Democratic Press, Volume 1, Number 46, Decatur, Adams County, 29 August 1895 — Page 3

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&%<*xsa> W •A v ft>T •S»O w CHAPTER XXXIII. Lady Grahame had grown tired of coquetry. and every interview that she had with Mr. Fulton increased her liking and admiration for him. He had given a ball at his house under the management of Mrs. Head erson. It had been a complete success. The sumptuous rooms were all thrown open, gold and silver plate blazed I upon the table, and on every side there I were profuse indications of wealth. Lady Grahame noted with a keen eye the display of magnificence. Her bouse was furnished with taste and elegance, but such splendor as she saw Lore was not within her means. It would be very pleasant to preside as mistress in such an establishment. The next time Paul Fulton called on the fair widow he was more warmly welcomed than usual; nor was he slow to understand the reason why. and he continued that morning, despite his blar smiling face, to assume a most miserable expression. “Do you not think. Lady Grahame,’* he ■ said, “that you have tortured me quite • long enough? You smile on every oue. : When will you smile upon me?” *T am smiling now. Mr. Fulton,” re- | plied the widow, coquettishly; “ask Miss ; Lowe if lam ever seen without smiles.” I “You know what I mean, Lady Gra- ; hame,” he continued. “When will you say to me that my devotion and sincere love have touched you. and the prize I have hoped for so long is mine at last ?” Lady Grahame did not turn away this time; she had made up her mind to hear all her lover had to say. “I will do my best to make you happy.” continued Mr. Fulton, reading correctly the coy expression of the comely face. “I am wealthy, and able to gratify all your wishes. Tell me. Lady Grahame, are you willing to be my wife?” The fair widow managed a most becoming blush as she implied, rather than said, she had no reason for deferring her consent. Mr. Fulton expressed a due amount of rapture and delight, and then began to plead for a speedy marriage. “That does not quite rest with me,” said Lady Grahame. “My lair husband. Sir Wilton, foresaw that I should probably remarry, and expressed no wish to the contrary. But by his will, I must inform you. that I (as well as the money left me) remain under the care of two trustees. One is my uncle. Lord Hereby; the other a distant cousin. Mr. Beauchamp. All arrangements as to settlements must be made with them, and it is in their power to refuse consent. I am quite in their bands.” “There is no reason to fear any refusal or unpleasantness from them, I presume,” said Mr. Fulton proudly. “I will make them offers of settlements that will mwt with their approbation.” “Their consent or refusal is not really a matter of great moment,” said Lady Grahame. “If for any reason they refuse, the worst they can do is to limit my income, and control, in some degree, my money; but I do not anticipate anything of the kind. My uncle. Lord Hereby, is very proud. He would. I think, be pleased at my marriage—provided the pedigree, and fortune of my husband met with his approval, as they would do in this case,” she added, with a smile. At the word "pedigree,” a sudden fear chilled the bright hopes and fancies of Mr. Fulton. What if these tiresome old guardians or trustees should ask unpleasant questions about his family?— what was he to say? It would be easy to invent, but these inventions w’ere never sure; at any time they might fail, ami the lies they concealed stand out in all bare deceit. He could only hope and trust that, satisfied with his vast wealth ami liberal offers, the fair widow’s guardians would ask no tiresome questions. So one morning he started for a private Interview with the formidable trustees. Mr. Beauchamp, a nervous man. afraid of everything and everybody, said but little. He asked Mr. Fulton if he liked shooting, and if he had known Sir Wilton Grahame, two rather singular questions, considering the errand upon which he had come. Lord Hereby was altogether of another cast He was, perhaps, one of the proudest and haughtiest men living. Loving and admiring his own order, disliking and despising all those who did not belong to it, in his eyes nothing was worthy of honor or esteem save high birth ami noble blood. Genius, talents, bravery were all nothing when compared to the . glory of a long pedigree; wealth, money had little attraction for him. He was anxious to see Ids niece. Lady Grahame, married. provided she espoused a man of good birth and ample fortune. When Mr. Fulton stood before the two | guardians of his promised bride, he dismissed one from his mind, ami gathered all hie resources for a combat with the other. He approached Lord Hereby with that mixture of deference and admiration that he knew so well how to assume. Again he almost cursed the “accidents” i>f his life. If he could have appeared before Lord Hereby as the father of one of the most beautiful ami noble women in England, the young Countess of Bayneham, all would have been clear sailing; as it was, the anxious lover fired his heavi- i est guns first. He declared the object of his visit, the deep admiration he felt for Lady Grahame, and the munificent settlements he offered her, and Lord Hereby listened to him with well-bred indiiference. •‘Lady Grahame is of an age to judge for herself what promises best for her own happiness,” he said. “She was young when Sir Wilton died; that is why he left ns as her guardians, charging us, in the event of her second marriage, to art for her and attend to her interest. Your offer of settlement is, I feel bound to say, a munificent one, and so far everything teems satisfactory, but my niece belongs,

