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The Exeter Advocate, 1895-8-21, Page 600MIN' THRO' THE RYE. B12 IIELEN 8 MaTIIERS, (001ealleinleen ,At the end. a the, corridor is a door by which the grounds 0311 1/0 reaohed, and I leave the house, and climb to the upper walks and terrisoes. I should like to go dosvu to the sets but it is too late to go alone, and upon its shore 1 eaulet not be more lonely than I am up here. I come to the seat where Paul Vasher klud I sat a week ago—only a week.1 And. it seems a year, Everything looks clefferent from se -hat it did on that morning, faint chill bleakness lies over the landscape,the trees shiver a little as the leaves fall rustling to the ground, the bit of the sea in the dis- tame is not blue at alebut a dull grayish - green, the birds are all cross, or asleep, and there is no pleasant hum of inseats on the evening air. Perhaps it is 1 who an out of sorts, not Nature. On my way, 1 have pulled a handful of late carnatione, and some a Shakespeare's streaked gillyflowers, and. I am smelling at them idly, when a fragrant -whiff of another sort floats up to me—that of a cigar. This is a remote corner, and people rarely mine up so high as this, so I give it no thought, and have olosed my tired eyes, and am looking inward at the vista stretching out before me of endless,empty, dull to -morrows, when footsteps, brushing through the short grass, make me open them suddenly, and there stands Paul Vasher, For a moment I stare at him without speaking, then—s' I think I have been asleep! I say, starting up; "mad. it must be near tea time—time to go in!" As I turn to go be puts out his hand aud lays it on my ann. "Is this game of hide-and-seek to go on forever'!" he asks, sternly (a moment ago his face overspread with a swift gladness.) "Am I always to be avoided by you in this -way, morning, noon, and night?" (I am in for itl— he is determined te make a listening gooseberry of me, willy-nilly). "If you call drinking tea—" I begin; then, looking up by accident and catching his eye, I stop short: evasions are always worse than. useless with him. "Your ten can wait," he says; "and you shall not go until you have answered "Shall not! Who will prevent me?" "I will." For a moment I look straight at his resolute face and bent brows; then I sit down again and wait for him to begin. "I want to know," he says, standing before rae, "what you mean by behaving in this way to me?" My hands are looked fast together, my gillyflowers lie in my lapany cheeks could grow no paler than they were before: if only my lips will keep steady, and my eyes tell no secrets— "In what way, Mr. Vasher?" "In newer speaking to or looking at me; In never giving 2110 a single chance of a few words alone with you—though Heaven knows I have worked hard enougli to compass it. Could you have treated an enemy with more coldness and disdain? And I have been your friend, child, for so many years." Yes, I have been wrong as usual. I ought to have met him just the same as I did before he told me his story; instead of -which, I have left him to guess the miser- able truth; and now, no doubt, he pities me—. But I could not do the other: my strength did not go so far as that. "You have always been my friend," I say, gently. "I know it, but—you will not be angry with me?" "Angry? No!" "When you told me that you loved somebody, I thought you would always -want to be talking about her, like other lovers, and that you would expect me to listen; and I always was a bad listener; any one who talks as much as I do, must be; and so—and so I avoided. you. Be- sides, you can always think of her, you know; and that must he better than praising her to me, who never saw her." "And this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" he says. Then, as I do not answer, for his search- ing v ice arraigns eue before my own con- science as having answered disingenuos- ly: "Would it bore us too math if we were to exchange confidences—you about 'him, 1 about herr' "Make as many as you please tome," I answer, steadily, "and I will listen; but I have none to give you in return" "None?" "None." "You used not to be so secret." "Am I bound to give an account of my- self to ennen "I will have no more of this miserable uncertainty," he seal. suddenly. "Tell me, chi d, are you engaged td that man at Sil vereridge?" "That is a matter that concerns myself only." "Are you, or are you not?" he aska again, while the veins rise in his forehead like cords, and his hand clinches. I may as well tell him after alit why should there be any mystery over it? It can make no possible difference to him or any one else. "No. But there is a kind of promise between us." "A kind of promise? Tell me what it "When I was fourteen I gave him my word of honor that when I was eighteen years old and six months I would marry him if—" "HI" he repeats quick/ye "Go on" did not see any one 1 liked better." "Indeed! And are the six months up?" annen, He draws a deep breath, and then in the voice of a man who puts a strong re- straint upoa himself, says, "Tell me one thing now. Do you love him?" "You ask too much," 1 answeaturning my pale face away. "What is it to you whether I love him or not?" And. then, against my will, I lift my eyes to his, which are deep and. tender with a Warne love-light—though he is speaking to me,he is thinking of her; and soraehow the thought of her riehes and nay heart -bareness 'unnerves me, and ray lips quiver, and slow painful tears fill my eyes. 