Loading...
Exeter Advocate, 1900-3-29, Page 2��aY HAMIIidN'3 NOMA�CE y 0ia:1 STRANGE WINTE [Copyright. PM. by the antbbr. ®"It must be Horrible." said Mary sAre youworking now?' "I was when you came.' "Why don't you let me begin right away, sir?" she ventured to say, He looked et her again with the same auiek, ttlert glance, as before."Don't Lail me °sir, ' he said, half amused and half irritable. "I always called Mr. Desmond so," ul e said. meekly. "He had an office and a lot of clerks, what was different. 1 don't require that 1 ind of thing One 'sir` would upset me for a morning.. Come into my study. .s like you for tackling the work straight We'll try how it goes. -tryfollowed him into the study, a r Dg, low celled room with many books, a tea, pictures, some guns. fishing- rods, gulf clubs, two luxurious sofa lounges and half a dozen capacious chairs. A rough terrier dog lay before the open window and a big Angora cat, brindled like a bulldog, was in possession of a :liar rug before the empty fireplace. It. was a revelation to Mary Conway—she lad never seen such a room iu all her life before. She established herself at a table and they- began. She was amazed at the ease and rapidity with which Alan Stacey poured out his story, taking it up at the last written word and spin- ning it ont in the most vivid and inter- esting way, almost, indeed, acting it all. So for nearly two hours they worked without a hitch, nntil the servant came to say that luncheon was served. Alan Stacey drew a long breath and rose to his feet. "Come to lunch," he said. "1 nsed to have ideas about not interrupting the flow` of genius -but I take my meals at regular times now -it pays better all round. Do you think you've got all what? "I think so," said Mary. "If you will allow me, I will transcribe it after •Mach so that you can seefor yourself:'' CHAPTER IX. THE INTERPRETER. To Mary's surprise the table was only laid for two persons: It was essentially e man's table; it was small and was spread with a nice clean cloth and ser- viettes; its dominant note was a cruet stand, "Take that seat, " said Alan Stacey, with a gesture to a chair_ "It will be a simple lunch, I warn you. If I eat a lig meal now, I am no good for the rest of the day . Some people like a regular dinner at midday. I believe it means apoplexy if yon only eat enough and sleep soon enough afterward. What leave you today, John?" "An omelet, sir," said John, "and Goold beef and salad." "A luncheon for a king, if the ome- ilet and salad are properly made. Don't you think so, Mrs. Conway?" said Alan Stacey "I do," said Mary, wondering 'whether she ought to be honest and say 'that a dish of scrambled eggs was the nearest approach to an omelet that she had' ever tasted in her life. "I have a little Frenchwoman who makes both to perfection," he went on. "Some people like to make a salad at 'table. I don't. I know several delight- ful houses where it is the task of the young ladies, to dress the salad, and n they do it, with a diffidence which re- a sults in loathliness. Tell Maltide that h n fl p of the experiment as she was, cazge from the garden and rend over the fl typewritten pages, He did not ape till he :had read to the end. "Mrs, Conway," be said then, "y are a perfect treasure. Can you keep up?" "How ?' "You heYe taken me down literal word for •word,: point for point. Y have caught the exact spirit ofumy ide Mrs. Conway, if you can keep it np shall get on splendidly." She had flushed up scarlet in her e citement and suspense, and Alan Stace looking;; at her, said to himself th surely his star bad been in the ascenda when such a dainty creature had su denly fallen from, the skies in lien the bulldog features and staring gogg eyes of the patient individual who h but just left him. "I am so glad," she said with h pretty, shy air "so proud to be able help you. I'll try hard never to be an thing but your interpreter." He laughed alond- and held out h hand, "That's a good name for yo Mrs. Conway," he said: "I can nev say 'my typist does this' 'or any steno rapher does that.' You're not my se retary, and it would sound pretentlo to call you so. But `interpreter'—that a splendid name for you: I shall alwa call you by it. And so he did. She went that ve evening and looked at various rooms the neighborhood, fixing on . some in quaint out of the world nook whic they call Parson's Green. I don't mea all that intricate bewilderment of sinal featureless, mean little streets whit lie between Fulham ',palace and th cemetery, but a corner on the other si of the railway line, a corner. which' the was still rejoicing in tall old trees an spacious wide fronted houses, such kept an air of dignity about the which came as a surprise to the Strang wandering