Daily Wabash Express, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 31 January 1886 — Page 3

Resolve. York Son.

AM the dead year is cUsped by a deed De-

8* 1^Jm'dead tins with year dead days

AsewUfe iayonrs, a new hepet B9™e™ber We build our own ladders to climb to the

Stud •ot in the sunlight of promise, forgetting Whatever your past held of sorrow wrongs We waste half our strength in a Melees regretting

We sit by old tombs in the dark too long.

Have you missed in your aim! Well, the mark is still shining. Did yon faint in the race? Well, take breath for the next. Did the clonds drive yon backr Bat see yonder their lining.

Were yon tempted and fell Let it serve IBBVlfor ft text* As eaok year hnrriee by, let it join that proces-

Of skeleton shapes that march dewn to tie past, While yon take your place ia the line of progreejion,

With your eyee on the heavens, yonr face to the blast.

I tell yon the fntnre can hold no terrors ,j F#r any sad soul whil® the stars rev^lTe, If ke wUl but stand firm on the grave of his

And,6instead of regretting, resolve—resolve! It ia never too late to begin rebuilding Tkengh all into rains yonrlife seems hurled! For look! how the light of the new year is

Tkew«n?wan

Two ways, two lives, two leaves of ar*. A sudden cloud, and a glare of eun, Written in paseion, erased In trara!

Is the chapter ended or but begni.

By CHABLOTTE M. BBAEM35, Author of "Dora Thorno."

CHAPTER XII.

It was when the eun, shining into her room, reached her tbat an idea occurred to Philippa which was like the up-spring-ing of new life to her. All was not yet lost. He did not love her—he had not thought of making her his wife but it did not follow that he would never do soWhat had not patience and perseverance accomplished before now What bad not love won

He had acknowledged that

beautiful he had

she was

owned

how much he admired ber. So much granted,

was

time

impossible that be should

learn to love her?

She told howeif •".hat

«he would take courage—thai

persevere—that

she would

ber great love

must

prevail, and that

iter life unweariedly to

fcha

would

devote

it.

She would carefully hide ail traces ®f pique or annoyance. She would never ilet him find her dull or unhappy. Men liked to be amused. She would do her best to entertain him he should never have a moment's vacancy in her society. Abe would find sparkling anecdotes, repartees, witty, humorous stories, to amuse 4im. He liked her singing, she would .cultivate it more and more. She would study him, dress for him, live for him, and him alone she would have no other end, aim, thought or desire. She would herself be the source of all his amusements, so that he should look for the every-day pleasures of his life to her —and, such being the case, she would win him she felt sure of it. Why had she been so hopeless, so despairing? There was bo real cause for it. Perhaps, after il], he had looked upon the whole affair, not as a solemn engagement, but as a childish farce. Perhajfc he had never really thought of her as his wife but there would be an end to that thoughtlessness now. What had passed on the previous day would arouse his attention he could never know the sime indifference again.

So she rose with renewed hope.

So she rose with renew ope.

shrank from the look of her face the

glass. "Cold water and fresh air she

•aid

There was nothing in common between them—no sympathy—none of those mystical cords that, once touched, set two hutan hearts throbbing, and never rest un

Jonder of her than he was, in a brother B0Ose but as for love's loVe, from the first day be had seen her, a beautiful, dark «yed chiM until the last he *had never felt the least semblance of it.

It was a story of failure. She strove as perhaps woman never bofore had striven, and she succeeded in winning his truest admiration, his warmest friendship he felt more at?/Ip^b^th her than any one else in the wiat. %orld. But there it ended—she won no more.

It was not his fault, it was simply because the electric spark called love had never been and never could be elicited between his soul and hers. He would have done anything for her—he was her truest, best friend hut he was not her lover.

She hoped against hope. Each day she counted the kind words he had said to her die noted every glance, every look, «very expression. But she could not find that

Bhe

made any progress—nothing that

indicated any change from brotherly friendfihip to love. Still she hoped against hope and but for this fountain of hope, the chances tre that-she would have died of a broken heart.