as perhaps you know. Mr. Fulton, to a v< ry aristocratic family, and we should like, before making any final arrangements, a few particulars of your own.” Then Paul Fulton stood at last before the barrier of his own erection and knew not what to say. “You do not doubt my claim to the title of gentleman, I presume?” he said, hastily. “I neither doubt nor believe,” replied Lord Hereby, with haughty indifference. “In the interest of my niece I merely ask for some particulars of your family.” Again Paul Fulton stopped, hesitating what to say. “I know of no particulars, my lord, that could possibly interest you,” he said; “my father was simply a quiet country gentleman, of no great fortune or standing. I | was his only child, and went abroad in early youth to seek my fortune; I made it, ami there my story ends.” “You have never been married before?” said Lord Hereby; “at least, I presume so?” "No, never,” was the quick, false reply. “Have you no relations living?” continued Lord Hereby, his quick eye reading the confusion visible on the handsome, bland face before him. “None,” said Paul Fulton. “I am quite alone in the world.” “We need not prolong this interview,” said Lord Hereby. “Mr. Beauchamp seldom expresses any opinion—I give you : mine in a few words. I shall make no op- , position to my niece’s marriage with you; I she can please herself; but I shall advise : her against it. Panion my plain speaking. but I do not consider the son of a I simple country gentleman, of no groat I fortune or standing, by any means a dei sirable match for my niece; still, if she I persists in wishing it, I shall make no oppositfrm—she must not. in that case, look for my countenance. I shall decline any further interest in her affairs.” Paul Fulton trembled with indignation. He had to remember that the nobleman before him was old and feeble, so great was his impulse to strike him. He had expected a very different reception, armed with those magical settlements. This cool, aristocratic hauteur dismayed him. What was his money, worth, after all? He dared not trust himself to speak; he left Lord Hereby’s presence, chafing and foaming with rage. As he mounted his horse there came to him the memory of a sweet young face., with trusting eyes—the memory of one who had loved him and believed him a king amongst men. He had not been [ scoffed and sneered at when ho went woo- • ing in Brynmar woods. These thoughts did not calm him; he • urged his horse on at full speed, using i spur and whip. The mettlesome steed i did not approve of such harsh measures. Many people turned to see who it was • that rode so wildly with an angry face. One or two policemen began to be quite . active; there was glory to be won. and cheaply., too. The rider, whoever he was. must be stopped and punished for endangering the safety of the public. No one ever knew how it happened, but while tlie policemen consulted, and angry foot passengers turned to look after the foaming steed and its rider, in one moment the horse shied, then reared, and Paul Fulton was dashed to the ground. For several yards he was dragged along by the frightened, half-maddened animal.; then arose from all lookers-on a terrible cry, and one or two brave men started off, and after some dangerous efforts , j succeeded in stopping the horse and res- | cuing his hapless rider. They thought he j was dead when he was raised from the 1 ground, for on the white face there was a deep, crimson stain, and a wide, gaping wound on the head —he had fallen on the , curbstone. In less than three minutes a large crowd had assembled. “A man killed!” “Fallen from his horse.’" were the passwords. A doctor came up, and a policeman searched the unconscious man to discover who he was and where he lived. IL* found a card j case, and gave it to the doctor. “He had better be taken to his own house,” said the latter, when he saw it. “I have heard of him. and know where he ; lives.” They carried him back to the house he had left that morning so full of life and hope; so full of ambitious designs and plans for his future life; strange hands carried him up the broad staircase, and laid him upon his bed; strange hands cut the thick, black hair where Magdalen’s fingers had once lingered so lovingly; strange eyes dwelt upon his face, noting its changes. There was no one n«*ar who loved him; he was in the world alone. The hopes, the sins, the schemes of that wasted life were all ended; the gram! fiat had gone forth. He had won money, he was rich and popular; but the end was come, and he must die; a strange doctor, bending over him. saw there was no hope. I He touched him gently, and ask»*d him if ■ he had any worldly affairs to settle. The haggard eyes opened ami glared wildly—so wildly that the doctor started, shocked and half frightened. “Do you mean,” said Paul Fulton, in a I low. hoarse voice, “that I am to die?” “Yes,” said