through the neighborhood. And then began a long spell of bar work, yet work that was intensely e joyable'in character, . It is almost ies possible adequately to describe th effect which this way of earning he living had upon Mary Conway. Sh was still quite young, little more tha a girl. and during all her early year romance and the joy of life had neve had any chance of growing and flourish ing within her. There is nothing of romance abou the life of a board scbool mistress, mor especially when under the continual in fluence of a mother' who never forgo her gentility or taat her daughter wa the child of a gentleman. The boar school' mistress who can love and b Ioved again by a young man whos sphere is the same as her own, `a youn man whose aims and ambitions are o a level with her own, can revel in ro mance as entirely as the hero of a novo or the lord of the manor. A young gir may spend her life in the stuffy class room of the state schools and yet roves her lover with all the tender and idylli romance of a knight of old, but if sh is cut off by class grade from inter course with those men among whom she is thrown by circumstances all th romance which marbe in her heart i of necessity bottied up for sheer wan of an outlet. Mary Conway, frail and delicate o being as she was, gentlewoman to her fingertips. a?giri in whom all the sign of good .breeding were present to a very marked degree, was of a nature in which romance was indigenous, and un- til the time when she became associated in work with Alan Stacey, the novelist, o sort of outlet had afforded itself, nd all the natural love in her heart ad been pent rep until it was -filled igh to bursting and was ready to over ow at the first kind word from a sym- athetic'soul, at the first touch of a kind hand, at the first glance of a pair of magnetic eyes. In Alan Stacey, Mary found not an employer,' but an idol. From the first day she worshiped him. I know that it isnot a commonly accepted idea that a woman should love a man at first sight. In a sense she did not do so, and yet she .idolized him. The possibility that one day she might be something more to Alan Stacey than his interpreter never for a moment entered her head. But sheloved him with .a dim, faroff, almost a religious, feeling. ' He was so brilliantly clever both in bis work—for where were such vivid, brilliant, haunt- ing human books to be found as those which bore his name? -and in himself. There were times when he worked at fever heat untiringly, restlessly, almost passionately: times, when the fit was on him, when he almost wore her out call- ing on her to come early and to stay late; times when they snatched their meals and when she went home to her bed dog tired and brain weary. Yet always with the same charm and sweetness of way: "Mrs. Conway, I must get on with this while the idea is alive in me— You'll help me through it, won't you?" or "Need you go? I know it's time, but 'cannot we take a little holiday when it's done? Surely it's best to make hay while the sun ehines At such times. Mary Conway world willingly rather have died than , have failed him. At others he would laze through the days, letting his work slip into brilliant, easy gossip, telling her his ideas, his hopes, his aspirations, snaking her look over his great collec- tion of stamps, help to arrange his an- tographs, discussing furniture or the next smart tittle tea party that be meant to give, and apparently wholly unconscious that She took any more ih tereat in him thanthe man who waited' bad done: "What *as your father?" he adked her suddenly between the pauses of his work one day when Christmas was drawing near. "A clergyman. He was curate of Elphinstowe, " she replied. "Ab, yon were young when he died f" "Yes, quite a child." "And your mother?' "She died after I was married." this omelet is excellent, John. "Very good, sir. Mary ate her portion and allowed herself to be persuaded into taking a :little more, but she refused wine and persisted in taking only water. "I must keep my head clear." she, said firmly. "I want to do your work and myself ,austice this afternoon." AIan Stacey tried hard to overrule ger, because, as he said, they ought to have a mild celebration of their first day's work and their first meal;togeth- ear. It is tame that he Liked and respect- ed her the better that she held firmly to her paint. "When the book is finished, Mr. Stacey." she said. "if you then think army work worth celebrating, I will do And then began a long spell of hard work. it with pleasure. As yet you don't know whether I have not made the most fearful hash of your work or whether. 