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The Brussels Post, 1893-9-29, Page 2HIS INDIAN BRIDE, A ROMANCE OF THE OANADIAN NORTT-I-WEST, CHAPTER VL THIE I'AestNO OF THE YEARS. Lali'e recovery was not rapid. A change bad come n ou her. With hat atran e ride had goose the lash strong flicker of the eleeire for savage life it her. She knew now the position she held towards her husband : that he had never loved her ; that she was 'euly aninetrument forunworthy retaliation. So soon as she could speak after her acci- dent, she told them that they must nob write to him and tell hint of it. She also anode them promise that they would give him no news of her ab all, save that she was well. They could not re• fuse to promise ; they felt aloe had the tight to demand much more than that. They had begun to more for her for herself, and when the months went by, and one day there was a hush about her room, and anxiety, and , then relief, in the fades of all, they came to care for her still more for the sake of her child. As the weeks passed, the fair-haired child grew more and more like hie father ; but if • Lali thought of her husband they never 3rnew by anything aha said, for she would 'not speak of him. She also made them !promise that they would not write to him -of the child's birth. Richard, with his sense of justice, and knowing how much the woman had been wronged, said that in all •thio site had done quite right ; that, Frank, if he had done his duty after marrying her, should have come with her. And because they all felt that Richard had been her beat 'friend as well as their own, they called the -Mild after him, This also was Laii's wish. Coincident with her motherhood there came to Lali a new purpose, She had not lived with the Armours without absorbing some of their fine social sense and dignity. This, addedto the native instinct of pride in her, gave her a new ambition. As hour by hour iter child grew dear to her, so hour by hour ler husband grew away from her. She eohooled herself against him• At times she thought she hated him. She felt she could mever forgive him, but she would prove to hint that it was she who had made the mss. take of her life in marrying him ; that she had been wronged, not he; and that lila sin would face him with reprosoh and Punishment one day. Richard's prophecy was likely to come true : She would de. feat very perfectly indeed Frank's buten. time. After the child was born, as soon as -she woe able, she renewed her studies with 'Richard and Mrs. Armour. She read every morning for hours ; she rode ; she practised all those graceful arta of the toilet which belong to the social convention ; she showed an unexpected faculty for siogung, and practised it faithfully ; and she begged ,Mrs. Armour and Marion to correct her at every point where correction seemed neeee- aary. When the child was two years old, they all went to London, something against Lali's personal feelings, but quite in accord with what she felt her duty. ta.icltard was left behind at Greyhope. Ver the first time in eighteen months he was alone with his old quiet duties nod recrea. tions. During that time he had not neglect- ed his pensioners,—his poor, sick, halt, and - blind,—but a deeper, larger interest had come into his life in the person of Lali. ?.During all that time she had seldom been 'out of his sight, never out of hos influence and tutelage, His days had been full, his -every hour had been given a keen respon- :sible interest. As if by tacit consent, every 1ancidenb or development of Lali's life was `influenced by his judgment and decision. tie had been more to her than General Ate emote-, Mrs. Armour, or Marion. hohooled ;as he was in all the ways of the world, he bed at the same time a mind as seuitive as at woman's, an indescribable gentleness, a secrauaeive temperament. Since, years be- fore, he had withdrawn from the social -world and become a recluse, many of his %Suer qualities had gone into an indulgent :seclusion, He had once loved the world wand the gay life of London, but some unto- ward event, coupled with a radical love of retiremtnb, Itad sent him into years of iso- lation at Greyhope. 'His tutelar relations with Lali had re. 'opened many an old spring of sensation and 'experience. Her shy dependency, her in. tnocent inquisitiveness, had searched out :his remotest sympathies. In teaching her lie had himself been re -taught, Before she came he had been satisfied with the quiet usefulness and studious ease of his life. But in her presence something of his old youth- fulnas came back, some reflection of the ardent hopes of his young manhood. lie did not notice the change in himself. He only knew that his life was very full. He read later at nights, he rose earlier in the morning. Bub, unconsciously to him. •pelf, he was undergoing a change. The :More a man's sympathies and emotions are motive, the less is he the philosopher. It is -.only when one has withdrawn from the unore personal influence of the emotions that wage's philosophy may be trusted, One may beeintereeted In mankind and still be