Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 6, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 February 1898 — Page 2

A VALENTINE. (Written by a married man.) lota my presence came Just now A little child—l know not bow. Familiar, too. be seemed; and yet I could not tell where we had met. Bis mien was Innocent and mild— I never saw a fairer child— And yet. In most unseemly glee. He cocked one wicked eye at me. I knew him then. The pretty boy Took aim with the same silver toy That slays Its thousands. “Walt!” cried “Don't shoot at me, my son; oh, fle" “For you forget It was your dart. Bent once with your own matchless art. That made me like the rest—a .001. “Since then, alas, I’ve been at .school! “For she, ah. yes! she still Is fair; Untouched by gray her dusky hair. Once she was loving; now you see Bhe roles the house, and she rules me.” He said no word, but just took aim. Straight to my heart the arrow come. “Forget me now, sir. If you dare!” Cried Cupid, running down the stair. Beep In my heart there Is a pain— Methlnks I am In love again! Bweet, sweet, my pet. It Is not true; Those foolish words I deeply rue. I wonder If you are In league With Cupid? Is It Love's Intrigue? I know not, care not, but I'll sign Myself your humble Valentine. —Puck.

MEG’S VALENTINE.

MEG was only one of the “hands” in the great factory of Weaver & Co., and with about the some regularity ns the machinery she performed her daily tasks. Nobody in the fnetory had over given her so much as a sympathetic glance; the ■whirr of wheels, the grind of machinery, the everlasting hum of moving belts and singing of spindles do not encourage sympathy, and besides Meg was quiet, even timid, and her companions, after the first day of now and then a half curious, half critical inspection, paid no attention to her. And yet Meg's “trouble” had been a romance; a sort of a flower which blooms sometimes along the hedgerows with the came beauty and sweetness as in the cou•ervatory. Born was all Meg knew about her origin: brought up, at first in a charitable institution, later as the chore girl in a boarding house, which always smelled of dirt and rancidity; and still later as a boarder at the same place, because it was more like home to her after her long, hard day’s work at the factory, where she bad secured employment at the age of 15. Meg’s life had been nn uneventful one. 7 Meg was ignorant, her “schooling” having been encompassed by a six months’ course at a grammar school in the neighborhood, and for which “educational nuvantage” she had toiled for the mistress of the boarding house until her health threatened to give way under the strain. But since somebody, back in the past of Meg's unknown ancestry, had sent a drop of ambitious blood flowing through her veins, within the six months she hud learned to rend easy words, both in print and writing, and she was proud of the fact. She did glory in her power to rend and ■Pell out the meaning of such cheap books as came in her way, and .once, having watched a postman deliver a letter across the street, she was seized with a wish that was somewhat nkin to pain to receive a letter from somebody—just to see if she could frame an answer. She had never received a letter nnd thinking it over from this standpoint, Meg felt that she was very lonely and she vaguely wondered how it all came about that nobody in nil the thousands which made up the big city—the big city was Meg’s world—had cared whether she lived or died. Once a sweet little girl, who was walking with her nurse, had looked up int# 1 her face and with thnt'free-fasonry which knows nothing of rules and which has in it the element, hay, the very essence of fraternity, had pressed a tiny cluster of violets into her hand. And so the days went on, to-day as yesterday, to-morrow as to-day, until one morning Meg overslept herself, by some method of calculation which did not consider time in the light of dollars and cents added to her income, nnd she went to her breakfast late. The landlady was usually pleasant when a boarder happened to be late at breakfakt and, as became one in her exalted position, she made an offense of this kind on Meg's part an affair of great importance. Not that Meg in all the years she had worked for W eaver & Co. had been late to breakfast more than three or four times, but the landlady never quite forgot that Meg had at one time been her willing slave and any dereliction on her part which was savored of independence was not a thing to lightly pass over. On the morning in question, the landlady, much to Meg’s surprise, greeted her in an affable manner a-nd her grim mouth quivered with something which might, under favorable conditions, have been mistaken for a smile, but which had had

A TINY CLUSTER OF VIOLETS.