1 may not turn out to be ten times more aggravating than either Miss Blank or the good gentleman who did not mind waiting. "1 don't think so," he said in a tone of conviction. His instinct proved to be correct, as the instinct of a man who has given his lata np to the study of character usual - la After' a delightful luxurious half hour of' chat Mary went back to the study and began to work. and by 5 o'clock bad finished her transcription of She morning's work. Alan Stacey, who was as keenly interested- in the result 'I see, Forgive: ice for asking, But were you long married ? Well, of course you couldn't have been, you are still so. young. But did you Ione"— "I lost my husband only a few months after- our marriage," Mary said, rising suddenly from Iter place at the little table where she worked and going to the fire, where she stood 'nervously bolding her hand out to the warmth and keeping her face half turned away from "He was—he was ---I Mean was he— was he"— "He Was a sailor, captain of one of the Red River line of steamers," said Mary almost curtly. "He was drowned." There was a moment's silence. "It must have been a great shock to yon," he said at last. He was busily occupied with a paper knife and a slip of note paper and spoke in a studiously indiffer- ent tone as if they were discussing some question absolutely impersonal to both of them. "It killed my mother," said Mary, still warming her hands. "And yon ?" He rapped ont the qne. tion in a strange, breathless fashion. Mary looked aside at him. "Why do you ask nue this, Mr. Stacey ?" she 11 I "1 lost my husband only a few months after our marriage," asked brusquely. "" I was beginning g ring to be bappy, to forget all the horrid past. I'll tell you, and then never, I entreat yon, speak of it again. I sold myself because my mother was ill' and because she yearned to be well off. I was honest with him, and he professed so much. I told him I did not love him, and he took rue. Our marriage was a failure a most dismal failure.' I was wretched. I hated and despised him. He was bit- ter and mean and vindictive toward use. My poor little mother was the only one who got any sort of satisfaction out of the bargain, and she did not have it long, poor soul, for the news of the loss of the Arikhama' killed her, and it was as well, for he left every penny away from me. As for me, I won't pre- tend to be better than I'am.' I won't sham. Pu tell you the truth. I thanked God when I found that he was gone. Yes, I did, for I would have put myself in the river, before I would have lived with him again. " "He was older than you?" "Many years. He, is dead, and they say we should never speak ill of the dead. I can't help it. He was a .brute. Only a few weeks after - we were mar- ried he struck me. '`Ohl Why did yon' ask me these questicns? I had almost forgotten, at least I did not always think of it as I did at first. Why did you ask me? With two strides Alan Stacey was by her side. "My dear, my dear, shall I. tell you why I asked you?" he cried. "Because I had a vital interest in want- ing to know. I've always had a sort of feeling that you belonged to that dead husband of your); that he stood be- tween us, keeping us more widely apart than if all the world stood between us. Can't you understand that I: wanted to know -that I -oh, Mary, child—don't you understand that'I love you and I cannot live without you?" CHAPTER X. A NEW ARRANGEMENT. When Alan Stacey had once broken the ice sufficiently to have told his love to Mary Conway, he did not, by any means, let the grass grow under his feet Mary drew back a little, partly because the pleasure of being betrothed to the man of her heart, the man of her brightest and most fervent admiration, was very great. It was natural enough. Her first engagement had been a dry as dust business, an arrangement which wae altogether in the light of a bar- gain. There was no bargain between her and Alan Stacey, only the sweet and unspoken bargain of trust and d affection, mingled with the respect and y admiration which the one had for the other There was no question between them as to whether be would give her a dress allowance or as to what house- keeping money she would have to epend; there was no question as to whether she would be able to do her duty by him. No; they loved each other, and that was enough for both. "But," be urged, "there is no reason why we should wait We have nothing t to wait for. You have no relatives, and d mine do not interfere with me. As to q your vague and indefinite suggestion about clotbes—well, I don't know much about ladies' dresses, but it seems to me that you can get a couple of new frocks in a week and that when we come home again you can buy as many garments as you find yon will want. Don't, when we have both been lonely and wretched apart—don't let onr hap- pinees wait for anything