'You poor little white blossom," he says, casting himself down ou the seat beside Me. 'Nell! Nell! are you fretting after dust Silverbridge man?" Be is looking into ray face with a pas- sion of eagerness that startles me, still thinking of her, 1 suppose. "1 will be good," I say, as tvvo olge tears fall with a heavy splash on my clasped hands. "Do not be afraid I am not going to ory any more—I will listen to you pa- tiently, if you wonici like to have a com- fortable talk about her." "I shall keep yon to your woed present- ly," he says; 'meanwhile you have not answered my question." "I will not," I answer,with splint (How dare he torment me in this Way?) "Will you nzake nee a peoraise then" "TOR 3118 What it is first." "I cannot Will you promise?" There is nothing More to toll—he knows about George; is it worth wbile to bandy words about a Mille? And I am longing 50 get away. "I promise," I say, listlessly, " Then, when eve are both at Silveta bridge—for I have a fancy for bearing y tell mo where I met you first, in the to of ryo—you will tell me the name of Man you love." I sat silent pale as death, le it kind, or manly, or fair of hien; to trap me thus? "I break my promise," I say, firm' "although I never broke one before." "Itis too late now," he says; "you a bound, You never failed fu truth ye ohild awe you going to begin now?" But I do not answer. "I think I never told you. the name of my little girl? I will tell it you wben you keep your proneiso to me—when we stand face to face in the place wiser° I seer you first." Ay! I see the scene eleaely enough., t Iwo figures, the shamed confession, t truth uttered as before God, the cart b fore the horse --the amazesa eat of t man, who, v ith all his faults, was nev vain or a coxcomb, But that hour sha never 002118 to him or me. "Although I have asked se many que dons," he says, "you have never asked m one about my sweetheart Why do yo not?" "How tall is she?" I ask, looking up the chilly leaves as they rastle softly dow —down—down like silk, to the groan Sines he wishes to talk, I will put hi through a whole catechism of question and, by hap -hazard, I begin the one th loveless Elizabeth asked of her beautif Aral, Mary. "Just as high as my heart," "Of what color is her hair?" "Brown, with a warm, ruddy golde tinge running through it; it is all pv little billows and cunning waves an ripples—the softest and prettiest head!" "And her eyes?" "She has two sweet, serious, saue tender eyes; they tell a different stor every minute, but they are always true t her thoughts, which are honest; her fact is the mirror of her heart, which is pure. "Is she fair?" "She has the whitest, softest nook an throat and hands I ever saw. She look as though she were Inado to be kissed an spoiled." "And her mouth?" "Not very little, but the sweetest I eve saw; and she has a dimple at each (tor ner "Is she merry?" "Yon shoulet hear her laugh! But sh can be sober; sometimes I watch her tan evith fear, it is so sad." And so this is why he has taken notio of me; this is Why he sought my smiet —because I am aplain likeness of her, be cause I remind him of her. My hair, too Is a rich brown; and I have green eyes while hers are gray—not much differenc there; and. I used to have some dimples I think, not so very long ago. "And does she love you?" "I will tell you that when you tell m what you have promised to tell." 1' And you love her?" I ask, while bitter,jea1ous pain creeps about my heart and stabs it through and through, whil every Pulse of my body seems to sten still awaiting his answer. "Do I not? God k-uows I" "You are a brave man," I say, smiling with pale lips. "Are you not afraid t risk your life's happiness so utterly?" "Is any man wise who loves?