Then the season ended. She went back to Verdun Eoyal with Lady Peters, and Lord Arleigh to Beechgrove. They wrote to each other at Christmas, and met at Calverley, the seat of Lord Rineham. She contrived, eve* when away from him, to fill his life. She was always consulting Mm mi matters of interest "to her she jMaght his advice continually, and about everything, frdm the renewal of a lease te the making ef anew acquaintance. "I can not do wrong," she would say te him, "if I follow your advice." He wss pleased and happy to be able to help the danger of his mother's dearest friend.

Her manner completely deceived him.

If she had evinced the least pique or discontent—if she had by word or look shown the least resentment—he would have suspected that she cared for him, and would have been on his guard. As it was, he would not have believed any one who had told him she loved him.

The explanation had been made there was no longer even a shadow between

them they both understood that the weak nonsensical tie was broken, mat they were the dearest of friends, and quite happy, would have been Igrd Arleigh's notion of matters. Plulippa L'Estrange might have told a different

BtTh'e

face of the bruised old world! EM WBKELKB WILOOX.

Two Lives.

Time laid his hand on the budding leaf It turned to crimson, then brown and gold. He touched the grain: 'twas a garnered sheaf,

A Mn" bin—and the year .was old.

You walked in the sun when time vw }"nng I grew in the shade and was t-T.^r olrf: Jly life at least to the daylight strain:

And yours—crept under the graveyard mold.

proposed party at Beechgrove did not come off. There were some repairs needed in the eastern wing, and Lord Arleigh himself had so many engagement 8 that no time ceuld be found for it but when the season came round Philippa and he met again.

By this time some of Miss L'Estrange admirers had come to the conclusion that there was no truth in the report of the engagement between herself and Lord Arleigh. Amongst these was his grace the Duke of Hazlewood. He loved the beautiful, queenly girl who had so disdainfully refused his coronet—the very refusal had made him care more than ever for her. He was worldly wise enough to know. that there were few women in London who would have refused him and he said to himself that, if she would not marry him,he would go unmarried to the grave. He was one of the first to feel sure that there was no truth in the rumors that had grieved him so the previous year. Miss L'Estrange and Lord Arleigh were by ferce of circumstances great friends—nothing more and this season he determined to make a friend of the man he had detested as a rival.

When the Duke of Hazlewood made up his mind, he generally accomplished his desire he sought Lord Arleigh with such assiduity, he made himself so pleasant and agreeable to him, that the^master of Beechgrove soon showed him his most cordial and. sincere liking. Then they became warm friends. The duke confided in Lord Arleigh—he told the whole story ot his love for Miss L'Estrange. "I know," he Baid, "that no one has so much influence over her as you. I do not believe in the absurd stories told about an engagement between you, but I see plainly that she is your friend, and that you are hers and I want you to use your influence with her in my favor."

Lord Arleigh promised to do so—and he intended to keep his promise they were on such intimate and friendly terms that he could venture upon saying anything of that kind to her. She would not be displeased—on the contrary, she would like his advice it might even be that before now she had wished to ask for it, but had not like to do so—so completely did these two play at cross-pur-poses and misunderstand each other.

It was easier to sav to himself that he would speak to her as the duke wished than to do it. He saw that any%llusion to her lovers or admirers made her ill at

ea8e—Bhe

to her often

did not like it even his laugh

ing comments on the homage paid to her did not please her. I do not like lovers," she 6aid to him one day, "and I am tired of admirers—I prefer friends." "But," he opposed, laughingly, "if all that wise men and philosophers tell us is correct, there are no true friends."

He never forgot the light that shone in her face as she raised it to his. "I do not believe that," she returned, '•there are true friends—you are one to me."

The tenderness of her manner struck him forcibly. Something kinder and softer stirred in his heart than had ever stirred before for her he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "You are right, Philippa," he said. "If ever a woman had a true, stanch friend, I am and will be ons to you."

From her heart to her lips rose the words, "Shall you never be more?" Perhaps even "her eyes asked the question more eloquently than her lips could have done, for his face flushed, and she turned away with some slight embarrassment. "I shall try to keep your friendship," she said "but that will be easily done, Norman." "Yet," be replied "one ef the traditions of our house is 'truth in friendship, trust in love, honor in war.' To be a true fiiend and a noble foe is characteristic of the Arleigbs." "I hope you will never be a foe of mine, she rejoined, laughingly. And that evening, thinking over the events of the day, she flattered herself that she had made some little progress after all.