so paltry an elatheEi. Let as be married at once." THE HOTBED. A Preferred Foran—E n entire of Construction and 31lanaagenneaat. Many plants must be started in a hotbed and the plants reset once or twice. The essentials for a hotbed are bottom heat, protection on all sides and a sash of glass, as cover. The heat is usually supplied by the felt mentatlon of horse Inanure. The pit for the hotbed is ono to three feet deep. It may well be built for perms nent use, and then brick walls are eco. comical. Board 'walls ' are good as long as they last. Good draiva g,e Is SECTION OF HOTBED. essential The pit should be filled with litter during the winter to prevent freezing on its tuner surface. ' This is especially true if plants are to be start- ed in winter. The litter' is thrown out when the time comes to make the bed.' Then an:'inch orctwo of coarse stud' is put at the bottom, and upon this 18 inches to three feet of manure is plac- ed. Next comes a layer of leaf mold and on`'top of it `four or 'five i.ncbes of fine garden loam. The manure should be trodden down in layers about sixinches thick. It' it is loose and fluffy after being thodden down, there is too much straw in it. If it packs soggy and solid under the foot, there is too little straw. It should reel springy when trodden, but should not swell up quickly in a loose mass \\heu released from pressure. A hot- bed with two feet of manure in it may sae expected to be good for six weeks. Mr. William Saunders, for 34 years horticulturist of the department of agriculture. prefers that the pit be neath the hotbed should be only a foot deep; leaving most" of the manure above ground, according to farmers' bulletin 94, 1n whicb the directions here given occur. _Otherwise: the heat is drawn offby the cold earth. 'It is the practice of some gardeners to make the bed entirely above ground. In that case the frame` should ; be at every point about a foot inside the edge of the 'manure heap. ! This form gives an opportunity to add to the sides of the bed when the heat begins to decline. The frame in either case faces south and is stx'to eight inches higher at the hack than in front. It is covered with a sash slanting to the front to shed the rain and so placed that it may be raised or pushed aside to allow ventila- tion. This sashcan usually be bought ready made 31 by 6 feet in size, and this, fixes the size of one section of hot bed. Experience enables the fahmer to judge it is time to plant seed in the hotbed. If a thermometer is used, 90 degrees is the temperature for planting toma- toes and other plants requiring much warmth, while 70 to 80' degrees will suffice for others. Not all kinds of seed are to be so3vn in the hotbed at the same thne. Attention must be paid to the time at which transplant- ing must be done. When the plants are ready to go to the cold frame, it is a loss to leave them in the hotbed. But if it is still too cold for them out- doors a loss will occur by remoting thetn. , Care must be taken not to al- low the bed to become too hot when the sun comes out suddenly and to give it plenty of fresh air. s When- ever the temperature is above freezing the sash may be removed part' way. Water sbould be given as needed, but in the morning, not at night. A Good Rowse Orchid. Meehan tells in his monthly maga- zine that one. of the most popular or- chids grown for cut flower purposes, Cypripedium insigne, is also valuable as a house plant, though possibly sel- dom so grown. Its spikes of solitary :flowers on atiff 'stems make It the mnst convenient <orchid to have shoat . a house, arid the laSting quality of the flowers (from four to six week§ each) makes the plant equal to tnany that produce more flowers, but individually last but a short time. The quaint "la- ies' slipper" flowers open a. brownish ellow in color; turning quite yellow with age. When growing and bloom- ing, an abundance of water is wel- conied, provided the drainage be per- fect. They are usually grown in pots, pecked with moss or peat. During the summer they may be kept barely moist and partly shaded. Tree Trimming in Midwinter. Where growing trees are bent and wisted by natural growth or acci- ents a certain amount of' work Is re - lured to bring them back to their proper condition, and midwinter, I think, is just the time in which to do It. Not only will many of them need supports to which they ean be 80- carely tied in order to make their chief branches upright, but generally more or less pruning is necessary, says a New York horticulturist. ITO BR CONTINUED.] Tickets to Paradise. in selling to Cho beasants of ft remote The Planta Ito the Cellar. Plants are placed In tbe cellar to rest, not to grow. Nothing is more- harm fel to them when thus stored away than water, and it should never be given un-. less to keep the still from becotning dust dry. In early spring, if the buds on the plants are seen to be starting a tle, do not give water; which would ly favor their growth, but keep as y Anti cool as possible until time to take then) out of the cellar, lit ad to admit them to Daradlas. dr THE. LIVE STOCK - There should be ;so foolishness about the buainess of milking. Make the eows glad to have you come to her relief. 