— But am nos afraid: she is honest to the core and could no more play one false than sh could alter her innocent face." "God send you happiness with her!" I say, gently, and rising I go away throng the silent glades, and leave him sittin there alone with his pleasant thoughts fo company, and, maybe, a pietare girl-fac to murmur fond love -words over—to pres close kisses on, with a chafed, angry im patience that the warm living lips are no under his own instead of the silent paint ed ones. CHATPER XIV. pros, and we are racing *goblet time -s - then sit down and. pull out my letters re- ceived. this morning. Thab froen mother contains news that is month ago would 110,V0 driven nee wile, with excitement,that a few years ago would hare made jun end 1110 bappy as king and queen, but now eel brings uo. shook of surprise, &astir% or Id expectation; 131(100(1, 1111511 the present mo. he moan I have warmly thoeight aboutjt. The DOWS Is 11115: papa is going isevay, a long, long journey to .a.ustrolian ad lie will be away neatly months. I do not a. quite unaerstand why he is going; it, is 1" something about money,and perhaps he na is tired of staying quietly at home (he was n a great traveler in his youth)—; at any rate, he is 'going in about three weeks mother says. What a time the young 0/100 Will have of it! I wonder where Sylvia is now, and what she is doing? She left the day after our conversation in the garden, and we never met again Sir George Vestris remained one day after her departure. If she cast he he. him on one side, as report says she oasts e- all her other lovers, he took bis punish - he meat quietly, and gave no sign. er My journey's end comes at last, and at 11 5:85, reasonably punctual, according to the notions of country station -masters, the s- train reaehes Silverbridge. There is mother in the pony -carriage; and on the • platform, broader, bigger. more swagger- ing than ever, is the Ball of Bashan,. but at Corydon, where is he Invisible, thank n Heaven! I jusnp out quite briskly. I d. gave mother and Basilan a vigorous hug; in and then, my box having been duly pro- duced and handed over to the dog-eart in s, at waiting, we set out, mother and I, side by el side Bashan occupying art abased and hex - =sang position bewteen tho reins. "My eye! How white you are I" he re marks. "Just look at her, mother!" She looks at me withsthe anxious, per- er il feet love that DO earthly face save a d mother's ever wears, and says: "Sci she is. The dissipations have not agreed. with you, dear. We must nurse you up, now a_ you have come home." And I know that "ee in her gentle heart she is meditating a " course of port wine and rum -and -milk. "I say, Nelahave you heard the news?" a asks I3ashan, dodging an insinuating ir- ruption of leather into his eye. "Won't d 1 we have a time of it --eh, Nell?" But s ' mother shakes her head a little sadly. d • "Poor papa!" she says: "he is very sorry to go away and leave us all." I stare at mother. Can she be joking? Can she • mean (oh, the idea is too ridiculous!) that s he likes us, that he is sorry to go away , from us? I look at Bashan. His mouth and eye are as round as mine. We have e the two longest tongues in the family, but a the notion has sobered him as well as me. Papa sorry to leave us! The idea is so O amazing that it literally strikes us dumb. y "And hoes. are Alice and Milly- and the . babies?" asks mother; and for the rest of , the drive our talk is nothing but question , and answer. O At the house -door are drawn up the , young ones, whose shouts of welcome at- test without any need of inquiry, that at She present moment papa does not pervade e these parts ; and as I embrace them all , round, I find it in my heart to wish there a were even more of them, that jack stood. , near to me to put my arm roundhis neck, O that pretty Dolly was "fLnished" and sent d home from school. They emort me to my room in a bodyeand make themselves very • happy and busy until nurse appears to welcome nee, and sweeps them all away. O "Eh! but your stay has done you but little good, Miss Nell," she says, as she • stands before me. "Maybe you've been fretting after your lover, honey?" • e ; No, no," I answer, pressing my lips to her brown wrinkled cheek. "I have been gay, nurse, amusing myself." h "And if that's amusing yourself, my g dearie, you had better have stayed. at ✓ home," she says, as she goes away. O I have removed my dusty traveling..., e dress, and am drinking tea and eating _ chicken, when the trot of horses' hoofs t comes up the avenue, and in another mo- s mutt George and my father appear on , horseback. Already! I had hoped for a le little grace—just a little time to draw pa ' breath and gather up my strength. He co evidently knows I am here, for he is cast- ea Ing his eyes over the house in the aggres- sively eager manner all unfavored swains w effect. It is your lover who knows he is he kindly welcome that walks in lightly and hi easily sure of seeing his lady -love in good hi time. Although I have precipitately roll - de off the window seat, tea -cup and all, 1 «b have 3111 uneasy feeling that he is looking th at me through the bricks and mortar, and hi "Good -by!" says Paul Vasher, as he stands on the step of the railway carriage with my hand in his. "I am coming borne In a day or two, I shall,f then keep you to your I do not answer or look at him, although feel his eyes searching my face. The guard waves his fleet; Alice kisses her band from the distant carriage—"Goodby good -by 1" a swift glance at Paul's dark face, a wave of the hand to Alice, and I am off, either to render up my valueless body at nilverbridge Station at 5:25, or wake an unsightly corpse on the top of She engine boiler