CHAPTER XIII.

The opportunity that Lord Arleigh looked for came last. Philippa had gjje some reason to doubt the honesty of a man

whom Bhe

to herself, with a smile, wi W „nt done his duty by her. To speak to ^remedy such paleness Ana tnus ma

•that very day beg fcr her the new life- whether innocent or «he life in which, no longer sureoi her ^rio guity. If innocent, it would create a prejudice against him if guilty, they would wish to punish him. She resolved upon laving tbe matter before Lord Arleigh, and seeing what he thought of it.

llove, she was to try to win it He would have loved her had he been able but his own words were true—"Love is fate."

had been employing as agent,

and did wish

hdtQTS about it would felt)

He listened very patiently, examined the affair, and then told her that he believed she had been robbed. "What shall I do?" she asked, looking at him earnestly.

til they are one. He could not have been "I know what you ought to do,

fA niinioh Kim

Philippa. You ought to punish him." ."But li« has a wife, Norman, and innocent little children in exposing him I shall punish them, and they are innocent." "Thatisene of the strangest of universal laws to me," said Lord Arleigh— "why the innocent always do, and always must, suffer for the guilty it is one of the mysteries I shall never understand. Common sense tells me that you ought to expose this man—that he ought to he punished for what he has done. Yet, if you do, his wife an* .children will be dragged down Into an abyss of misery. Suppose you make a compromise of matters and lecture him as well."

He was half smiling as he spoke, but she took .every word in serious earnest "Philippa," he continued, "why do you not marrf? A husband would save you all this trouble: he woulc1 attend to your aflairs, and shield you .omall annoyances of this kind." "The answer to your questton, 'why do I not marry?' would form along story," she replied, and then she turned the conversation.

But lie was determined to keep hi^ word, and pleaded with her for the duke. Anotner opportunity came that evening. It was Lady Peters' birthday, and Philippa had invited some of her most intimate friends not young people,but those with whom she thought her chaperon would enjoy herself beet The result was a very pleasant dinner party, followed bv a very pleasant evening. Lord Arleigh could not be absent for it was, in some measure, a family fete.

The guests did not remain very late, and Lady Peters, professing herself tired with the exertion 8 she had made, lay down on a couch, and was soon judeep. Philippa stood by the window, with tbe roee-eilk hangings drawn. "Come out on the balcony," she said to Lord Arleikh, "the room is very warm.'

It was night, but the darkness was sil-ver-gray, not black. The sky above was brilliivnt withthe gleam of a thousand stare shining behind some ail* great masses of foliage just stirred with the mf

whiSper of the nighty aud sweetest odors came from heliotr ps and .mignonette the brooding silence of the summer night lay over the land.

Philippa sat down, and Lord Arleigh stood by her side. The moonlight«falling on her beautiful face softened it into wondrous loveliness —it was pale, refined, with depths of passion in the dark eyes, and tender, tremulous smiles on the scarlet lips. She wore some material of white and gold. A thin scarf was thrown carelessly over ber white shoulders. When the wind stirred it blew the scarf against her face.

She might have been the very goddess of love, Bhe looked so fair out in the starlight If there had been one .particle of love in Lord Arleigh's heart, that hour and qcene mast have called it into life. For a time they sat in perfect silence. Her head was thrown back against a pillar round which red roses clastered and clung, and the light ef the stars fell full upon her face the dark eyes were full of radiance. "How beautifal it is, Norman!" she said, suddenly. "What music has ever equaled the whispers of the night wind? It seems a sad pity after all that we are obliged to lead such conventional lives, and spend the greater part of them in warm, close rooms." "You have a great love for out-door freedom," he remarked, laughingly. "Yep, I leva the fresh air. I think if any one asked me what I loved best on earth, I should say the wind. I love it in all its moods—rough, caressing^ tender, impetuous, calm, stormy. It is always beautiful. Listen to it now, just aighing in the branches of those tall trees. Could any music be Bweeter or softer?" "No," he replied, and then addea:

The time and the scene embolden me

now

eyes, a quiver of crimson lips. Was it coming at last—this for which she had longed all her life? She controlled all outward signs of emotion and turned to him quite calmly. "1 am always ready to listen to you, Norman, and to hear what you have to say." "You see, Philippa, the starlight makes me bold. If we were in that brilliantly lighted drawing-room of yours, I should probab'y hesitate long before speaking plainly, as I am going to do now.'