the doctor, gently; “it is I better that you should know the truth. You will not see this sun set. Make i your peace with God and man.” A moan of unutterable agony came from the white lips. What should he do? He remembered his child. Poor Magdalen was dead; he had seen the green grave and the simple stone that bore no name. But his child lived, the child with her mother’s face, ami her mother’s voice. Perhaps she knew the same gentle lessons that his wife had taught—i would she come to him ? It mattered little about keeping the secret now. It flashed across him that ho had sees Lord Bayneham in town—how long since? —only yesterday. He would send for him and ask if it were possible that he could see his wife. Science did wonderful things—surely it could give him a few hours. “I want to see Lord Bayneham.” he said, touching Dr. Arne’s hand; “let him be sent fer at once.” It was fortunate that the messenger found Lord Bayneham at home. He received the summons with wonder and surprise. M”. Fulton dying—and sending for him! Like an electric shock the

thought struck him It must be something about his lost wife. CHAPTER XXXIV. Fast as it was possible to go, L>rl Bayneham hastened to the dying man. He heard from the butler, when he stood in the hall, every particular of the ardent—he saw real, unfeigned tears shining in the man’s eyes. Mr. Fulton was loved by his inferiors for his invariable kindness and good humor. Then he entered the luxurious chamber, where the master of the house lay. doomed and dying. “Let him come near me,” said Paul Fulton to Dr. Arne. “I have much to say to him.” The doctor rose from his seat, and nii<lc way for Lord Bayneham. Claude was inexpressibly shocked. So lately 1 had seen Paul Fulton in the flush ano pride of his manhood, his handsome face smiling* and careless —could that pale, haggard man, with crimsonstained bandages upon his head, be the same w* had saluted him so gayly a few hours ago? The wild eyes, full of terror, glared up ar him. “I am dying, they say,” gasped the hoarse, low voice. “I never feared man. but I am afraid to die.” Lord Bayneham did not know what tc say—a woman in his place would have uttered the exact words the dying mar wanted to hear—something of mercy and pardon and hope. Lord Bayneham looked awkwardly around the room, and then murmured something about recovery. “No,” said Paul Fulton, sorrowfully. “Doctor Arno tells me I shall not see thia sun set. Lord Bayneham, I want to speak to you about your wife.” The young earl started. In the shock of seeing that ghastly figure, he had forgotten for a moment that he expected to hear of his lost love. “What of my wife?” he said, gently; for, even supposing that Paul Fulton had caused all the sorrow and suspense, it was not possible to maintain the faintest gleam of anger against the shattered, dying wreck before him. “What of my wife?” he asked again. “I should like to see her.” whispered Paul Fulton. “I am dying, they say, and this is my last prayer. Let me see your wife once; let my last look be upon her face.” “Do you know where she is?” asked Lord Bayneham. “No,” was the calm reply; “at Bayneham, I suppose. It is not too far, my lord. Tliere will be time if you send at once.” Ah, then he knew nothing of her flight—their half suspicions had been wrong. “Why do you wish to sec my wife?” he asked; “trust me.” “I will,” said Paul Fulton. “I do not know whether you have been told anything of your wife’s historj I want to see her—oh. Lord Bayneham, I want to see her, because she is my only child.” “Your child!” cried Lord Bayneham, In unutterable wonder. “Yes,” said Paul, “my child. Her mother was the fairest and sweetest girl in all Scotland, and she was my wife. When I saw your wife. Lord Bayneham, I thought my own had returned to me again, young and lovely as I first knew her. She is my daughter. I was Lord Hutton’s dearest friend; her mother was Lady Hutton’s foster-sister; Lady Hutton adopted her when my wife joined me over the seas.” There was silence for some few momeiits, and a thousand thoughts flashed through Lord Bayneham’s mind. This explained all that seemed so mysterious—the notes -ah. and perhaps the interview. “Why was this kept a secret from mo?” he said, sadly. “It has caused bitter sorrow.” Then the dying man told the whole story as he knew it. "I cannot understand,” said Lord Bayneham, gently, when the other had finished, “why you wished this to be kept a secret from me.” “I dreaded it being known,” he replied. “As Stephen Hurst, I should have been despised and outlawed; &s Paul Fulton, men have esteemed me. If I had claimed my child, 1 must have told who 1 was. She begged of me to tell you, but I would not.” “She is sacrificed to your pride,” said Lord Bayneham. “Tell on the evening you were at Bayueham did you meet my wife and your daughter la the Lady’s Walk? Did you talk to her there?” “Yes,” said Stephen Hurst, “I did so. I asked her to meet me there, ami most unwillingly she complied.” “You gave two notes into her hand.” continued Lord Bayneham. sadly. "Yes.” replied Stephen; “but how do you know, and why do you mention these things?” “Because they have helped to destroy my wife.” cried the y<vung earl; “she has been sacrificed to your sins and your pride. She was asked to explain those notes and