so little practice that it merely succeeded in being a grimace, us she told her to take ter seat at the table and then'proceeded to introduce her to a new boarder who had just paid a month’s board in advance. Meg acknowledged the introduction, and after the landlady had gone out ventured to look at her vis-a-vis, and discovered that he was a tall young man with a bronzed complexion and a pair of brown eyes which met hers frankly, and seemed to look right down into her foolishly beating heart, and after the tough steak had been served and he had gallantly filled a glass of water for her Meg made up her mind that he was different from those whom she constantly met beneath that roof, and was undeniably “nice.” The young man, whose name was Atwood —“Mr. Thomas Atwood,” as he was called by the landlady—was disposed to talk as he went on eating his breakfast, and as Meg was the only one at the breakfast table he naturally talked to her, and she soon learned that he was head brakeman on- one of the trains which rolled out of the city on the iron rails belonging to a great railway line, and that bis home was in an Eastern city. She told him that she also belonged to the tolling masses, and before breakfast was finished they became very well acquainted, and Meg, as she pihned her veil down close over her plain little hat, thought Mr.. Atwood the very nicest gentleman wboan she had ever met

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

On the 12th of February. 1809, In the wilderness. In Larue County, Kentucky, was bom one of the best and greatest men that ever lived—Abraham Lincoln. His father was a poor farmer, nnd In the rude life of the backawoods his entire schooling did not exceed a year, but while at school he was noted ns a good speller, but more particularly for his hatred of cruelty—his earliest composition being a protest against putting coals of lire on the backs of the captured terrapins. He wore coarse, home-made clothes nnd a coonskln cap, and his trousers, owing to his rapid growth (before his 17th birthday he was at his maximum of 6 feet 4 Inches), were almost always nearly a foot too short. His last attendance at school was In 1826, when he was 17 years old, but after leaving It he read everything readable within his reach, and copied passages nnd sentences that especially attracted him. Ills first knowledge of the law, In which he afterwards be? came eminent, was through reading the statutes of Indiana, lent to him by a constable, nnd he obtained a tolerable knowledge of grammar, also from a borrowed book studied by the light of burning shavings In a cooper’s shop, after his fnmlly had. In 1830 emigrated to Illinois. In 1834 he was elected to the Illinois Legislature—was three times re-elected—was admitted to practice law In 1830, and then removed to Springfield, the Slate capital. In 1846 he was elected to Congress, where he voted against the extension of slavery, nnd In 1854 was a recognized leader In the ncwlv-formed Republican party. In 1860 he was nominated for the Presidency, received a majority of votes over any of the other candidates and was Installed in the President’s chair March 4 1861 His election was followed by the secession of eleven Southern States and a war for the restoration of the Union. As n military measure ho proclaimed Jan. 1, 1863, the freedom of all slaves lu the seceding States; and was re-elected to the Presidency In 1864 The war brought to a close April 2. 1865, and on the 15th of the RameTnonth Abraham Lincoln’s life was ended by the hand of an assassin. Thus, when he Had mounted Fame's ladder so high From the round nt the top he could step to the sky, the great President passed to his rest. Twice elected to his high office, he was torn from It In the moment of triumph, to be placed side by side with Washington, the one the father, the other the Savior of the Union; one the founder of a republic, the other the liberator of a race. ’

And so Meg's love%tory began, and as the time flew away it was apparent to everybody that she was growing absolutely pretty —happiness having much power in this direction—and that the time was approaching when the honest young brakemnn and herself would cease to be lovers and become husband and wife. Indeed, they had talked it all over, and Meg had told Tom that she had saved .SIOO from her meager salary, and Tom had confessed that “before he had known her he bad spent all his earnings, but since that time he had begun to put by a little, and now had S3OO, nnd that he meant to work hard and get a promotion, so that they could some time have a home of their own,” etc., just as humble, happy lovers always have done and always will do, and then they decided that they would put the SIOO and the S3OO together, nnd, as that was the Ist of February, they would get married Feb. 14— a “valentine wedding,” ns Tom said, and then, when she said “she never had had a valentine,” he laughed out of a heart just bubbling over with sweetness, and love, and merriment, and told her “he would be her valentine and she would be his,” and then he kissed her, and Meg was in such u state of delight that she forgot she ever had been lonely, and she wouldn’t have changed places with a queen, even if the latter had insisted upon' it.