11 yoit can not do thie, you are not the one to milk. Let, there be neither jerking, dawdling nor fussing, and especially no harshness. Neitber can you milk and tell ye,res at the same time. A firm in South Dakota went into sheep raising three years etgo, buying 1,500 rhead. As they have not sold a sheep, they now have 4,500 head, and they hava, sold wool enough to pay the expenses of keeping them. The sheep have doubled in. value or nearly so per head, and as they have three times the 'number they began with, the flock represents nearly six times as much money as they lavests ed. They have now flrie two-year-old wethers, but think it pays better to keep them and sell the wool than it would to sell the sheep. As the cows will be, comina fresh now in a short time on many farms, it will be a goOd plan tp investigate the advantages of the separator over the old plan of setting the milk and allowing the cream to rise. A good separator can now be secured at a very reasonable piece, and where five Or more cows are kept' and it an item to make the naost out of them it will pay in many cases to use The cream can be saved more closely the milk can be used to a hotter ad- vantage—there is a saving of time ana laps, with a better advantage of dseuccttuang a uniform quality of pro - Potatoes are poor feed for cows, or, unless cooked, for any other stook. Except a few- to keep the bowels loose, they are not kood even to fa t ten s tick. Two years ago, svhen there was an immense crop of ta toes alatost anywhere, and tae priee went so low that the potatoes did not aay to draw out of the pits, many farmers tried to get something out of these potatoes by feeding them. We cautioned there not to feed potatoes to milch cows. Those who feed them to any kind of stock found that, except in small amounts, they were more likely to do harm by causing scours and thaa *they were worth very little per bushel, even if fed with the greatest care. Years ago, when the barnyard fowls could be bought for twelve or fifteen cents apiece, it would not pay 'to devote much time to their breeding and rearing. But things have changed since then. Improve- ment and progress in the cultivation of all kinds of domestic live stock ne- ce.ssitate more careful selection, greater care and better management to produce and keep up the quality of- the stodk, for on the quality most' generally depends its value. Care for chicks does not imply that they should be coddled aid pampered to death by overzeal or mistaken kind- ness. Care is that part of. the rou- tine of poul'try culture which bestows a kind hand to the tender younglings, to supply their little wa,nts, with the view ee promoting thrift, good health and prepossessing looks, and 'prepare them for a useful and valuable life by giving them such food and ad- junct necessaries as beSt accom- plish' this; but the breeder does not consier it necessary to bestow match care unless he feels that the chicks will arown up to be perfect specimens of . their breed. TYPICAL DA,RY FORM. Some of the Prie'cipal Points Which Dis- tieutush the mvik COW. An outline is herewith given --tak- en from an illustration of a noted Guernsey cow—tha,t shows almost the ideal shape for a dairy cow. In breeding to raise the herd year by year to a higher average of merit, it avill be well to keep such an out- line, as this constantly in one's mind. It is true that not every cow with a perfect dairy form shows her - MODEL DAIRY COW. self to be of exceptional' dairy merit, but the best dairy cows so uniform- ly correspond to such external char- acteristics, that one will make no mistake in ma,king the dairy form his ideal in 'breeding. Not all cows with "dairy form" show excellence at the pail and' chern; but few, on the other hand, show such excellence that do not show these external aharacteris- tics. It is the only wise course, -Olen, to breed for them, and to re- gard the exceptions that occur as "proviag the rule." • The distinguishing external' marks that characterize a good dairy cow— which are so excellently shown in this outline—are wedge -shape for the body, large in the 'barrel" and rear quarters, and light and thin in the fore -quarters; a large udder with large, well-placed teats, looseneas and yellowness of skin; severe