refused; she was asked why she was in the Lady’s Walk—her bracelet was found there- she would not tell; there was some terrible mistake, and your daughter has left het home. 1 know not where she has gone; i cannot find her, and begin to despair of .. r seeing her again. Oh. if you had but told me the truth!” “Do not reproach me,” said the dying man; “has not my sin found me out? I could have died more easily with my’ child’s face near me. Through my own fault this one hope is lost to me—l shall never see her again.” He lay there murmuring to himself that his sin had found him out. From that moment, when he heard that his sin and pride had destroyed his child, he seemed to have no mon* hope. A blank, awful despair seized him; the expression of his face alarmed Lord Bayneham. “Can nothing more be done?” he asked of Dr. Arne; “has he seen any one? Could not some one pray with him?” “If he wishes it.” said the doctor. “Lord Bayneham.” he added, “1 see many deathbeds, and the most wretched and dreary death is always that of the worldling, who has never thought of the time when he must die. Candidly speaking, my lord, nothing can be done for his body, and I fear but little for his mind.” We will draw a curtain over that deathbed; they who were present never forgot it. The awful scene ended at last, and the man who reaped as he had sown went to hid judgment. iTo be <*ontintied.) The chief charm of Mary. Queen of Scots, was her voice. It was wonderfully swetr and attractive, and when she used it in peculiar cooing, purring way. it was impossible for the or (Unary man to resist its charm. She was an excellent musician, and her rendition of English and French ballads was said to be with remarkable grace of expression.

OUR RURAL READERS. SOMETHING HERE THAT WILL INTEREST THEM. Device for Unloadins: and Stacking Hay, Straw and Foddei —A Temporary Shade for Treeless Pastures— Fatten Pius Karly—General Notes. Simple Stacking Device. Place a stout pole or mast (a), 30 feet long, six or eight inches in the ground within four feet of the end of the Intended stack and two feet fr*«n the side, leaning over the stack in a slanting position, as shown in the illustration. The load f is on the opposite ride of the ■ - FOR UNLOADING AND STACKING HAY, STRAW AND FODDER. stack. There are strong guy ropes to hold the mast in position, and of such length that when in the position illustrated the two ropes d and g are tight, while the rope bis loose. The fork is pulled down and inserted in the load of hay anil the horse attached at h, the load is lifted, and when it reaches the top a, a line of draft will pull the pole towards an upright position, al, the rope b becoming tight and the rope d loose. In this manner it is possible to swing the forkful of hay up over the stack, and if the ropes are properly arranged, to drop it anywhere along the center of the stack. As soon as the forkful of hay falls off. the mast is pulled back by the man who loads the hay fork. Os course, these guy ropes must be arranged so as to allow the mast to move in any desired position. This can be easily accomplished by any one who has average ingenuity. A pulley is needed at masthead for fork rope to run through. Also set a short post in the ground about two feet from the mast, parallel with the stack; put a pulley on tins, run the fork rope through it, and hitch the horse to the end. With this simple device, twenty or thirty large loads of hay may be put in a single stack with very little manual labor.—American Agriculturist At Milking Time. Cows, to make the most of their opportunities, need to be milked in quiet, and a larger part of the hot months some sort of soiling crop must be fed to obtain the best results, which means prolonging the milk flow, and nowhere can tills be so well done, and each cow receive her due proportion, as in the stable. It has been a matter of observation with us, says the Practical Farmer, that a cow soon conies to have a home place in the stable, and to be tied there twice a day and have some provender, grain or forage, on her arrivaL gives her a matter to look forward to and even long for, and in the afternoon the cows have a home longing and start for “the bars." and g tting up the cows with boy, horse and dog Is an obsolete custom on such a farm. In this summer care of the cows their comfort should be looked after in the lot. seeing that there is plenty of good water and shade of some kind. A Fruit Tree Pest. One of the insects which annoys the fruit raiser and destroys many valuable trees is the pear tree psylia, shown in the accompanying illustrations. It. n 7 / THE PEAR TREE PSYLIA. however, has an inveterate enemy. The psylia is shadowed wherever lie may go by a tall, dark insect, which skulks behind stones and under rotten bits of ENEMY OF THE PSYLIA. wood, breathing hard and only waiting for a chance to fall upon his prey and cry, “Ah, ha! At last!" Weeds Rich in Nitrogen. Some kinds of weeds will only grow on very rich soil. Os this class is the common purslane known as chickweed or pigweed, and usually found in gardens. It makes an excellent feed for hogs when confined in pens, and they eat it greedily. These weeds contain a large proportion of nitrogenous matter and rot rapidly when entirely covered by soil. But their roots catch so easily on upturned soil that it is safest after uprooting them in the garden to throw them to the pigs. Another weed that is rich in both nitrogen and potash is fireweed. It is a coarse-growing plant with rough, prickly stem, which