As the time drew near for the wedding Meg had a pretty new dress made and, somewhat softened by the love affair which had gone forward directly under her supervision, the landlady had made preparations for a wedding supper which was to outdo any previous effort of the kind in the neighborhood. Indeed, she had resolved that for once she would be extravagant, and she got out several ancient receipts, which were headed “Uride's Cake, ’ and set to work beating eggs and weighing sugnr in a way which made the kitchen scullion to declare, in a confidential manner, to the garbage man, that “Missus ’peared to be a little teched in her upper story,” and gave as her reason for her conclusion that “She was a-mnk-in’ cake to beat sixty.” A few days before the time set for the wedding the weather, which had been in that condition known as “muggy,” turned cold, and when Tom came around to bid Meg good-by before going out on his run for the last time before he claimed her ns his bride, he had a powder of snow on his collar and that strange, indescribable smell of cold on his clothing which made Meg snuggle up to him and say she “was sorry he had to go out in the cold,” and then, ns she kissed him in that motherly way that comes natural to women when they love, she asked him to “be very careful and watch his footing ns he ran across the tops of the cars, which were sure to be slippery because of the snow,” and, at last, she let him go. St. Valentine’s morn dawned clear and bright, although snow lay like bleached linen wherever a heavy team or an early pedestrian had not marred its purity, and Meg arose light of heart and light of foot to make the final preparations for her union with the man she loved. She had told the foreman on the previous evening that she would not return to the factory, and that hireling of men, who considered humanity of her kind as merely adjuncts to money getting, had deigned to say in an interlocutory fashion: “Going to git married, hey?” Meg did not answer, but she felt such delight at leaving the huge building, where she had been merely as a piece of the machinery, that it seemed to her she had never known freedom and vaguely wondered if it really were she— Meg—who walked ou air and was so happy that now and then she caught at her heart lest it should beat aloud. No. 207, which was Tom’s train, would be in at 3:20 o’clock, and at .6, in the presence of only one or two of the boarders and the landlady, the ceremony was to be performed. Meg watched the clock, but when the hands pointed to 4:30 she concluded that the train was an hour late and she “would don the pretty gown so as to be all ready when Tom came. She smiled at her image in the glass as for the twentieth time she shook out the rustling skirt and then ran hastily down to again look at the clock. It was 5 o’clock now, and still Tom had not come, and all at once something like a cold hand grasped Meg's heart and she trembled as one with

a chill. Then the door bell rang and, with the glad cry of “There he is!” upon her lips, she sprang to meet—not Tom, but n stranger, and he looked odd and uneasy nt poor Meg, nnd somehow she knew when he handed her an envelope containing a letter—her first letter—that something had befallen her lover, nnd she felt her way back to the little parlor and with shaking hands tore the letter open and slowly spelled out its contents. It was ,not long, but was written by Dr. , of the company’s hospital, and it stated that Thomns Atwood, n brnkeman, had fallen between the cars while on his regular run nnd had been so badly injured that he had died shortly after being brought to the hospital. Before his death he hod asked for pencil and paper and had writ-

AND, AT LAST, SHE LET HIM GO.

ten the inclosed, and requested that it be sent to its present address.” Meg dropped the let’ter, and with the calmness of one who has fast hold of despair she read Tom's last message which, with many breaks nud almost illegible tracery, ran as follows: “Deer girl: I—have made my last —run and—have got to say good-by—keep a tite hold on the brakes, and with—love forever and ever, I am—your valentine.” That was all; only the story of two humble lovers, and to-day Meg is again in the factory. But, as I said, back of her soft gray eyes is a something which is too sad for speech, too deep for tears, and it will go with her all her days, and —who knows?—will fade only when she is no more lonely, no more heart-hungry. Death is not the end; it is the beginning. —Utica Globe.

WHERE ABE PRACTICED LAW.

Old Courthouse at Lincoln, 111., Has Connection with the Martyr. The city of Lincoln, 111., still contains one building in which Abraham Lincoln practiced law over forty years ago. It is known as the “Postville” court house, although that village was long ago absorbed by the present city. The first county seat of Logan County was Postville, and the old court house, which still stands in the western part of Lincoln, was occupied as such from 1839 to 1848. In the latter year the courts were removed twelve miles south to Mount Pulaski, which village was the county seat until 1855. At almost every term of court from the time of the organ-

OLD POSTVILLE COURTHOUSE.

