I ain't. Gimme a fair. chance gents." W "hat ain't you?" asked the leader, rather pleased with the culprit's logic. "Well, for one thing, I ain't a member of the fifty-third congress." The leader gave a startled look at the crowd, which was responded to in kind. "Boys," he said with dignity, "give him a chance. Cnt the rope and let him run and don't nobody shoot till he's got 200 yard's start." Domestic Hints. Never cut the toe -nails below the level of the toe, nor ever suffer them to grow much beyond that level. If nails grow in at the side scrape them at the top and cut them often, both there and at the op- posite corner. Never warm butter for cakes in the pan it is to be beaten in, as it will be likely to makayour cake heavy. If the weather is cold let the butter stand in the warm kitchen for some time, and it will be soft enough; the action of beating the butter and sugar, and the friction produced sof ten the butter sufficiently. Polish for furniture is much improved if a little vinegar be added to it, for it re- moves the dead, oily look, so often noticed after cleaning furniture. The proper proportions are half a pint of sweet oil, the same of turpentine, and a quarter of a pint of vinegar. In polishing always rub the way of the grain, and to bring up a polish on carved furniture employ a good stiff brush. A Recrudescence of Nerve. There are times, albeit not character- ized by startling frequency, when the nerve—the emotional nerve—of Macal- lister Mellhenny reasserts itself, and for the moment gives hopes to his friends that he will yet storm the citadel of some fair maiden's heart and claim it as his own. The latest recrudescence, so to speak, in this line manifested itself only last week. The buoyant and hopeful Mac had found another sweet creature who had permitted him to visit her after the first call. In that alone was a certain tri- umph to which Macallister McIlhenny was not slow to respond. On the occasion of which this chronicle treats, he had tarried until he was in sight of the wee sma' hours, and in a wild burst of enthusiasni he had proposed to her, as he had so many, many times pro- posed to so many, many other maidens. But the girl resented it as if men were Pletliteo," she answered him, haughtily, She was so radiantly beautiful, and Macallister 1VIcIlhenny was so dead in earnest, that before she knew what had happened he had bent forward and kissed her with a loud report, "Sir," she exclaimed, with great indig- nation, "you have gone too fax." "I beg your pardon," he replied, non- chalantly, "you told me to go, but you didn't say how far, and I went." But it availed him not. He had. the courage, but he lacked the strategic qual- ity, and once more he found himself aix emotional wanderer upon the face of the cold, repellent earth. , The Unlucky Qnarter. A. local druggist mentions the follow- ing incident that occurred in his store : A traveling man eame in and asked inc to give him change for a quarter of a dollar. He explained his request by say- ing: "I don't like to carry a, quarter around in my pocket if I eau get hold of any other kind of coin. The quarter has hirtern stars, thirteen letters in the scroll held in the eagle's beak, thirteen marginal feathers on each wing, thirteen tail feathers, thirteen parallel lines en the shield, thirteen horizontal bare and thirteen arrowheads."