springs up after fires In the woods Horses will eat it. but we never saw it eaten by any other kind of stock. Stirring the Surface Soil. Frequent stirring of surface soil, with thorough subsoiling the previous fall to form a storage tmsin for water In dry soils, will enable many crops to go through serious drouth with comparetively little damage. This, with the possibilities of windmill power for pumping water by irrigation, and the knowledge that a little water can be made to irrigate a large area, says the Agriculturist, is robbing the annual drouth of much of its terrors. New forage crops are being adapted to our soils that will furnish feed during the dryest times. It is only recently that we printed an account of twenty-seven new forage crops at the Massachusetts experiment station, many of which are wholly new to most farmers, but so productive as to be well worthy of widespread trial. The farmer cannot control temperature or rainfall, but physical conditions of soil may be so altered that an unusual season can be overcome. We are just beginning to understand the soil and how to handle it to conserve its moisture. The drouth of 1894 was a severe, but a thorough, teacher. Early Fattening of Pork. There is great advantage in beginning to fatten young pigs while the weather is still warm and clover or grass is abundant. It takes very little grain to start young pigs to fattening when they have a run at pasture. That grain should, if possible, be something other than corn, for a part of the advantage of early fattening is that the fattening may begin when there is little danger of overfeeding with corn. Yet the farmer who is fortunate enough to have a few thousand bushels of old corn in his crib can feed it with milk and wheat bran, so as to make it produce twice as much pork as the same value of new corn will make two or three months later in the season. Shades for Treeless Pastures. Where pastures contain no trees for shade in the strong heat of summer, it is cruel not to afford some artificial shade for the stock. Such shelter should be provided on humane grounds, but there is a question of dollars and cents in it as well. Discomfort of any j kind lessens productiveness and growth. A rough shed of boards, or TEMPORARY’ SHADE FOR STOCK. even a rough framework covered with green boughs, will answer the purpose very well, but where lumber is expen. 1 sive and green boughs are not at hand. ! cheap cotton cloth can be used very ! effectively and economically. Such ! cloth can be bought for five cents or i less a yard, and can be stretched over i a framework set up against the pasture fence. vs. Canning Fruit. The plan of canning fruit depending on the exclusion of air for its preservation was a great improvement in most cases over the old plan of preserving it by putting it up with equal quantities of sugar. At the time it was adopted the canning process was also much less ■ costly. Sugar then was high priced, and tlie saving of expense was a most important consideration. But sugar Is much cheaper now. and doing up some part of the fruit after the old way is generally advisable. This is especially true of the very acid fruits, which require a good deal of sweetening after they are taken out of the can before being eaten. The improvement in putj ting up with equal weights of sugar I is almost as great with the sweeter kinds of fin it. These, when merely l canned, are very insipid, and need a great deal of sugar to give the fruit a decided flavor. As a change from canned fruit almost everybody will welcome some that has been put up after the old formula with equal weight of white sugar made with its own juices into a thick syrup. Renovating Old Pastures. There are many old pastures which can be much improved by harrowing with a forty-tooth drag that will admit the air to the places covered by moss, says the American Cultivator, and enable the grass to grow more vigorously. Os course, some of the roots of the grass will be destroyed: but the stirring of the soil will make more grow in their place, If there is much moss on the surface, It will require tinderdrainiug to remove surplus water to make a permanent improvement. Uses of Timber Belts. Timber belts, by breaking off the severe wind in winter, often add onethird or more to the yield of a wheat crop, and prevent the lodging of both wheat ami corn during summer storms; and in prairie counties it lias been proved that with one-sixth of the land planted in timber belts the remaining five-sixths would produce as much grain as the whole without the timber. Common Soda for Skim Milk. Add a little common soda to the skim milk before feeding the calves. It is claimed that the soda stops the formation of the rubber-like curd in the calf's stomach, that is so often found on examination of calves that have died from the dreaded calf disease. Loose* Dry Dirt Around Corn. Keep the ground loose around the corn. A blanket of loose, dry dirt stops the evaporation of Mater from the soil. Go through the corn with the cultivator after each hard rain if practicable.