ization of the county as a separate local, district and until his nomination for the presidency, Mr. Lincoln was one of the lawyers in attendance, and that he was a favorite with the people of the county is evidenced by the fact that the city bears hi* name. His stories are yet repeated surviving pioneers who were county

officials at that time, and his legal services in many of the trials of those time* ore still remembered. When the Chicago and Alton Railroad was built through the county it did not pass through the new county seat. Mount Pulaski, nor the old one of Postville, but it did pass within a mile of the latter town. At this point a new town was founded and named in honor of Mr. Lincoln, who was was a friend of the men who were its founders. At the sale of lots in the new town on Aug. 29, 1853, Mr., Lincoln was present and expressed his regrets at having no money with which to buy some of the town lots. However, two lots opposite the block set aside as the court house square were given to him by Messrs. Gillet, Hickox and Latham as an attorney fee for services in the work of securing the charter and deeds for the new city. These lots Mr. Lincoln owned until his death and were not sold by his heirs until about seven years ago.

LINCOLN AS A LABORER.

He Did Farm Work in Indiana for 25 Cents a Day. By this time Abraham had become an important member of the family. He was remarkably strong for his years, and the work he could do in a day was a decided advantage to Thomas Lincoln, says McClure's Magazine. The ax which had been put into his hand to help in making the first clearing had never been allowed to drop; indeed, as he says himself, “from that till within his 23d year he was almost constantly handling that most useful instrument.” Besides, he drove the team, cut down the elm and linden brush with which the stock was often fed, learned to handle the old shovel plow, to wield the sickle, to thrash the wheat with a flail, to fan and clean it with a sheet, to go to mill and turn the hard-earned grist into flour; in short, he learned all the trades the settler’s boy must know, and well enough so that when his father did not need him he could hire him to the neighbors. Thomas Lincoln also taught him the rudiments of carpentry and cabinetmaking, and kept him busy some of the time as his assistant in his trade. There are houses still standing in and near Gentryville on which it is said ho worked. The families of Lamar, Jones, Crawford, Gentry, Turnham and Richardson all claim the honor of having employed him upon their cabins. As he grew older he became one of the strongest nnd most popular “hands” in the vicinity, and much of his time was spent ns a “hired boy” on some neighbor’s farm. For 25 cents a day—paid to his father—he was hostler, plowman, wood chopper and carpenter, besides helping the women with the “chores.” For them, so say the legends, he was ready to carry water, make the fire, even tend the baby. No wonder that a laborer who never refused to do anything asked of him, who could “strike with a mallet heavier blows” and “sink an ax deeper into the wood” than anybody else in the community, and who at the same time was general help for the women, never lacked a job in Gentryville.

MAKING LINCOLN PRESENTABLE

Mrs. Lincoln “Fixed Up” the Presi-dent-elect to Meet a Delegation. In narrating “When Lincoln -.Was First Inaugurated,” in the Ladies’ Home Journal, Stephen Fiske writes interestingly of the memorable journey from Springfield, 111., to the national capital, and tells of Mrs. Lincoln’s efforts to have her husband look presentable when receiving a delegation that was to greet them upon reaching New York City. “The train stopped,” writes Mr. Fiske, and through the windows immense crowds could be seen; the cheering drowned the blowing off steagi of the locomotive. Then Mrs. Lincoln opened her hand bag and said: “ ‘Abraham, I must fix you up a bit for these city folks.’ “Mr. Kincoln gently lifted her upon the seat before him; she parted, combed and brushed his hair and arranged his blaqk necktie. “ ‘Do I look nice now, mother?’ he affectionately asked. “ ‘Well, you’ll do, Abraham,’ replied Mrs. Lincoln critically. So he kissed her and lifted her down from the seat, and turned to meet Mayor Wood, courtly and suave, and to have his hand shaken by the other New Y'ork officials.”

Love Lottery Day.

One of the most charming and at the same time plausible versions of, the relation of the modern valentine idea to that devoted Christian martyr, St. Valentine, is the following: The early Christian fathers, in their attempts to conciliate their pagan compatriots, with most commendable tact and insight utilized many of the popular forms of mythological celebrations to commemorate Christian events. One of the festivals, dear to the heart of every Itoman, was the feast of Lupercalia, when they did honor to their gods Pan and Juno, not only with the banquet, dance and drama, but with a peculiar ceremony which provided a billet box into which were dropped slips of paP*r inscribed with the ladies’ names. The bachelors drew out these slips and the ladies whose names were on their papers were henceforth installed as their mistresses for twelve months to command them as best suited their sweet wills. This festival usually occurred in February, and was therefore made use of by the Christians to commemorate the birthday of the martyr, St. Valentine. In time it came to be called Valentine’s Day and retained the love-lottery as its especial feature.