or thereabouts. There was a horrible railway accident a little while ago, and. folloeving that another and another! They have come hurrying after each other so fast that men going on. a journey wear sober faces, and enter a railway carriage with an ugly presenti- ment of its being a probable tomb, and are haunted with dread ViSIODS of a fast Leda dashing up behind, or a slow one right in the path in front, and cannot set- tle to their newspapers and slumbers as usual. What a pity it is bridges are not , built higher and. people cannot travel out- . side trains as they do on coaches! We [ would at least be able to keep a look -out and see if Nemesis were overtaking us, and have a chance for our lives, instead. ot !sitting stived up, blind as moles, help- less as infants, awaiting the crash that shoots us in one awful rnoment into eter- nity. If I come to griet to -day it wile be alone, for I have a compartment all to my- self, and can walk about yawn stretch lounge, even laugh or cry,. if it so pleases Can it be only a month ago that I sped past those print hedgerows and fleldsewith the ruminatileg cows and insensate chil- dren, who wave their dirty bits of rag at the train as it rushes by? As the day goes on a thought that has been lurking in some back lumber -room of my memory, forced thither by my will, steps ninably out and stares me evilly, in the face: 'have to tell George. I know what I have to say to him well, enough, but that does not make it any. the better; and even +when that terrible wrencli is over, there will be She Ion gent evitable afterward. I only wish there were some city of refuge to which ra- jected lovers might flee, and be kept there until they had made up their minds it was no good to sigh after what they could not get 1 It is had enough to say no over again to a man withont having the word crystallized into a two legged illustration, svho striae up and down , your little stage an image of despair, and neve! for a mo- ment pmmite you 'be forget that your be- ing suol) a wretch to him has brought him to this sniserable pass! I can feel for him now, poor George, as I little thought I ever should, I wonder bow soon he will bring his wife home to Silverbridge? wonder how soon he will Mil upon ene to fulfil iny promise? He may call upon 'me, but I win not go in the field of rye alone he voWed to reeeeve it, and thither to meet him 221y stops sliall,neVer turn. I walk emblessly up and down the severving carriage—for the train is ex- "To -morrow," he says, below his breath and the rapture in his eyes 11181308 1330 „ A WILDCATS WAYS. 1131 Kaor Interesting lags About This Xeter. oh esting Beast., V All the este, from the greatest, the royal e Bengal tiger, to the least, the purring pet et of our bonseholds„ are graceful and dainty creatures; ana despite their out -throat Methods of e aming a livelihood—when it e; has to be earned—they aro all worthy to ee be classed among the true aristocrats of aa tho four -footed world. Ae meta of this may be claimed for our 017 Amerioan wildcat as for any other species, an, for, though he has a short tail luster d of al' the long, graceful member of the typical va cats, he makes up for this defect by pos- sessing a greetee length of limb, and ac- cordingly stands higher in proportion to his length of body. He is therefore one en of the snost active springers and most m nimble climbers of the feline ram. at Wildcats, even hens in the forests of the s- Atlantic slope, are more obim adaut. than is a- generally supposed. They have learned to as dread man and TO keep out of his sight r, and hearing, and away from the keen d scent of his trained hounds; hence they ot are seldom seen. But all our broader for- e. ests, even those within fifty miles of the it great offloads include among their wild o population fair percentage of fells'rufus, (ef as zoologists call him. Surpassing even e, the wily fox in sooretiveness, the wild cat, o- if he were' not possessed of a certain cour- 11 age and independence, especially When s. feeding, would be almost as common in 11 our forests as tM ground squirrel. O rs With a fur quite valuable to the trapper, 11 and with too great readiness to walk into a baited snare or to take to a tree when e hunted by hounds, he is much morellkely d than the fox to fall before the hunter's I rifle. He is, at the same time, more n sensitive than Reynard .to the encroach- ments of 111813. upon his chosen haunts. I He more boldly attacks the.farmer's fowls t or sheep, or even his young calves; and, k having killed his prey, he often stands b e it defiantly until discovered and shot. These characteristics of wild cats account k loss numerous near our older sottle- ot mforentthse. fact that they are becoming far t The ability of this animal. to elude the o observation of man, when not feeding, is truly wonderful. He 03300 learned to fear the Indian, who could send from a dis- d tance a sharp -pointed arrow into his vitals. How much more must lie dread • the hunter's long range rifle! Conscious of e his own prowess, and relying upon his o formidable equipment of claws and tooth, d he knows at the same time that he le no • reateh for that other destructive creature, O who walks erect through the forest With , a powder -and -load -loaded weapon over his shoulder. g Indeed, the wildcat shares this feelings with every other brute inhabitant of the d forest. But, unlike many of them when g suddenly approached by the hunter:lie dis- dains a precipitate and cowardly flight, O and only trots leisurely to the nearest bush ; and crouches there witilin a few paces of t his enemy. Or perhaps he springs into the S fancied security of a tree, not realizing t the far-reaching and death -dealing power of the rifle. Whatever his retreat may beetle must turn 1110TO than once and look back ✓ with cat -like stare at his pursuer, and then is the deadly shot d.elivered. But except on these occasions, the wild- cat remains entirely out of man's sight and hearing. His crouchizsg attitudes, his gray-snottled and reddish-brewn coat, closely resembling in general color his - background of dead leaves and mossy rocks, render him invisible so long as he remains motionless. Observe our domestic puss when prowl- ing in the garden, intent on bird -hunting, and notice how skilfully she manages to keep out of sight and hearing. Every movement is made with tho utmost cau- tion, every advantage of ground„or vege- tation is made use of, every disadvantage is estimated and, if possible,avoided. Yet this is a creattue in whose veins flows the blood of many generations of household pets, andfrom 1 original wildness has been. eradicated. The wildcat is tenfold more cautious and. watchfu , and when we consider the almost impenetrable thickets and secret rock covers that abound in our deeper for- ests it is a wonder that oven the hunter's sharp eyes can ever discover his presence Nothing but his occasioned defiant moods can betray hixn. I have never heard the cry of the wild- cat except at night. and experienced hunt- ers toll me that it is seldom uttered in the day -time. When hunted with dogs ,, and driven to bay in a narrow thicket from which he oannot escape without running the ganutlet, the cat seems to know his danger and sometimes utters shrill and piercing cries, intensely expressive of rage, defiance, perhaps of despair. His ordinaey calls aro not unlike those of the domestic cat, except that they are longer drawn out and naturally have much more volume. Yet so seldom are these cries heard that the wildcat may almost be called a silent mem- ber of nature's family. As a lighter this cat has no superior, and with the exception of the larger xnem- . shiver, "I have waited so long, to; a n31018—''and on Me Mee is a look of su utter, prmanna a ues makes his 'beau something to marvel at, Ay, tonnorrow 1 and ore the sun has s a fow wortis will have dashed it all out all the sweethess of his hope's fruition ell the reward of ins long,faithful myth *311(1*311(1never, I wish, on this side of the grav will my lover's face again wear the lo it wears to-night—Somehow, I creep aw and up to my own room, where a bitt anguish tears and rends nee, henvierais all the pain I have suffered in this ta set to my hand; and until to-night,I ha thought almost lightly of his miser wearily and continually of my OWD. Four o'cloc°kHsALFitX ekEtenVm.intites ag but I am not at the rendezvous. I a loiteri g slowlY along the meadows th lead to the running brook, and I p9 sessed by a neen overmastering inclin tion to turn aound and run bome again fast as ever L can pelt. As yet, howeve I have not forfeited rny elaim to valor, an as I go along, scarcely dragging one et) after the other, I look idly about m This last September day is very differes from that one little snore than tw months ago, when I wore my wreath flowers, and later. when I told Georg with such grand triumph, that I was' ing away." Then the world was a quivering lights • and dancing. shadow Nature was gay and debonair with her fu summer's smile; now she seems to hav unfolded her arms to let autumn's chi breath steal over her warm, beautift breast. And now my heavy feet hay brought me within sight of the brook, an of a man, who stands by its side waiting and once again the irresistible inclinatio to take flight, even at the eleventh hour possesses me; but remembering that if do shirk my evil task now. I cannot go out of fulfilling it in the future, I wal quickly on, and he, spying my approach comes forward to greet nee. "My darling" he says, and takes nay tw bare hands and. kisses them; and I leo up into his face, without a smile, withou a word. But he is very blind, 110 does no see, does not heed, "You have come t m tell me that you will make a happy fellow of me at last?" But I draw my hands out of his, an bide my face in them, shivering. "Are you sorry, dem?" he asks, gently "Aro you afraid? It must seem strong to you to promise yourself to any one—t a