He saw her clasp her hands tightly, but he had no key to what was passing in her mind. He drew nearer to her.

'You know, Philippa," he began, "that I have always been fond of you. I have

always taken the same interest in you that I should have taken in a dearlyloved sister of my own, if Heaven had given me one."

She murmured some few words which he did not hear. "I am going to speak to you how, he continued, "just as theugh you were my own sister "have I your permission to do so, Philippa?" "Yes," she replied, "And you promise hot' to be angry about anything that I may say?" "I could never be angry with you, Norman," she answered. "Then I want you to tell me why you will not marry the Duke of Haalewood. You have treated me as your brother and your friend. The question might seem impertinent from another from me it will not. appear impertinent norcurions •*—simply true and kindly interest Will you not marry him, Philippa?"

A quick, sharp spasm passed over her face. She was silent for a minute before she answered him, and then die said— "The reason is very simple, Norman— because I do not love him.' "That is certainly a strong reason but, Philippa, let me ask you now another question—why do you not love him?"

She could have retorted, "Why do you not love me?" but prudence forbade it "I can not tell you. I have heard you say love is fate. I should imagine it must be because the Duke of Haslewood 3 apt my fate."

He did not know what answer to make to that, it was se entirely his own way of thinking. "But. Philippa," he resumed, after a pause, "do you not think that you might iovehimifyou tried?" "I have never thought about it," was the quiet reply. lord Arleigh continued— "In my idea he is one of the most charning men in England I have never seen a more perfect type of what an English gentleman should be—he is noble, generous, brave, chivalrous. What fait (lo you find with him, Philippa?" "I?" she asked, looking at him in wonder. "My dear Norman, I have never found fault with the duke in my life." "Then why can you not love him?" "That is a very different thing. I find no fault with him on the contrary, I agree with you that he is one of the noblest of men, yet I have never thought of marrying him." "But, Philippa"—and with kindly impressiveness he laid One hand on her shoulder—"why do you not think of marrying, him? Between you and myself there can be no compliments, no flattery. I tell you that of all the women in England you are the one most fitted to be the duchess of Hazlewood—and you Would be a beautiful duchess, too. Think of the position you could occupy—second only to royalty. I should like to see you in such a position—you would fill it grandly. Think of the power, the influnce, the enormous amount of geod yon could do think of it all, Philippa."

He did not see the sudden, sharp quiver of pait' that passed over the beau tiful face, nor how pale it grew in the starlight. "I am thinking," she answered quietly —"I am listening attentively te all that you say."

She drew the light scarf more closely around her shoulders, and shuddered as though a chill breeze had passed over her. "Are you cold, dear?" he asked kindly. "Cold 1 How could I be on this warm starlit night? Goon, Norman let me hear all that you have to say."

K»t ou www

"I am trying to persuade you to accept jt

hat seems to me one of the happiest lots

offered to woman. I want to see you the

noble in face and figure as he is in heart

and

of a great party. "That I believe," ehe agreed. "And he loves you so well, Philippa

Af a l»M«f nflffv."

Ihave never seen a man mere devoted. How many years has he loved you now—

the BXPBEHB. nmm HAUTS, »mnAY. JA»WABY ISM.

"In nwdern poeir-t he repeated "Yes, I thick I am. Why, Philippa?" "I will tell you why," sale said, turning her beautiful lace to him. "If yon will he patient, I will tell you why.'

She wss silent for a few minutes, and then Lord Arleigh said— "I am patient enough, Philippa will you tell me why?"