Some Selected Receipts. Bread Fingers.—Put oue pint of milk over the fire; when steaming hot take from fire and add two ounces of butter. When lukewarm add one yeast cake, dissolved in one gill (one-half cup) warm water and one teaspoonful salt, then stir in sufficient flour to make a dough. Knead well and put in bowl, cover and stand in a warm (75 degrees Fahr.) place for three hours. Then turn out on board, cut into small bits, form into roll length and size of a finger, place in greased pans. Cover and stand aside again for one hour. Brush with white of egg beaten with two tablespoonfuls of water and bake in quick oven fifteen minutes. Creamed Shrimps.—Open and wash one can of shrimps; drain. Put one tablespoonful of butter and add one of flour in a saucepan: when melted add half pint of milk, stir until boiling; add one tablespoonful salt, half of pepper and tlie shrimps. Stand over the teakettle for twenty minutes and serve. Chocolate Cream Cake.—One pound sugar, one-half pound butter, one pound flour, one-half pint sweet milk, four eggs and three teaspoonfuls Royal baking powder. Take one-half the mixture and bake in two layers, and to the other lialf add a 1-cent cake of sweet chocolate, grated; bake also in two layers. When cold place one layer of each on a plate with a custard between them. • A New Dressing. Thoroughly beat rhe yolks of two fresh eggs; mix a teaspoonful of mustard in a little water, then pour half a cup of vinegar into an earthenware saucepan, place it over tlie fire where it cannot scorch, and add two level tablespoonfuls of butter, the mustard and a saltspoonful of salt. Turn the yolks into the hot liquid, stir until it begins 'to thicken, put in three tabicspoonfuls of sweet or sour cream and continue stirring until the mixture is thick, being careful that it does not boil. Certain tastes require the addition of a tables] h sinful of sugar, but the dressing tastes less like mayonnaise when sweetened. Place the mixture where it will become cold, and at the last moment stir lightly into it the stiffly beaten whites of the eggs. If there is no cream to be had milk may be used and the quantity of butter slightly Increased. A Wickless Oil Stove. They are using in England an oil stove in which tliere is no wick. By an ingenious mechanical contrivance the oil itself supplies the flame, without the intermediation of a wick. It is said that the stove is not only perfectly safe, but that it has no smell and makes no smoke. It is very neat in appearance, as may be seen by tlie accompanying cut. The reservoir for oil is of polished brass, and is therefore more easily cleaned than those made of iron. Its capacity is two pints. It is claimed for this stove that it vi iii boil a quart of water .. F J*' NOVELTY FOR HOUSEKEEPERS. in four minutes, cook a chop in five and heat a smoothing-iron in ten. A pint of oil lasts three hours. Boiled Frosting for Tops of Cakes. Two cups of fine pulverized sugar, whites of two eggs, one-half cup of boiling water, two teaspoonfuls of extract of vanilla. Put sugar and water over the fire and boil until the syrup is as thick as mucilage and will string from the spoon or candy in cold water. Add tlie beaten whites of eggs to the hot mixture, and beat until it is of a white, milky appearance, or to a stiff, cold cream. Add the vanilla before It is quite cold. Spread thick between layers and on top of the cake. Spread the filling as thick as the layers of cake. Apple Float. Green apples are the best for making apple float, and it is extremely appetizing. Take tart apples and stew thoroughly. Pass through a sieve when they are stewed sufficiently and sweeten to taste. For a quart of the pulp beat the tvhites of four eggs to a stiff froth, and when tlie apples are cold whip them all together, so that they are light. Add tile juice of one lemon for flavoring, and serve in a mold or fancy dish with cream. Raspberry Vinegar. To four quarts of red raspberries add enough vinegar to cover them, and let them stand twenty-four hours; then seahl and strain through a jelly bag. Add a pound of sugar to a pint of juice, boil for half au hour, and when cool bottle and seal. It will keep for years, and is ready for use as soon as cool. A tablespoonful in a glass of water makes a nice drink, and one much relished by tlie sick.