philo- sophical,—may be, as is were, the priest arid -confessor to all comers. But let one be 'touched in some vital corner is one's nature, ,:and the high faultless impartiality is gone. Ria proportion as Richards interest in Lali gba'd grown, the universal quality of his •aympabhy had declined. Man is only man. riot that his benefactions as lord bountiful fin the parish had grown perfunctory, but ;the calm detail of his interest was not so 'definite. He was the same, yet not the same. He was nob aware of any difference in Stimaelf. He did not know that he looked younger by ten years. Such is the effect of o fere personal sympathy upon a man's look and bearing. When, therefore, one Bright May morning the family at Greyhope, himself exoldued, was ready to alert for London, he had no thought but that he would drop baok into his old silent life as it was before Lali came and his brother's child was born. He was 'not conscious that he was very restless that morning; he soaroely was aware that he tad gut up bwo hours earlier than usual. not the breakfast•table he was cheerful and alert: After breakfast he amused himself in playing 'with the child bill the carriage was brought around. It wan such a morn. lag is distend came a dozen times a year it England. The sweet moist air blew from She meadows and up through the lime•troeo with a warm insinuating gladness, The lawn sloped delightfully away to the flower. tad embrasures of tho perk, and fragrant abuncs ante of o a $wars mot the aye and sheer- ed the senses. While Richard loitered on the steps with the child and its nurse, more :excited than he knew, Lali came out and °Stood betide loom, At the moment Richard. ewes looking into the distance. He did not hear her when she owe. She stood near -Ulm for a moment, and did not speak, Her ayes followed the direction of his look, and idled tenderly With the prospect before her. 'She did not even notice the child, The :came thought was in the mind of both— ii with a difference. ttuhn td was wondering ho s' any one could ohoose to change th sweet dignity of that rural life for the liar ing hurried delights of London and the sea 'on. He had thought this a Moaeand times, and yet, though Ile would have been little willing to aoknowlsdge it, hie cowrie tion was nob so impregnable as it had been. Mrs, Francis Armour was stepping from the known to the unknown, She was lose ing Cho Footnote of a life in which, socially, she had been born again. Ice sweetness and benign quietness had all worked upon her nature and origin to change her. In that it was an outdoor life, full of fresh• nese and open-airviggor, it was not antagon- Lotto to her past. Upon this sympathetic basis had been unposed the oondittons of a fine social decorum, The conditions must ettll exist. But how would it be when sloe was withdrawn from this peaceful activity of nature and sob down among "those garish lights" in Cavendish Square and Piccadilly? She hardly knew to what she was going as yob. There had been a few social functions at Greyhope since she had Dome, but that could give her, after all, but little idea of the swing and pressure of London life. At this moment she was lingering aver the scene before her. She was wondering with Cha noire wonder of an awakened mind. She had intended many Gimes of late saying to Richard all the native grati• tude she felt; yet somehow she had never been able to say it. The moment of part. ing had come. "What ale you thinking of, Richard?" ebe said now. He started and turned towards her, "I hardly know," he answered. "My thoughts wore drifting," "Richard," she said, abruptly, "I want to thank you." "Thank me for what, Lali?" he question- ed. "To thank you, Richard, for everything, —sines I came, ova three yearn ago." Ho broke out into ' a soft little laugh, then, with his old good.natured manner, caught her hand as he did the first night she came to Greyhope, patted it in a fatherly fashion, and said, "Ib is the wrong way about, Lali : I ought to be thacktng you, not you me. Why, look, what a stupid old fogy 1 was then, toddling about the plate with too much time on my hands, reading a lot and forget- ting everything ; and here you came in, gave me something to do, madethe little 1 know of any use, and ran a pretty gold wire down the rusty fiddle of life. If there aro any spseohes of gratitude to be made, they are mine, they are mine." " Richard," she said, very quietly and gravely, " I owe you pore than I can ever say—in English. You have taught me to speak in your tongue enough for all the usual things of life, but one can only speak from the depths of one's heart in one's na- tive tongue. And see," she added, with a painful little smile, " how strange it would sound if I were to tell you all I thought in the language of my people,—of my people, whom I shall never see again. Richard, can you understand what it must be to have a father whom one is never likely to see again ?