Th9 dark eyes raised to his had them a strange light—a strange depth of passion. "I want to know if you remember the beautiful story of Priscilla, the Puritan maiden," she said, in a tremulous voiee —"Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth? "You mean the story of Miles Standish," he corrected. "Yes, I remember it, Philippa." "That which a Puritan maiden could de, and all posterity sing her praises for, surely I—a woman of the world—may do without blame. Do you remember, Norman, when John Alden goes to her to da the wooing which..the stanch soldier does not do for himself—do you remember her answer? Let me give you the verse— 'But as ke warmed ad gl*w»d In his simple aad eloquent laaguaga, Quito fargetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes overrunning with Unghtar, iaid in a tremoloas voice, "Why dan yon speak for yoaxaelf, Jehat"

The sweet musical voice died away in the starlight, the wind stirred the crimson roses—silence, solemn and deep, fell over Lord Arleigh *nd his companion. Philippa broke it "Surely you, in common with all of us, admire the Puritan maiden,Norman?" "Yes, I de admire her," he answered "she is one of my^averite heroines." "So she is of mine and I love her the

"The time ana tne scene uiwuiueu mic, —. Philippa: there is something that I wish more far the womanly outburst of honest te say to yo i-something that I long truth that triumphed over aU conventionhave wished to say. Will you hear it ality.

Norman,

j» maiden in Plymouth,' the beloved of A tremor like that of the trees in the Miles Standish, said to John Alden, I wind seemed to pass over her. There say to you—-'Why dent you speak for was a startled expression in the dark yourself?''

what she, the loveliest

There was infinite tenderness in his face as he bent over her—infinite pain in his voice as he spoke to her. "John Alden loved Priscilla," he said, slowly—"she was the one woman in all the world for him—his ideal—his fate, but I—oh, Philippa, how I hate myself because I cannot answer you differently 1 You are my fiiend, my sister, but not the woman I must love as my wife." "When you urged me a few minutes since to marry your friend, you asked me why I could not love him, seeing that he had all lovable qualities. Norman, why cannot you love me?" "I can answer you only in the same words—I do not know. 1 love yon with as true an affection as ever man gave to woman, but I have not for you a lover's love. I can not tell why, for yeu are one of the fairest of fair women." "Fair, but not your 'ideal woman,"' she said, gently. "No, not my 'ideal woman,'" he returned—:"my sister, my friend—not my love." "I am to blame," she said, proudly "but again I must plead that 1 am like Priscilla. While you were pleading the cause of another, the truth came uppermost you must forgive me for speaking so forcibly. As the poem says—

"'There

are moments ia life wken the heart is s* full ef emotions That if, by ckanoe, it be shaken, or into its depths, like a pebble, 'Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its seorets, Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.'" "My dearest Philippa, you have not been to blame," he said "you judge yourself so hardly always." "It is the fate of a woman to be silent,' she said again. "Still, I am glad that I have spoken. Norman, will you tell me what your ideal ofj woman is like, that I may know her when I see her?" "Nay," he objected, gently, "let us talk of something else."

But die persisted. "Tell me," she urged, "that I may know in what she differs from me." "I do not know that I can tell you," he replied. "Ihave not thought much ef the matter." "But if any ene asked you to describe your ideal of what a woman shoald be, you could do it," she pursued. "Perhaps so, but at best it would be but an imperfect sketch. She must be young, fair, gentle, pure, tender of heart, noble in soul, with a kind of shy, sweet grace frank, yet not outspoken free from all affectation, yet with nothing unwomanly a mixture of child and woman. If I love an ideal, it is something like that" "And she must be fair, like all the ladies Arleigh, with eyes like the hyacinth, and hair tinged with gold, I suppose, Norman?" "Yes I saw a picture once in Bome that realised my notion of true womanly loveliness. It was a very fair face, with semething of the innocent wonder of a child mixed with the dawning love and passion of noblest womanhood.' •You admire an ingenue. We have both our tastes mine, if I were a man would incline more to the brilliant and handsome."

She would have added more, but at that moment Lady Peters drew aside the silken banging. "My dear children," she said, "I should ill play my part of chaperon if I did not remind you of the hour. We have been celebrating my birthday, but my birthday is past and gone—it is after lidnight."