stranger; you have always been so fon of your own people; but I will be as care ful over you, .Noll, as gentle—You d not doubt that I oan snake you happy?" Then, as I do not answer, or lift my face, he goes on: "I have waited so Ion for this hour, Nell, for so many weary weary years,sometimes I thought it weal never come. If any one wants anythin as badly as I want you, he rarely gets it and you know I have never had any on to care for but you. neither mother, sister nor brother; and I have often noticed tha when a man centers his whole happines in one object it is taken from him. Tha is why I have always so feared, Nell, that sorne one would. come and take you away from me. That Was why I hated you going to Luttrell; for I thought all men must love you as I did, and perhaps a stranger would take your fancy. )3ut when yea told me yesterday that no one loved you but nee, when I knew that my darling had come hack to me, safely, then, Nell, ray heart was at rest, and I knew a per feat happiness, than whicsh earth could give me no better, not if you were my own true wife, love and bore my name— I be- lieved I thanked God." The reverent, simple voice ceases for a moment "And now," he says, dravving my hands gently away from my eyes with one hand, while he gathers me to him with the other, "I have my reward; have I not, xny dar- ling?" Ay! he has his reward, as I recoil from his embrace, slip away out of his arms. and stand looking at him with a measure - ss suffering in my- eyes, with a deadly llor on lips and cheeks,- A faint dread mes into his face, and dashes the sur- ssing brightness out; a terrible suspi- on grows in his eyes, and dwells there. ith that look upon him I can tell him tter than I could a moment ago, when s beauteful face was transfigured with s great happiness. "1 do not love you," Isay a in whisper, ut love has come to zny heart." And en I cover up nay face that I may not see s, and turn away. For a moment there is a deadly waiting i sonce, Shen: "Some one has stolen her frosn me!"ho cries, in a voice like a trumpet. "God 1" — and he falls downward like a dead man on the grass. ele does not speak or snove, not even vehen I go and kneel down by his sideand entreat him to answer my voice, to snake some sign. "George, George!" I my, through my shuddering sobs, and then, for he may be dead, I say to myself in Illy wretchedness, I lay my band upon the golden tressed head that lies so stirlessly on his folded tha t his is mportunity will compel me into , his presence whether I will or not. • When papa appears upon the scene it is one of the rules of the family for every- body to turn out and see what lee will do next, From the force of habit, therefore, I go to the top of the stairs and peep over. He is in the hall, inquiring how many hours I intend to spend in "fining" my- self up. Reassured at finding him in his normal state of temper and character—for that other phase,as suggested by mamma, is too horribly subversive of all our tradi- tions to make me feel anything but un- • zny toilet, and in another minute am in the dining -room, standing before gentlemen My peck at papa's cheek is soon made; and then George takee my hand with a gladness in his face that I turn away my eyes from beholding. After all, he only says, "How do you. do?" and when I hav e answered "Quite well, thank you," and told him that ray journey was tolerably peasant, our exchange of words ceases, and the conversation is sustained by him and the governor. The latter going away shortly, however, on some (probable) deed of vengeance, the young man comes quick- ly over to me How frank, and fearless, and handsome he looks better -looking man than Paul, the world would say. Can you tell me, George,why you never made sne love you?—why, when my heart was ernpty you could not fill it? Was the fault yours, or inine? "How 2 have mimed you!" he says, looking into every line of my face with greedy love "Hove pale you are, Nell, and how pretty—prettier than when you went away, I thinle I" "No, 310, "1 say, while a pained, miser- able flush meops slowly up M my brow t "I never was anything to look at, George; no one over thought so bat you" "Di(1 they not?" he says, quiakly "X NM glad of that. I grudge every admir- ing look a man casts 033 you,Nell, I wish YOU coul31 not be `fair in any one's oyes but mine, then they would not want to take you away from rne." " That is kind to me," 1 say smiling. "However, you have your wish no one cam wanted to take me away from you", "Thank God! he said, with a deep thanksgiving in his voice that is almeest solemn. "And so you have come back to ene) my man little sWeetbeart, never to go away from no any morel" "Hushl" 1 said, turning deadly pale. "Is not that papa?" "I don't eate it If is—Noll—" " 1 ani going now, say starting baok. "I cantot stay now, To -morrow afternoon at four 1 Will be by the book." arms. "Do not touch me!" he cries; "do not dare!" Oh! the relief it is to me to hear his hoarse voice! "Pmight