Honest Abe and the Bull.

Crossing a field one day, the late President Lincoln, it is said, was pursued by an angry bull. He made for the fence, but soon discovered that the bull was overtaking him. He then began to run round a haystack in the field, and the bull pursued him; but, in making the .short circles round the stack, Lincoln was the faster, and, instead of the bull catching him, he caught the bull and grabbed him by the tail. It was a firm grip and a controlling one. He began to kick the bull, and the bull bellowed with agony and dashed across the field, Lincoln hanging to his tail and kicking him at every jump, and, as they flew along, Lincoln shouted at the bull, “Hang you, who began this fight?”

A Valentine Luncheon.

On St. Valentine’s Day a luncheon carrying out heart-shaped decorations would be a unique affair. The center of the table should be adorned by heart-shaped floral pieces composed of carnations. Crystal candelabra with red candles, each alternately screened with red hearts and bows and arrows should be placed in the middle of mirrors at either end, and three heart-shaped crystal dishes should surround, each candelabra and contain heart-shaped bonbons and cakes. Several gold cupids should be suspended over the table and a broad red satin ribbon should be inscribed with the words: “St Valentine, 1898.”

Grace’s Valentine.

Such a dainty valentine! J Cupids, mottoes, lace, Roees, satin frills—ln fine, Just the thing for Gracel Push the satin frills apart, Lo! beneath the lace Lies a flimsy, tinsel heartjust the thing for Gracel

WOOED AND MARRIED

BY CHARLOTTE M BRAEME

CHAPTER X—(Continued.) That night no sleep, no revt came to her. She was thinking hour after hour what she was to do. The prospect before her frightened her. She saw no light in the dark clouds, no hope, no help—the years stretched out dark and dreary; and she wept the silent hours away. She felt half nervous on meeting her husband again; although there was no love, no affection between them, still it was not often that they had angry words. It was the close of the afternoon when he came in, and he went at once in search of her. “Mildred,” he said, “I have come to apologize to you—to beg your pardon for my want of civility yesterday. I am afraid that I lost my temper.” She bowed with cold politeness. “Now, liildred,” lie cried, “I will not be put off with a ceremonious how. Do you know that the fact of quarreling and making friends with you again makes me feel that we ought to he on the best of terms? Do not bow to me; say that you accept my apology?” “I accept it,” she replied, “and hog your pardon if I have displeased you.” “That is satisfactory. Now I have to tell you that you were right and that I was wrong. Captain Fane is a cheat and a rogue. I won a hundred pounds from him last evening. I have returned it today'—l would not soil my fingers with his money. What the duchess told you was quite true —he was detected cheating at cards. A long farewell to Captain Fane! He was not worth quarreling about —was he. Mildred?”

“No,” she replied; and something of happiness, to which she had long been a stranger, sprang up in her heart because he spoke so kindly to her. May was drawing to a close, when Lord Curaven one evening received a letter which appeared to give him the keenest delight. He read it, and then went with it to his wife. “Mildred, here is good news; but I am too hasty—perhaps you will not think it good news.” “If it pleases you so much, I shall,” she replied, gently. “You have heard me spetfk of my cousin, Sir Raoul Laurestou, the ‘hero of a hundred fights?’ ” “No,” replied Hildred. “I have never even hoard his name.” “Tljat seems strange,” said the earl. “Not at all,” she replied, quietly. “You forget that you have never spoken of your family to me at all. I do not know the name of a single relative that you have.” He looked incredulously at her. “I am very careless,” he said; “but I did not think that I was so bad as that. I will make amends now by telling you about Sir Raoul Laurestou.” “Raoul,” repeated Hildred. “Is he—no, he cannot be a Frenchman, Lord Caruven, if he is a relative of yours.” “No, but the name has puzzled many people. Ilis mother was a French lady of noble birth, and one of her ancestors, named Raoul de Courcelles, distinguished himself greatly in the French wars; it was her fancy to mane her boy after him.”