Lord Arleigh looked up in wonder. "After midnight? Impossible! Yet I declare my watch proves that it is. It is all the fault of the starlight, Lady Peters you must blame that"

Lady Peters went out to them. "I do net wonder at your lingering here," she said. "How calm and sweet the night is I It reminds me of the night in 'Borneo and Juliet' It was on such a night Jessica

Philippa held np her hands in horror. "No more poetry to-night, dear Lady Peters we have had more than enough." "Is that true, Lord Arleigh? Have yeu really had morethanenough?" "I have not foutfSf it so," he replied. "However, I must go. 1 wish time would sometimes stand still ,* all pleasant hours end so soon, Qood-night, Lady Peters."

But that most discreet of chaperons had already re-entered the drawing room

aoM ouocm *v

was n0

pregent

How many years nas ne iovea you now— "Qooa-night," she responded. "I have two or three? And he tells me that he

part of her business to be

when the two friends said good-

ght-

Duke of Hazlewood's wife. I cannot "Qood-night, Piiilippa," he said, in a imagine any man more calculated to win j0W) gentle voice, bending over her. a woman's love, or to please her fancy xhe wind stirred her perfumed hair than he is. He is yeung, handsome,

untji

jt touched his cheek the leaves of

t^e

crimson roses fell in a shower around

soul and he is clever and gifted." her. She raised her beautiful pale face "Yes," she allowed, slowly, "he is all

hifl—the unspeakable love, the yearn-

that, Norman." i»g sorrow on it, moved him greatly. He "Some day or other he will be the lead- .^Qt down »nd touched her brow with ingspirit in the land he will be the head ^is lips.

(irLvn.<p></p>"Qood-night,

Philippi, my sister—my

friend," he said. Even by the faint starlight he saw a lange pass over her face..

more to say

you,hut

shall go unmarried to the grave unless horrified if you remain any longer, yov^consent to be his wife." You will call to-morrow, and then I will "Did he tell you that? He must ih- finish my conversation." deed be attached to me," she observed. "I will come," he replied, gravely. He "Norman, did he ask you to say all this waited a moment to see if she would pass to met" into the drawing reom before him, but "He asked ae to plead his cause," re- she t%aed away and leant her arms on plied Lord Ai'.~:h. the stone balustrade. "Why did he you to do so?" It was nearly half an hour afterward "Because—believing us to be what we when Lad/ Peters Jonce more drew aside really are, Philippa, tried and true friends the hangings. he thought I should have some influ- "Philippa," die said, gently, you will enccjover you." take cola out there." "Clever duke," she said. "Norman,

She

are you well vereed in modern poetry few minutes before answering then Miss He looked up in blank surprise at the L'Estrange said, in a low, calm voice question—it was so totally unexpected. "Do not wait for me, Lady Peters I

Lady Peters will

wondered why the girl paused some

am thinking a&d no not «isb to ke interrupted." But Lady Peters did not seem quite satisfied, '"I do not like to leave you sitting there," she Baid, "the servants wiil think it strange." "Their thoughts do not concern me," she returned, haughtily. "Good-night, Lady Peters do not interrupt me again, if you please." And the good-tempered chaperon went away, thinking to herself that perhape die had done wrong in interrupting the tete-a-tete. "Still I did it for the best," she said to herself "and servants will talk."

Philippa L' Estrange did not move. Lady Peters thought she spoke in a calm, proud voice. She would have been surprised could she have seen the beautiful face all wet with tears for Philippa had laid her head on the cold stone, and was weeping such tears as women weep but once in life. She sat there not striving to subdue the tempest of emotion that shook her, giving full vent to her passion of grief, stretching out her hands and crying to her lost love.

It was all over now. .She had stepped down from the proud height of her glorious womanhood to ask for his love, and he had told her that he had none to give her. She had thrown aside her pride, her delicacy. She had let him read the guarded secret of her heart, only to hear reply—that she was not hit ideal of womanhood. She had asked for bread— he had given her a stone. She had lavished her love at his feet—he had cOoHy stepped aside. She had lowered her pride, humiliated herself, all in vain. "No woman," she said to herself, would ever pardon such a slight or forgive such a wrong."