—whom if one did see again, some- thing painful would happen ? We grow away from people against our will ; we feel the same towards them, but they cannot feel the same towards us ; for their world is in another hemisphere. We want to love therm, and we love, remember, and are glad to meet them again, but they feel that we are unfamiliar, and, because we have grown different outwardly, they seem to miss some chord that used to ring. Richard, I—I --" She paused. " Yes, Lali," he assented, "yes, I under- stand you so far ; but speak out." " I am not happy," she said. "I never shall be happy. I have my child, and that is all 1 have, I cannot go back to the life in which I was born : I must go on as lam, a stranger among a strange people, pitied, suffered, cared for a little,—and that is all." The nurse had drawn away a little dis- tance with the child. The rest of the family were making their preparations in- side the house. There was no one near to watoh the singular little drama. " You should not say that," he added : "we all feel you to be one of us." "But all your world does not feel me to be one of them," she rejoined, "We shall see about that, when you go up to town. You are a bit merdit, Lali. I don't wonder at your feeling a little shy; but then you will simply carry things be- fore you,—now you take my word for ill For I know London pretty well." She held out her ungloved hands. "Do they compare with the white hands of the ladies you know?" she said. "They are about the finest hands I have ever seen," he replied. "You can't see yourself, sister of mine." "I do not care very much to see myself." she said. "If I had not a maid I expect I should look very ahiftleee, for I don't care to look in a mirror. My only mirror used to be a stream of water in summer," she added, "and a corner of a looking -glass got from the Hudson's Bay fort in the winter." " Well, you are missing a lot of enjoy. ment," he said, "if you do not use your mirror much. The rest of us can appreciate what you would see there." She reached out and touched his arm. "Do you like to look at me?" she questioned with a strange simple candor, For the first time in many a year, Richard Armour blushed like a girl fresh from school. The question had come so suddenly, it had gone so quickly into a sensitive corner of lois nature, that he lost command of himself for the instant, yet had little idea why the command was lost. He touched the fingers on his arm affectionately. "Like to look at you ?—like to look at you? Why, of course we all like to look at you. You are very fine and handsome—and interesting." " Richard," ehe said, drawing her hands away, "is that why you like to look at He had recovered himself. He laughed in his old hearty way, and said: " Yes, yes t why of course 1 Come let us see the boy," he added, baking her arm and hurry. ing her down the steps. " Come and let us see Riohard Joseph, the pride of all the Armours." She moved beside him in a kind of a dream. She had learned much Nino° alto game to Greyhope, but she could not at that moment have told exactly why she aeked Riohard the question that had con- futed, him, nor did aho know quite what lay behind the question. But every problem whioh has life works itself out to its op• en<i pointed 1 , if knotting human fingers do notmoddle with it. Half the mtserses of this world ate oaueed by forchng fesuee, in every problem of the affections, the nue Ilona, and the soul. There is a law work- ing with which there should bo no tempor- tg, lest in foolish interruption. come only THE ,BRUSSELS POET', uonfuelou and dissstor, Against every sue question there should be written the on word, Welt. Richard Armour stooped over the ohil " A beauty," he said, " to perfect littl gentleman. Like Rlohard Joasph Arinou there is none," he added, " Whom do you think he looks lik Richard?" she asked. This was a questio O elle had never asked ,before since the Mil • weal born. Whom the ohild looked lik • every one knew ; but within the past you and a half Ft•anois Armour's name had se dam been mentioned, and never in oonne0 - tion with the child. The child's moths asked the question with a strange quietness Richard answered it without hesitation, "The child looks like Frank," he said "As like him as can be." "I am glad," she said, "foralsyour sakes, " You aro very deep this morning, Lail, Richard said, with a kind of helpieasnesa "Frank will be pretty proud of the young star when he omen back. But he won't b prouder of him than I am." "I know that," she said. " Won't yo be lonely without the boy—and me, Rich and ?" Again the question went home. "Lone 1 ? I should think I would," ha said. " should think I would. But then, yo see, school is over, and the matte stays behind and makes up the marks You will find London a jollier master than I am, Lali. There'll be Iota of shows, and plenty to do, and smart frocks, and no end of feeds and frolioe ; and that is more amus ing than studying three hours a day with a dry old slick like .Dick Armour. I tell yo what, when Frank comes--" She interrupted him. " Do not speak o that," she said. Then with a sudden burst of feeling, thought her words were scarcely audible. "I owe you everything, Richard —everything that is good. I