have borne it yesterday—not to-day—the joy I have been hugging to my heart is all a myth—a sham. I was putting myself in his place." A tremor shakes him; he buries his face deeper in his arms. "In whose -place?" I ask, gently, "No one loves me but you, George." "In whose place?" he repeats, lifting his haggard face, all blotted and marred with grief and passion, "The man you love does not love you?" "No," I. say, subsiding into a tumbled, miserable heap by his side, while the tears trickle slowly down ny pale cheeks. "You loye me, George, and he loves somebody else, that is all." "Don't cry darling," he says; "I can't b°aritnl'i Even this hour of supremo suffering fay true, brave lover sots his own bitter grief aside to comfort mine. "So that is the reason 'you look so pale and thin? Noll, you, aro quite sure you love him?" "Quite—quito sure, George." "It is not an idle fancy; you will hold th'i"le/e you loytt me?" I ask. "De you think that you will ever love any one °IS?' olt krtow that I love you; and I ant quite certain that I shall name loVe any one else, " 'Then, George, "1 maylpiteouslye' as you eel for me, so I feel for him, and—" "1 under:Oland," he says; "1 krtow," And a bitter Mean elleme falls between "And this man?" he says, Waking out f it with a fiery anger that 80020120W mnforts trio. Who would not rather see ,well wieh rage than bow his head " Who has Worked this misery to , 108 CONTINDLID,) a ger and the wolverine, he has no equal at twice his size. The feline race are endow- ed by nature with weapons superio • to those of all other Carnivora—those terrible claws provided with sheaths and thus kept sharp when not in use. Our wildcat, though no I argerthan a beagle hound, prob- ably possesses twice the muscular force and agility of any dog, and can, in fair battle, soon make the pluckiest and strongest hound draw off whipped. Two powerful dogs may kill a wildcat, but never without sustaining severe injuries. Yet., under circumstances, and, if not dis- turbed while feeding, the cat will take to a tree when chased by a dog and will show fight only when brought to bay. 'cork Trees. Recent returns show that 1,550,000 acres of land are planted with cork trees in Spain. It is just 100 years ago since a cork factory was started in Gerona, and the manufactere of cork id now one of the chief industries of the country. Over 1,- 400,000,000 corks for bottles, representing a value of $2,700,000 are produced annual- ly, and about 12,000 men are engaged in cork work. It is difficult to calculate the income derived from cork, as statistics le Spain are very faulty, and no account in kept of the cork used in the country itself. It is estimated, however, that during the present year $5,800s000 wes paid for the cork experted. Live in Christ. No soul can over be really satisfied until it has given up all hope of adding any thing to Christ, and has come to the piaci when He alone is enough, Ile biniselnisis as He is, witbout the addition of feelings or emotions, or doctrines, or expoiences or roe elations, 01 ,02 any of the things, either inward or atitward. All other then gs change or fail, and the soul finds in them no permanent rest; but Christ is the same yesterday, to-dn,y and forever, and the scu that rests on Rim alone can lieVer be Moved. WOMAN'S FOOT. A, Prominent She° Dealer Saws They Are Xnereasing in Size. Woman's foot Is progressive and inoreas- !rig in size if numbers do not lie. A young chit of a girl wears 8 =eh larger shoe than len snotber in very many eases. "It is true," said a prominent shoe dealer, "that 31110808 02 fourteen and fifteen 001110 In here wearing No, G's and 7's, while their mothers wear leTo. 2's and. 8's. That to zny mind, is evidenoe than the mothers' mothers had better sense about What their daughters should vvear 011 11013' feet than have the matrons of to -day, It is consid- ered the thing to put shoos without heels -upon growing girls, evinces is a groat mis- take. In the first place a perfectly flat shoe does not provide for the natural spring 02 5110 foot, and does not support the arch under the instep, evhioh, next to the instep itself, gives beauty to the foot As a consequence the foot comes down solid wunituheceevsesrayrisityepl,aifiwtens out and becomes o. If a low heel were added to the shoe it would give a spring in walking, which would keep the foot In shape. There is an. elasticity about every foot. It is even found in animals. 