lean- ness of body aa opposed to the round- ed and plump form of the purely beef 'animal, thinness of neck, fineness and waxiness of horns, a -"dishing" face, and full, mild eye. Experience has shown that the great body of the best dairy cows possess such points as have been mentioned. It Is safe, then, fdr the breeder to phetograph such an outline as is here given firm- ly upon;his mind. --Webb Donnell, in Orange Judd Farmer. Valki. of Rope. According to t,he Dominion experi- mental station reports, rape stands at the head of the list of forage plants used as a green food for the growth of lambs in both carcass and To Destroy Plant aloe. gen A good way to desaroy .plant lice Is *to dip the affected parts of , the bade° svitter, or else syringe with this solution, A WAR EXPERT'S VIEWS. of the Natal Campaign. Mr. Hammersmith Browne, the fa- mous military expert who has heer closely watching the progress of the South African war from bis lodginge in Pimlico squaee, London, has agals, favored tbe Public with eome valuable views on the mismanagement of the ell'LliliPSaBigrjol'Avne says: "If Great 13ritaln's noble army lit Natal bad been MOTO ac- tive, it would have been iess idle. Gen- eral Hillier made his first grievous er- ror when he permitted the Boers te crowd him back. This seeming sue - cess no doubt animated the enemy to still greater exertions, whereas a de- feat would in a measure have discour- aged them. See my pamphlet entitled 'Zones of Fire,' page 76. "What Buller should have done was to get behind the Boers at all kazards, a movement which doesn't appear to have occurred to him. Once Safely be- hind them, he could have pushed the whole Boer pie stand clear to the coast and into the arms of. General Roberts. General elethuen, too, seems to have entirely neglected the chance afaorded him of advancing by eufiladed zigzags. This beautiful niovement would have made the Boers dizzy at the very outs& set, and Methuen would then haystr' been able to do with them as ho pleased. So, too, with MacDonalal and Dundonalcl. Neither appears to bave grasped the opportunities so plainly laid down before him. The Boers were there and waiting, yet for some unexplained reason the British gener- als seemed entirely unable to take ad- vantage of this favorable fact. , "No doubt the kopje problem has something to do with these continued blunders. The fa'ct is the 13ritish gen- esis's have made a very serious mistake the campaign Las been marked by too many British defeats and not enough British victories, and all, this can be ascribed to a pertina- cious disregard for the ordivary rules of modern warfare, which I have been at soine pains to point out and which I recommended to the war office at the beginning of the conflict ill my cele- brated paper beginning 'How to Win Battles on Paper.' " "I, don't see why so litany people en- vy a character like Napoleon." "It's due' to the native egotism of the human race. Every man imagines that if he had been in Napoleon's place he would have been considerably smarter and managed to keep away from St. Helena." --Wash ington Star. The Sole Survivor. "He is the only survivor of the thir- ty years' war, in which he was a par - "Nonsense! The thirty years' w occurred centuries ago." "Not the one I mean. It ended only last week with the death of his wife." —Philadelphia Press. Of a Clinging Disposition. Hoax—Klumsy is very fond of horses, isn't he? Joax--If he is, it's something new. Hoax—Nell, I saw him out riding the other day, and lie had both arms around the horse's neck.—Philadelphia Record. Other Ladies Might Profit by Thii. Mrs. Qui Vive—Dear Mr. Surplice, I can't make up my mind what Lenten sacrifice will be the most acceptaale. madam, suppose you give up trying to run the churcla—Life. Valuable Medical Discoveries. "Doctors say that cold weather af- fects the nerves." "That's so. When it is below zero, feel a peculiar nervous timidity abet.. getting out.,of bed in the morning."-- )etroit Free Press. Too nosy to Rend. "Nliat's'ther news, little boy?" "I don't read de news: I jest purvey' it."—New York Journal. Ills 'Waterloo. fie was just ItS mathematic • AS he possihly could be; There was nothing aseeseatio Ahout Euclid he nould see. All the toughest propositions He could wire as quick as scat; iiimply tell the conditions, And he itad the answer pat. Men of every occupation For advice &IMO unto him. questions that eel others frowning Ile'd refer to ns "a snap;" Ile could even sabe Browning*, Could this tory knouing chap. Yet there was a dark enigma That he couldn't tlgute out— That would leave on him the stiond Of the deepest kind of doubt -- And he couldn't stand the tendon, And he owned up, with a Mgt), That Is passed his comprehension 4, Se