owe him noth- ing, Richard,—nothing but what is bitter.' Hush, hush," he said ; "you must not speak that way. Lali, I want to say to you--" At that moment General Armour, Mrs. Armour, and Marion appeared on the door. step, and the carriage came wheeling up the drive. What Richard intended to say was left unsaid. The oltances were it never would be said. " Well, well," said General Armour' calling down at them, "escort hie imperial highness to the chariot which awaits him, and then ho !for London town. Come along, my daughter," he said to Lali, " Dome up here and take the last whiff of Greyhope. that you will have for six months. Dear, dear, what lunatics we all are to be sure ! Wily, we're as happy as little birds in their nests out in the decent country, and yet we scamper off to a smoky old city by the Thames to rush along with the world, in stead of sitting high and faraway front it and watching it go by. God bless my coal, I'm old enough to know better. Well, let me help you in, my dear,"—he added to his wife,—" and itt you go, Marion, and in you go, your imperial highness,"—he passed the ohild awkwardly in to Marion,—" and in you go, my daughter," he added, as he handed Lali in, pressing her hand with a brusque fatherliness as he did so. He then got in after them. Richard mine to the side of the carriage and bade them all good -by one by one. Lali gave him her hand, but did not speak a word. He called a cheerful adieu, the horses were whipped up, and in a moment Richard was left alone on the steps of the house. He stood for a time looking, then he turned to go into the house, but changed his nand, eat down, lit a cigar, and did not move from his seat until he was summoned to his lonely luncheon. Nobody thought much of leaving Richard behind at Greyhope. It seemed the natural thing to do. But still he had not been left alone—entirely alone—for three years or more. The days and weeks went on. If Rich. ard had been accounted eccentric before, there was far greater cause for the term now. Life dragged. Too much had been taken out of his life all at once ; for, in the first place, the family had been drawn to. gather more during bhe trouble which Lali's advent has brought; then the child and its mother, his pupil, were gone also. He wan- dered about in a kind of vague unrest. The hardest thing in this world to get used to is the absence of a familiar footstep and the cheerful greeting of a familiar eye. And the ,nan with no ohick or child feels even the absence of his dog from the hearth -rug when he returns from a journey or his day's work. It gives him a sense of strange. nese and lose. But when it is the voice of a woman and the hand of a child that is missed, you can back no speculation upon that man's mood or mind or conduct. There is no influence like the influence of habit, and bloat is how, when the minds of people are at one, physical distances and differences, no matter how great, are in. visible, or at least not obvious. Richard Armour was a sensible man but when one morning he suddenly packed a porbnianteau and went up to town to Cavendish Square, the act might be con- sidered from two sides of the equation. If he oamo back to enter again into the social life which for so many years he had adjur- ed, it was not very sensible, because the world never welcomes its deserters : st might if men and women grew younger in- stead of older. If he canoe to neo his family, or because he hungered for his god•ohild, or bemuse—but we are hurrying the situs. tion. It were wiser not to state the prob. lent yet. The afternoon that he arrived at Cavendish Square all his family were out except his brother's wife. Lali was in the drawing -room, receiving a visitor who had asked for Mrs. Armour and Mrs. Francis Armour, The visitor was received by Mrs. Francis Armour. The visitor knew that Mrs. Armour was not ab home. She had by chance seen her and Marion in Bond Street, and was not seen by them. She straightway got into her tarriage and drove up to Cavendish Square, hoping to find Mrs. Francis Armour at home. 'There had been house•partios ab Greyhope since Lali had come there to live, but this visitor, though once an intimate friend of the faintly had never been a guest, The visitor was Lady Haldwell, once Mies Julia Sherwood, who bad made possible what was called Francis Armour's tragedy. Since Lali had come to town Lady Haldwell had seen her, but had never met her, She woo not at heart wicked, but there are few women who eau resist an opportunity of anatomizing and reckoning up the merits t and demerits of a woman who has married 1 an old lover, When that woman in in the petition of Mrs, Francis Armour, the situs' 1 tion has an unusual piquancy and interest, Hence Lady Haldwell s journey of inquiet. t Um]. to Cavendish Square, As Richard passed the drawsttg•room 1 door to ascend the stairs, ho recognized the vofaea, Once a sort of heathen as Mrs, Francis Armour had been, she still could grasp Cho situation with considerable clearness, There is nothing keener than one woman's instinct regarding another woman, where