At first she wept as though her heart would break—tears fell like rain from her eyes, tears that seemed, to burn as they fell then after a Jiffl' pride rose and gained the ascendant, She, the ceurted beautiful woman, to be so humiliated, so slighted! She, for whose smile the noblest in the land asked in vain, to have her almost offered love so coldly refused! Sbe the very queen of love and beauty, to be so spurned!.

When the passion of grief had subsided, when the hot angry blow of wounded pride died away, she raised her face to the night skies. "I swear," she said, "that I will be revenged—that I will take such vengeance on mm as will bring his pride down far lower than he has brought -mine, I will never forgive him. I have loved him with a devotion passing the love of woman. I will hate more than I have lofed him. I would have given my life to make him happy. I now consecrate it to vengeance. I swear to take snch revenge on him as shall bring the name of Ajrleigh low indeed."

Ana that vow she intended to keep. "If I' ever, forget what has passed here'" she said to herself, "may heaven forget el"

To her servants she never seemed colder or hautier than on this night, when she kept them waiting while she registered her vow.

What shape was her vengeance to take? "I shall find out," she thought, "it will come in time."

To bt ctniiMud in the Sunday JSsprM.]

Society Belles on Exhibition. New York Letter. The belles of our proudest society are on public view this winter as never before. Their self-exhibitions are at the Metropolitan opera house. The conditions are such that the dear girls show themselves exactly as they appear on ceremonious occasions in the parlors of their homes. This is not so at the Academy of Music, for there the tiers of boxes are theatrical in construction, and have no semblance to a room. At the Metropolitan, on the contrary, a look at a box is like a peep into a very fashionable residence. Tne four tiers of exclusive accommodations are unbroken in their monotous frontage of square openings, and the occupants do not seem apart of the audience, though in plain sight. I sat gazing through my glasses across the spacious house at a box that was yet empty, and noted its room like shape and style. Then the door opened from the little Q^ivate parlor at the back, and thiee girles emerged. Their aspect did not in the least suggest an arrival in a public place of amusement

There was no covert arranging of toilet, no unwrapping of decorative cloaks, no deft poking of coiffure but the trio of pretty creatures emerged as though walking, unruffled and composed into the family drawing room. They wore" costumes suitable for a ball, reception or grand dinner, with no sleeves and not too much bodice, though what there was of their corsages was not flesh colored satin, as has heen the usually startling fact in several recent instances at the opera. In manner they ignored the scrutiny ef the thous ands who made an instant critical exami nation of them, and affected to be holly concerned with one another, while posing as effectively as "Three Graces of Society" in a prearranged tabelau.

Virginia Eloquence.

From a Speech by Hon. M. Bohanon, of Midlesex County. The gentleman from Craig has said that he came from a county where tbe lofty peaks kiss the morning rays of the sun, and the tinkling of the cow-bells is heard along the silent streams whose crystal waters meander through beautiful valleys. I will ask him, where did I come from? I came from a district where the noble Chesapeake rolls her glsssy waves from the oyster beds of Virginia to meet the solid billows of the stormy Atlantic where the majestic York river runs its murmuring music that echoes along the pebbly banks of old Point Comfort. I represent net a section, but the state of Virginia, from center to circumference from wheie the morning rays of the gol den sun gild the eastern shore to where the evening rays linger behind bar western hills, and the jackal'B mournful cry arouses the slumbering woodsman, and, moving eastward, greets the orb of day and wakes the echoes of the Dismal Swamp.

jr The Cold Tea Delusion. Representative Heard, of Missouri, is a new man in Congress, says the New York Tribune, but he has read the papers and learned that "cold tea" means grog. So the oth.r day he went into the House restaurant for a lunch, and ordered a cup of that cheering beverage. Surely enough the waiter did bring veritable tea. Whereupon, "See here, my man," whispered Heard in deep disgust, "don't you know that when a gentleman oiders 'cold tea' he means whisky?" "Ob, yes, sah," said the waiter yes, sah. I'll make it all right, sah!" And removing the tea he walked up to the counter and demand ed, in tones audible half-way across the Potomac, "Whisky for one."