Hildred repeated the word “Raoul.” “I like the name. Lord Caraven,” she said, slowly. “And I like the man,” he told her. "I do not know any one in the world whom I like better- than Raoul. Yet he gives himself great airs with me. He is—you will laugh when you hear it —he is my master —at least used to be in years gone by. But what I wanted to tell you is this —ho is coming back to England, and he has always made his home at my house; he has never lived anywhere but at Halby House or Ravenswere —never —and I hope never will.” "I understand. But what has that to do with me?” “After all, you are the mistress of the house, the chatelaine, and I should not like to ask anyone to make their home with us who would be at all—now let me see how to express myself diplomatically —who would be displeasing to you.” “i thank you for your consideration,” she replied, with dignity; “but, as nothing could possibly make what you call ‘home’ more unhappy for me, and the coming of a stranger, who may prove a' friend, will be some little comfort, I say, unhesitatingly, ‘Yes.’ ” "Is it so bad as that?” he asked—and there was a shadow of pain on his face. “It is worse,” she replied. Only a few short weeks since her heart would have beaten fast with happiness to hear words spoken so kindly; now she turned away, and from her heart to her lips rose the unspoken prayer, “Heaven help me, for I am beginning to hate him!”

CHAPTER XI. The earl was at home expecting Sir Raoul. He was shown into the library, and there in a few moments he was found by his kinsman. They met with outstretched hands and warm words of greeting, but the earl looked sorrowfully into his kinsman’s face. “You have suffered very much, Raoul,” he said, quietly. “Yes. and never thought to see you again. You are changed, too, Ulric—l feel inclined to ask where is the sunny-faced boy whom I loved so dearly?” Lord Caraven laughed a little bitter laugh. “The truth is, Raoul, I have not turned out very well. I may have been a good boy, but I have scarcely made a good man.” “I hear wondrous news, Ulric—that you are married. Is it true?” The earl’s face darkened, as it generally did when any mention was made of his wife. “Yes,” he replied, gloomily, “I am married.” And your wife, I have been told, had a large fortune.” "That is true.” he said. “Have they told you nuything else?” “No. except that she was Miss Hildred Ransome, the great lawyer’s daughter.” “The great money lender and schemer’s daughter,” corrected the earl. “She will not be answerable for her father’s faults. What is she like, Ulric; this young wife of yours? I never had n sister, and my mother died when I was a boy. It will'be quite a novelty to me to claim kinship with a lady.” “All the novelties are noi agreeable ones,” was the moody reply. “The fact is. I feel quite certain that you will not like my wife, and it annoys me.” "Like her?” echoed Sir Raoul. “How strangely you speak! Certainly, I shall do more than like her, your wife and my

cousin. I tell you that the thought of seeing her is a positive pleasure to me.” M :th hasty steps Lord Caraven walked up and down the room. He seemed as though about to speak, but then stopped abruptly. He stood at last in front of his cousi'd. “Raoul,” he said. “I am not good at keeping a secret. The truth is, I do not like my wife.” “Not like her, Ulric! You are jesting, surely.” “I wish to heaven that I were! I know I am a prodigal, a spendthrift; but I think sometimes, now that I am a little older, that I might have heei; a better man had I been happily married.” “But, if you did not like her,” said Sir Raoul, with an air of utter astonishment, “why did you, marry her?” “That is the question. I think the answer is—because her father wished her to be a countess.” “Vi hat had his wish to do with you, L'lric?” “Some day I will tell you all,” he replied. “It is not a pleasant theme. But. with all my faults, I dislike deceit —and I would not have you thiuk that you are about to enter upon a scene of domestic felicity.” “Poor boy!” said Sir Raoul, pityingly; “we must hope for better things. Shall I see your wife to-night?” "No, I think not. Lady Caraven has gone to Covent Garden—a favorite opera? of hers is being played. She will not be home until late. You look very tired, Raoul—l should advise you to go to bed. We shall not remain many weeks in London. You will, of course, go to Ravensmore with us?”