a man is concerned. Mrs, Francis Armour received Lady 1-Taldwell with a quiet state. lineae whioh, if it did not astonish her, gave her sufficient warning that matters h were not, in this little comedy, to be all o her own way. Thrown upon the mere reaouroee of wit t1. and language, Mrs. Francois Armour mat e hove boeu at a disadvantage, For Lady ✓ Haldwell had a good gift of epesoh, a pretty talent for epithet, and no unneces- o, eery tenderness. She bore Lodi no malice, e She tuns too decorous and high for that, d In hor mind the wife of the men she hod e dieoardoti was 0. mere commonplace rotas. ✓ tropho, to bo viewed withoub horror, may 1. be with pity, She had i:eard the alien spoken well of by some people ; others had ✓ seemed indignant that the Armoire Should try to push " a red woman" into English society. Truth is, Cho Arm. ours did not try et all to push her. For over three years they had let sovietyy talk. They had not entertained largely in ()even. dish Square eine° Lali came, and those in- , sited to Greyhope had a ohatee to refuse the invitations if they chose. Most people o did not choose to deoline them. Bub Lady Haldwell was not of that number. She u had never eon invited. But now in town, • when entertainment must be more general, sloe and the Armours were prepared for • social interchange. I Behind Lady Haldwell'° visits curiosity u chiefly ran. She was in a way sorry for ✓ Frank Armour, for she had been fond of , him, after a fashion, always fonder of him than of Lnrd Held well. Sloe had married with her fingers holding tloe scales of ad- vantage ; and Lord Haldwell dressed well, . was immensely rich, and the title load a charm. yet 11 „ When Mrs. Franois Armour met her with her strange, impressive dignity, she f was the slightest bit confused, but not out. warily. She had not expected it. Ab first Laid did not know who her visitor was. She had not caught the name distinctly from the servant. Presently Lady Holdwell said, as Lali gave Iter hand, SC am Lady Haldwell. As Miss Sherwood I was au old friend of your husband." A scornful glitter came into Mre.Armour's eyes,—a pecatiar touch as of burnished gold au effect of the light at a certain angle of the lens. It gave for the instant an Inseam ny look to the face, almost something malicious. She guessed why thio woman had come. She knew the whole history of the past, and it toughed her in a tender corner, She knew she was had at an advantage. Before her was a woman per- fectly trained inthe find social life to which she was born, whose equanimity was as regular as her features. Herself was by nature a creature of impulse, of the woods and streams and open life. The social con- vention had been engrafted. As yet she was used to thinking and speaking with all candor. She was to have her training in the charms of superficiality, but that was to enine; and when it came she would not be as unskilful apprentice. Perhaps the latent subtlety of her race came to help her natural candor at the moment. For she said at once, in a slow, quiet bone,— " I never heard my husband speak o yon. Will you sit down?" "And Mrs. Armour and Marion are no in ?—No, I suppose your husband did not speak much of his old friends." Th attack was studied and cruel. But Lady Haldwell had been stung by Mrs. Armour's remark, and it piqued her that this was poseible. "Oh, yes, he spoke of some of his friends, but not of you." " Indeed 1 That is strange." "There was no necesoi:y," said Mrs Armour, quietly. " Of disoussing me? I suppose nob. But by some chance--" "It was just as well, perhaps, not to anticipate the pleasure of our meeting." Lady Haldwell was surprised. She had not expected this cleverness. They talked casually for a little time, the visitor trying in vain to delicately give the cont-eraatiou a personal turn. At last, a little foolishly, she grew bolder, with a needless selfishness. "So old a friend of your husband as I am, I am hopeful you and I may be friends also." Mrs. Armour saw the move. " You are very kind," she said, conventionally, and offered a cup of tea. Lady Haldwell now ventured unwisely. She was nettled at the other's self-posses- sion. "Bat, then, in a way I have been your friend for a long trine, Mrs. Armour." The point was veiled iu a vague tone, but Mrs. Armour understood. Her reply was not wanting. "Any one who has been a friend to my husband has, naturally, claims upon me," "Lady Haldwell, in spite of herself, chafed. There was a subtlety in the woman before her, not to be rookoned with lightly, " And if an enemy ?" she said, smiling. A strange smile also flickered across Mrs. Armour's face, as ehe said, "If an enemy of my husband called, and was penitent, I should—offer her tea, no doubt." That is, in this country ; but in your own country, which, I believe, is different, what would you do?" Mrs. Armour looked steadily and coldly into her visitor's eyes, " In my country enemies do not compel us to be polite." " By calling on you ?" Lady Hald well was growing a libtle reckless. " But then thab is a savage country. We are different here. I