'nook at the horses in the street, and you ears ,ne just how the hinge in the foot works. You will observe also that the shoes have heels. No farmer or horseman would think of putting shoes without heels upon his horses. Another thiug which causes wolnen to wear larger shoos is that they aro careless in regard to the fit of their footwear. A perfectly fit- ting boot or shoe never tends to increase the size of the foot, but an 3l1-fittiug oleo does. If it is too high the feet become swollen, aud if too large inflamed from rubbing. A shoe to be perfect should fit snugly around the heel. instep and ankle, and should have a vamp which 00111080110 - hall inch above the turn of the toes." Frequent changes of footwear will add much to the comfort of the feet, and the 'boots, slippers and shoes which have their legitimate part in the programme of each day are real benefactors in that way. The sneart young woman may slide her pretty pink toes into the daintiest of slippers which may or rimy not match her morn- ing gown,just as her taste directs. If she rides a wheel or plays golf in the morn • ing,she will put oa a pair of high boots of tan -colored leather, which reach almoai to her knee, and which are laced froa. 'within two a,nd one-half inches of the toe The heels of these aro broad and flat, mei the soles are quite thick, but very flexible, and bead as easily as those of an opera shoe. It may be that she prefers leggings and low shoes to boots, and in that ease she will select a pair of ties aud linen over - gaiters, which are neat, and which do not show the dust. Tennis shoes present little or no ohmage this season unless the heels are made a trifle higher. They are consid.- erecl the homeliest shoes worn, and they are rtratio. ednwith silent contempt by Dame For morning and afternoon drives,when simple gingham or lawn gowns are worn, patent -leather ties, not too high, are put on, and a bit of smartness which smacks of ribbon, yellow, blue, red or green, to match the dominant tone in the gown, is fastened just at the instep. The newest styles for theatres, dinners and receptions have seamless patent -leather fronts. The rest of the shoe is of silk, melton oloth of different kinds and colors, to suit the cos- tume with which the,v are worn. A more captivating covering for the foot than the "mule" cannot well be imagined. 17n- couth as its nam e sounds the object itself Is most sightly. It is the silk or satin sandal with a high, coquettish heel. The toe part is ornamented with gold or silver embroidery and pearls. Apropos of "mules" a good story is told oi a wealthy German gentleman of well- known convivial habits in a neighboring city. The daughters are finely educated and distinguished in bearing but their mother has never assumed worldly ways, and is still the same good-hearted house- wife. At a dinner pasty given at their home, the guest of honor, a woman of letters,had her feet incased. in th edaintiest of "mules," By somo mischance she lost one while at the table, and confided that fact to the host, who gallantly went dowu to piok it up, unseen by the others.as he thought. Just at that moment his wife missed him, and, in hm distress, called out anxiously to her daughters, "Girls, girls, is papa under the table yet already?" That is not the first time however, that footgear has occasioned anxiety. It also arouses curiosity. .a. little country boy could not keep his eyes from the now minister'si di asked, in a sympathetic voice. "Haven't you got but ono toe?" It will be a relief to him and others to know that pointed toes really are going out They have not been worn in Paris for some time, and, although American women appear to change the fashion they so readily adopt- ed, they are sure to do so before long. A Back -Saving Device. Probably ninety-five cook stoves out of every „hundred are so low that those who cook by them have to be continually stoop- ing, not simply when using the oven, or putting in wood, but even when using the top of the stove. ' Sweeping under such stoves, where dust seems especially to gather, is a difficult and backaching mat- ter. Stoves are sometimes elevated upon blocks, but this does xr t usually give them sufficient height, nor does it keep dust from collecting beneath them. The device that is shown in the accompanying illustration helps in both directions, for it provides an elevation of five or six inches, or as much as is needed 10 give the stove a convenient elevation, and very largely obviates the collecting of dust below the stove. A raised platform of wood is pro- vided, with sides and ends of board, att well as the top, and the whole covered neatly with ell, the platform thus pro- vided being made two inches longer and two inches wider 511811 5130 reotangle over - ed by the four legs of the stove. After using teach an arrangement the housewife will soon wonder how she over managedt0 get along withotit it. A. Sigh 205 the Kilts-A.ge. The kilts -age for little boys is sinking more and Moro into innoeuous desuebude. Many Mothers skip it entirely, and equip their small sons one day in long slips and the next in tiny trousets and blouse. This seems rather a pity, Babyhood is so love. ly a time, and goes 80 quickly at the long• est, that it is deplorable when one peeled of it is entirely foregone and the boy lute no preparatlen, in the item of his dress, *Which affects other things more than Would be thought at first, for the length. Oiled period of inanhOod that means 10 Wine With his adapting the toga