“If you desire it; if you are kind enough to invite me, I shall be very pleased. I might have twenty places of my own, but none of them would seem so much like home ns Ravensiuere.” Sir Raoul retired to his room, slightly disappointed and disenchanted. He could not sleep. By-gone scenes in his own life rose up before him. It was long after midnight when he heard the roll of a carriage, and then the soft rustle of a silken dress as light footsteps passed his door. “That is the young countess,” he said to himself —“my new cousin.” The first sound that fell upon his ear in the morning was the Singing of a bird, and the next the falling spray of a fountain. He looked around. lie saW then what improvements had been made in Ilalhy House. A donservatory had been built out from the breakfast room, long and wide —a conservatory that was almost an aviary, so full was it of bright plumaged birds; a fountain stood in the midst, masses of brilliant bloom glowed upon the walls. “This was a welcome for the bride,” thought Sir Raoul. “How beautiful!” lie waited on until he saw a vision that suddenly struck him dumb. At the end of the conservatory was a large vinewreathed door, the green leaves formed a perfect screen, and against them stood a figure such as Sir Raoul had never seen before and never afterward forgot.—a tall, graceful, girlish figure—a figure that was all symmetry, with a slender, graceful neck, white as snow, lovely shoulders, round, white arms, draped in elegant morning dress. That it was the money lender’s daughter never for a moment entered his mind —that he saw before him his cousin’s wife never occurred to him. This beautiful girl was, of course, a visitor, like himself—one of Lady Carnven’s friends, he thought to himself, half sadly. It was not to he wondered at, with this glorious young beauty near to distract him, that the earl did not care for his wife. He went forward to speak to her, and then for the first time she was conscious of his presence. She raised her dark eyes and looked at him. There are moments in life not to be forgotten—this was one. The dark eyes appeared to look right into his heart, and he seemed to recognize the soul that shone through them. She walked up to him, still looking at him, as though drawn by magic to him, his eyes half smiling into the depths of hers. He bowed at her approach. She looked for one half minute into the worn, scarred, noble face. “I cannot be mistaken,” she said, holding out both her hands in welcome. “You must be Sir Raoul Laureston?” “I am,” he replied, taking the delicate hands in liis with chivalrous empressement. “And you?” “And I?” she said, with a charming smile and a look of pretty astonishment. “I am Lady Caraven.” In the shock of his surprise he dropped her hands. This Lady Caraven, the unformed school girl, and tho unloved wife, “tall and dark,” one whom he would not like—this splendid woman! What had the earl meant by it? Sir Raoul was so startled that the shock kept him,silent; and she, noticing this, thought that he was disappointed in her. “Lady Caraven,” he said, at last—“my kinswoman! Do you know that I can hardly believe it?” “Why not?” she asked simply. “Because I expected to see some one qtiite different.” “And you are disappointed?” she said, slowly, half sadly. His face lighted up eagerly. “Nay, how can you say so? lam charmed, delighted. I cannot believe in my own good fortune in having so fair a cousin.” “Are you quite sure?” she asked. “For I fear that I have disappointed most people.” “I am indeed sure,” he replied. And looking into his face, she could not doubt it.

CHAPTER XII. Sir Raoul Lnureston had been for three weeks at Halby House; during that time he had grown to love the young countess as .though she had been a sister of his own. They agreed very well together; but then Raoul was always different from other men—a preux chevalier. For whole days together the earl did not see his wife, and oftener now than ever he dined from home. One smiling June morning Lord Caraven had, for a wonder, breakfasted with the countess and Sir Raoul. They had been talking about their plans for the summer, wheigthe earl looked up with a good-tempered ratrgtlT^* “Do you know,” he said, “that I am literally tired of hearing the constant repetition of titles? Raoul, you claim relationship with Lady Caraven. why. not call her ‘Hildred?’ Hildred, why not give over your formal and ceremonious ‘Sir’ and simply say ‘Raoul?’ ” “I shall be only too happy,” said Sir Raoul, “if my dear and beautiful kinswoman will permit it.” Before the young countess had time to answer Lord Caraven laughed again. “What old-world notions you have,