suppose, however, your husband told you of these things, so that you were not surprised. And when does he dome ? Hie stay is protracted. Let me see, how long is it ? Ah, yes, near four years." Here she became altogether reckless, which - she regretted afterwards, for she knew, after all, what was due herself. " He will come back, I suppose." Lady Haldwell was no coward, else she had hesitated before speaking in that way before this woman, in whose blood was the wildness of the heroical north. Perhaps she guessed the passion in Laliei breast, peihape nob, In any case she would have said whet she listed at the moment. Wild as were the passions in Lali'a breast, she thought on the instant of her Mild, of what Richard Armour would say ; for lis liad often talked to her about not showing her emotions and passions, had told her that violence of all kinds was not wise or proper. Icer fingers ached to grasp this beautiful exasperating woman by the throat. But after an effort atoalmnees sloe remained still and silent, looking at hor visitor with a 000rnful dignity. Lady Haldwell presently rote,—she could not endure the furnace of that look,—and mid good -by. She turned °wards the door. Mrs Armour remained mmovable. At that instant, however, some one stepped from behind a large screen just made the door. lb was Richard Armour, He was pale, and on his face was a sternness ho like of whioh this and perhaps only ono Cher woman had ever seen on him, Ile nberupted her. (10 ISE f10MTi0II1II), A Itloh Diet. Visitor—Your complexion is horribly discoloured, my poor fellow. Doesn't eat. ing gime injure your final th Prof, Oronoho—Not wbnt I sticks ter lamps chimbleys ; but yistiddy 5 made a fool o' myself an' et an old memorial windy." HOUSEHOLD, Are the Children at Home? Hach day when the glow of sunset fades In the Western sky, And thligehwtooly' 1,0y0,01.3. tired of playing, go tripping I steal away front my husband, as bo sits in And wncuh col) the open doorway llteirfaoes, fresh and fair. Alone In late dear old homestead, that ranee was full of life, Ringing with gh'ttsho laughter, echoing boyish etrlfo, We ttvo are waiting together; and oft, as the shadows 00010, With tremulous wilco he palls me: "It nighty, aro the children home 1" S VPrEMB R 29, 1893 butter or Inrd, mix ell well together, and lastly, add sweet milk to make a batter` that will pour and spread slowly, not es thin as for griddle Oakes (experience will teach you). Bake in a rather hot oven los deep tin, allowing plenty of room for cake to rise. To be eaten hot with butter, T use the sato recipe for cern cake, and it is the beat I ever tried, using the Rue indian meal in place of bnoltwheab, Meringue Apple Pto,—When the first non' apples come the following way of mak- ing a pie is recommended : Stew and sweet- en the apples after paring and slicing them, Mash smooth and season with nutmeg or la iF you like new some lemon peel with the "Yes love!" I answer him gently', " bltoy'ro all I And I singlin long ago,' Y quivering treble n song so soft and low, Till the old man drops to slumber with his head his haeeltnd, And IV? to mythe number, hone in the Better Land, Homo wham never 0 sorrow shall dim their oyes with tears; Where the etnile of Plod is on them through all the summer ('oars; I know—yet my arms aro empty that fondly folded sovon, And the mother heart within me is almost starved for heaven. Sometimes in the dusk of evening Ionly shut my eyes, And the children aro all about mo, a vision from the skins The babes whose dimpled fingers lost the way o my breast, And the beautiful once the angels passed to the world of the blest, With never a cloud upon them, I see their radiant brows;• My boys that 1 ,tvo bo freedom—the rod sword sealed their vows! In to tangled Southern forest, twin brothel's bold and bravo. They foil I and tbo flag they diol tor, thank God I floats over their grave. A breath and the vision is lifted away on wings of light, And again we two are together, all alonoin the tttb They toll 1110 itis mind is failing, but I smile Idle [oars ; Ile is only bank with the children, In the dear And still as peaceful summer sunset fades away in the West, And the woo ones, tired of playing, go troop- ing home to rest, My husband call, front his oornor 1 " Say-,lov0l have hitt children comet" And I answer, with oyes uplifted : " Yes dear! they arc all at home I ' (Margaret E Sangator. apple and remove when op d. Fill the cruet and bake until just done. Spread over the apple a think meringue made by whipping to a stiff froth the whites of two eggs for each pie, sweetening with a table• spoonful of powdered sugar tor eaolt egg, Flavor this with rose water or vanilla, beat until it will stand alone and oover the pie three-quarters of en inch thick. Set back in the oven until the meringue is well " sot." Should it color too darkly, sift powdered sugar over it when oold. Serve cold, Caramel Cake. —Beat to a Dream two cups of sugar and a half•oup of butter; add a cupful of sweet milk and bhreo cups of flour, into which has been sifted two tea. spoonfuls of baking