Raoul! Fancy talking about *a dear and beautiful kinswoman.’ ” “And why not, Ulric? It seems to me that the people in your set sneer at everything simple and noble. I repeat the expression—my dear and beautiful kinswoman, have I your permission to lay aside your title and call you ‘Hildred?’ ”■ “Yes,” she replied,-“if you wish it, Sir Raoul.” “It must be on equal terms then.” “If you wish it, Raoul,” she said. Her face flushed, her dark eyes drooped and her fingers played nervously with the diamond cross on her breast. “That is better,” said the earl. “I always felt compelled to be formal myself when I heard you.” Perhaps the distress that Sir Raoul Laureston could not help feeling for the sorrows of his fair youug kinswoman was too much for the weak, shattered frame, or it may have been that the air of Ravensmere did not suit him. He was not well for many weeks after his arrival. He did not actually keep his room; the earl, who was tender enough and anxious enough where his cousin was concerned, had ordered two of the largest, lightest and most cheerful apartments in the castle to be prepared for him, and Lady Caraven was only too anxious to arrange everything most 1 luxuriously for him. More than once, when she came to read to him, always bringing with her"sweetest flowers and choicest fruits, he had noticed that her face was pale and her eyes 'were heavy with weeping. Once, as she bent over him to show him the lovely bloom on a peach, he said to her—“Hildred, do you spend the whole night in tears?” “Sometimes,” she replied; “but, Raoul/ do not talk to me about it—l would rather speak on any other subject than myself.” He respected her wish. The quiet of Ravensmere ,was indeed broken up—the house was filled with guests. Lady Caraven did not like some of the people whom the earl had invited. If not rude, they were neglectful of her —seemed to know her position by instinct —seemed to guess that she was an unloved wife, that she had been married for her money, and had a title instead of love. One morning she was quite alone in the castle. The whole party had gone out riding and driving, some of them greatly disappointed at not having their beautiful young hostess with them; but she thought Sir Raoul looked worse that morning, so would not leave him. She was busily engaged in reading to him, when a servant came to say that a poor woman was waiting to see her. “I tried to send her away, your ladyship,” said the man, “but she begged so hard that I had not the heart.” “Tried to send her away! Why did you do that?” asked Lady Caraven. “I think she is one of the tenants, your ladyship; and his lordship gave orders that they should never be attended to here —they were to be sent to Mr. Blantyre. If I have done wrong, I am sorry for it.” “You have done right,” she said; “no blessing ever comes to a house where the poor and the sorrowful are sent from the door.” Not even to a servant would she utter one word in disparagement of her husband, although she thought the order a cruel one. (To be continued.)

SURE TEST OF DEATH.

A French Scientist’s Interesting Experiments in Photography. Since the discovery of the X-rays we •iave become accustomed to all manner of surprises in photography, and If these successive discoveries interest us nothing mysterious or marvelous astonishes us any longer. During the last sessions of the Biological Society, one of the most learned practitioners, Dr. Luigs, a member of tile Academy of Medicine, read a paper on the subject of some new experiments in photography. In collaboration with Mr. David, the doctor bad succedod in fixing permanently and distinctly on a photographic proof the effluvia from the fingers of an adult enjoying perfect health. . To obtain the result the two savans ’ shut themselves iu a dark room with their subject. The hand which was to he experimented upon was placed in a bath of liydroquiuone; the palmer sides of the fingers were then placed on a photographic plate covered with bromide of silver. The pose should last from fifteen to twenty minutes to he successful. The bromide plate, treated In the usual manner, furnished a proof as curious as it was Instructive. Tlie extreme tips of the fingers could be seen forming a variegated spot, standing out in hold relief from the circumference of effluvia which surrounded them. In the upper left hand corner of tho plate could be seen a fragment of skin, which had become detached in the strong acid bath, and which gave out direct effluvia under the form of vertical threads like sheaves. All the tiny white spots seen on the black background of the proof represent the effluvium dust floarting In the hydroquoinone bath. In reply to some criticisms Dr. Luigs isolated two fingers from direct contact with the plate. The result was a proof with threo impressions, similar to the first proof, and two others not so well developed, hut nevertheless convincing. “It can be seen,” said the Doctor, “that this new method of producing photographs by immersion is susceptible of fruitful results, both in physiology and pathology. Its application is simple, It requires no complicated apparatus and can be practiced by any one with some knowledge of photography.” The variations of this nervous force, * which is incessantly ejected from the tips of the fingers, may be gauged, according to the age, the sex, the different phases of the day and the emotiohs which are agitating the human subject. Thus the study of those effluvia, their density, their diminution, will permit us to experiment in the domain of the phenomena of sensibility, and perhaps also that of motivity, as we are still still ignorant of their intrinsic physiological characteristics. The doctor believes that certain temperaments, certain professions even, may present social phenomena for examination. He has proofs of the fingers of a pianist and of a mttissageur, which are absolutely curious. The effluvia of the massageUr are violently accentuated; they jut out in globules of various sizes and are very characteristic. Between the fingers of the pianist are seen fine filaments, which describe odd and distinctly marked curves. But the real advantage of Dr. Lulg’s discovery is the fact that he has enriched science by giving it a positive means of determining death.