powder and last of all, the whites of six eggs. Bake in three deep layer cake pans. Loosen and spread on a plate after baking each Dake. Make a fill. ing of two pounds of confectioner's sugar, dissolved in sweet cream mail it is jusb thick enough: to spread. Put this mixture on the tops of two Oakes and lot it dry for a few minutes. Then over the top of the eroatn filling spread thickly molted ohoco• late. Put your cakes together; the warm chocolate will make then stick. Ice the top one with a boiled icing, made by cook- ing together until it "hairs" one cupful of at sugar and a half-oupful of boiling water. Poor this boiling mixture on the beaten white of one egg. Black Huckleberry Pudding— 1 quart of huckleberries, two pups of molasses, a pint of flour, a teaspoonful of soda, a half teaspoonful of salb, a teaspoonful of Mona. mon and a teaspoonful of cloves. Mix the batter thoroughly, first sifting the flour with the soda two or throe times. Then add the molasses and seasoning, and finally the huckleberries. Steam the pudding from three to four hours in a greased mould, taking tare that the water hi boil- ing constantly around it. Servo it with a hard Nutter and sugar sauce flavored with a little cinnamon or nutmeg or lemon. peel as you fancy. Ripe Currant Pie.—One cup sugar, one nI cup ripe currants mashed, three dessert 0 spoonfuls water, 000 tablespoonful flour, at I beaten with the yolks of two eggs ; bake. g Take two tablespoonfuls powdered sugar or Teaohing Children Politeness. Children are too often left totally unin- struoted in those small courtesies of every. day life, whioh go so far toward making our domestic and social relations harmonious. They should be taughb,almost from infancy, to be polite, to enter and leave a root properly, to respect their elders, to romov their hats when they enter a house, to se themselves quietly, instead of throwin themselves boisterously upon chairs lounges, to close doors gently, and do many other things naburally and politely which they now do awkwardly and rudely, simply because they have never been instructed otherwise. A little time devoted each day to this gloriously good work will surely bring at ample return in the end ; will, in fact, bear good fruit from the very beginning, since a child who is being taught to be polite is at the sante time learning consideration for others, andso is cultivating unselfishness of character. In the same way, a child who is encouraged to be orderly, to do little offices for itself, such as folding up its clothes, or puttinga hat or toy in its proper place, is not only mastering one of the most valuable of lessons, but is also saving the mother many weary steps in the present, and heartaches in after yens. A little watchfulness on the part of the mother, a few timely words from day t day, from babyhood until maturity is reaoh ed, is the only coat of suoh training, and th gain is out of all proportion to the cost since this simple attention will produce a generation of polished, graoeful•mannered young people, who hold their elders in re• spectand oonsideration, and are a joy to their parents and friends. The mother who walks after her children, picking up their clothes and toys, hanging up their hate, folding their napkins, and performing other little duties for them which they should at. tend to themselves, does them a grievous wrong ; for ono is sowing in their breasts the seeds of selfishness, which can never be wholly eradicated. Teach a young child to wait upon itself, and upon its parents. Let it bring father his slippers, Dane, hat, or gloves, and moth- er her work -basket, thimble, or book. Encourage it to perform any little offices that come within its powers as a tiny child. It will be proud to execute these small commissions, and as it grows older, it will form a fixed habit of considering the wants of others. Improvement of the character is likely to make the body more beautiful. blind and physique are closely allied. Noble impulses, high aspirations, and unselfish character are indicated by a high aheat,well- poised head, and elastic footstep. Let us, therefore, cultivate iu our children beauty of mind and pnysique. The young mother, whose interest on the topio-is Moab keen, must study the movements and tend- encies of her children, and take time to teach them to be polite and orderly in their habits, while their natures have the pliable- ness of youbh. Let her do this, and her reward will be both great and certain,— [Mrs. Kris Kringle in Housekeeper, • jelly, and Dover with a thicker paper, brush- ed over on the inside with the white of an egg and turned down over the outside of the glass. and the whites of two eggs; beat well to. gsther, put on top of pie, and brown in oven. Jellies. Use granulated sugar and fresh fruit, barely ripe, or it will not jelly well and will have a tendency to liquefy. Mash the fruit and cook in a stone jar set into a kettle of boiling water. Stir frequently and strain through a coarse flannel bag, wrung out of hot water. Strain through another bag and cook in a porcelain kettle. The larger fruits, as apples and quinces should be cut in pieces the pores removed and boiled gently in a little water three or four hours. Strain and use the liquid. Ordinarily use equal weights of juice and sugar. Boil the juice ten minutes from its first boiling up ; skim, add auger, heated in the oven, lob boil less than five minutes and pour into glasses. Boiling jelly darkens it. Set the glasses on a wet cloth and the boiling liquid will not break them. When ready to put away, place a fitted layer of tissue paper on the For the Gooks. Pick up one heaping cup of codfish quite flue; add to this two cups of raw potato sliced. Cover all with cold water and boil until the potato is cooked ; take it from the fire and drain off all the water end add pep- per and salt to suit the taste. Mash it well with a potato masher and when cool enough to handle snake it up into balls. Steamed Rioe.—One quart of milk, two thirds oup of rice and a little salt. Put into cups, set into a steamer over boiling water and cook until the rine is almost like a jelly. When gold turn out of the cups and terrve with cream and sugar. Soft Gingerbread,—Two coups of flour,one oup of molasses, one third cup of butter, one egg, one -hull teaspoonful of soda and one of ginger. Beat well, Salad Dressing,—Beat together four eggs, one small cup of vinegar,a speck of cayenne, two toa0poonfuls of made mustard, one tea, spoonful of salb, three of sugar, and a pieoo of butter the size of an egg. Rest tho'vino- gar, thou stir in all the obhor ingrodients and cook it until it thickens, than seb 11 aside to cool and add a quarter 005 of sweet ordain, Baked Buckwheat Oakes.—People gena °rainy think buokwheat is only to be used In cold weather as a breakfast dish in Cho form of griddle pekes. Now just try link. ing ib for once, and I know you will be our• prised. I well give you my recipe 1 Pnb in your mixing howl ono cupful white flour and two.thirds oupful of buckwheat flour ; add one very heaping teaspoonful of bak• ing powder, mix well ; then add ono -half oupful of light brown sugar, one beaten egg, and three tablespoonfuls of melted Ourranb Jolly without Cooking.—Pick the berries from the sbems, wash and dry thee. oughly. Press out and strain the juice. Al- low a pound of sugar to each punt et juice : stir until the sugar is dissolved, pour into jars seal and set inthe hob sun for three or four days. A .French method is to set the clear juice in a cool collar for twenty-four hours. At the end of that time dip off the froth from the top, strain,weigh and add an equal weigh of fine sugar. Stir until it is thoroughly dis- solved, put into jars, and cover tightly. The jolly which will form in twenty-four• hours, is a fine color and will keep cicely. Elderberry and Grape Jelly—Take four pounds each of ripe elderberries, and partial. ly ripened grapes. Mash the fruit add one- half cup full of water and 000k soft. Strain. through a jelly bag, measure the juice and nook thirty minutes ; add an equal weight of sugar, cook five or ten minutes and seal. Grape Jelly. -This may be made at any stage, that of green grapes having a peou. liarly delicate flavor and a fine color. Stew as for marmalade, pour off the juice, and strain through a flannel bog, nob squeezing or pressing for particles of the pulp give a cloudy appearance. Use equal quantities of auger and juice, and cook twenty min- utes. Green fox grapes may be prepared in the same way, but to each pint of juice add one teaspoonful of powdered gum era- bim, with the sugar. Cook fifteen minutes, Quince Jelly.—Rub the quinces smooth,' out in small pieces, oover with water and cook till very soft. Strain carefully and fleish like other jellies. Raspberry Jelly.—Using equal parte of raspberry and Durrant juice will give a firmer and finer flavored jelly. Heat the sugar before adding to the juice, whioh should be boiled twenty minutes, and after it has dissolved let it boil up onoo before pouring into glasses. Tomato Jelly.—Break ripe tomatoes in phase and stew them in jnsb enough water to prevent burning. When the juice has ran through the jelly bag add sugar, pound for pound. Cook till it jellies, Serve with roast moats, Einin Pasha's Daughter. One who was hor fellow -passenger to Suez writes an interesting account of the little daughter of Emin Pasha—Ferida, commonly called "Furry," She is nine years of ago, has finely out features, and glowing black eyes, shadowed by think, overhanging, bleak eyebrows. Her raven hair falls fn pretty natural ringlete over her forehead. She has a peoulfar complexion— s, kind of golden terracotta color, Her fignro is woll.proportioned, and elm' has small hands and feet. Her walk is extreme. ly free and graoefnl, and hor voice soft and deep, The child is very happy with a flax. 'haired doll from "t)loia" (Europe,) She spooks with those who have travelled in her native country in the dialect, but she oat also speak Gorman, French, and Italian, If we have a friend we thereby acquire a new motive for keeping ouroelvoo strong and Moored, in order not to afiliot lnhn with our unhappiness,