Great Jurists.

The leading jurists of the senate and the ablest of the supreme judges have both recently praised Judge Thurman, ranking him foremost among living law' yers. Each paid the Ohio veteran a tribute of affection, doubly graceful as coming from political opponents, both being stanch republicans. From the same source I gather that Chief Justice Coleridge is a legal charlatan, with none but social attainments. He was amain attraction of the big "It's English-you know" circus combination, which had Langtiy and Oscar Wilde as side shows. They all went home jugling American i-hekels in their pockets and laughing in their sleeves at American gullibility.

WAS SHE STOLEN

A ZaaeiTllls Lsdj

BsIUtm That She VM

Stolen

When

a Clvlld.

Zrffcesville Special. An Associated Press telegram from Baltimore, Md., dated the 17th, reads like this: "Mrs. L. D. Murray, No. 127 Bidge avenue, Zanesville, O., who says die believes she was stolen from her parents in Baltimore when a child,] has written a letter to Postmaster Veasey, asking him to help her find trace of ha parents. She is now 45 years of age. She writes that her pretended father died out there some time ago, and was about to tell her the mystery of her life, but never did it. Her pretended mother is new living, at the age of 70 years. She asks the postmaster if he knows of the families of Blades or Phipps who used to live there. She also suggests that the pratmaster offer a rewara of $600 for the information."!

A reporter called upon Mrs. Murray to-day at her home on Biage avenue, Seventh Ward, this city, and got from her the following .statement She says that Thomas and Caroline Alvis brought her to this city about forty-five years ago. That Mrs. Alvis was the divorced wife of Dr. Boras, a dentist of Baltimore, by whom Mrs. Alvis had one son, and that Thomas (her father) was a stage driver, from Richmond, Va. She says that in her childhood a Miss Bridgman and Thomas Alvis told her certain things, from which she now concludes that she is not the child of the parties whose name she bears. Thomas Alvis, some sixteen vears ago, said to her that he had something important to tell her, but that he died before revealing it to her. He gave her to understand, however, that her parentage was involved in mystery, and he would sometime tell her who she was, and from that she would be able to prove herself heir to a shm of money. He expressed great fear, however, in telling her, as he might be put in the penitentiary Caroline, he reputed mother, would tell her, he said, after he was dead and gone.

She further says that she was told when a girl by the mother of Dr. McElioy, that a man had visited this city once, looking for a girl baby that had beeiwstolen, and that Alvis took her away from the city and concealed her in an old house on the Wheeling road. She remembers, too, of peeping in the bureau-drawer when a f-hilrf and seeing any amount of fine baby clothing, and that she wss severely reprimanded for being so curious. She also remembers of hearing of her fine clothing when a

Mrs. Murray also claims to know of freqilent correspondence between parties in Baltimore and Mrs. Alvis, the reputed mother, which has always been a mystery to her.

Mrs. Murray and her own daughters have frequently talked about the matter, and it is they who are the most interested in the matter, and have written to Baltimore concerning it

Mis. Alvis also resides in this city, and she positively asserts that Mis. Murray is daughter, and in proof of it has in possessicc »n old Bible containing an entry which JWB that Mary Virginia Alvis (now Murray) was born in Uniontown, Pa, July 9,1838.

Mrs. Murray believes that she was the stolen child alluded to, and that she was adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Alvis, and her real parentage kept from her.

An Hour With SAlvini.

A. H. Gunlogsen, writing for the Chicago NewS, says: "The writer still remembers the buoyant spirits of all the great cities of Italy during the opening year of the '60 decade. All the varied elements that were intellectually and socially to regenerate Italy from the year 1860 seemed to have gravitated toward the great city of Naples. The year above mentioned was admittedly one of considerable yet unavoidable social and administrative' confusion. The reactionary brigandage still infested almost every southern province, while the equally sanguinary Neapolitan "Camorristi" were the real masters of the city and the constant terror of the Neapolitan tradesten.

The city of Naples, notwithstanding, was merry and very enthusiastic over the political change that had been achieved, and it ^delighted in the double quickstep of the plumed and nimble "Bersaglieri" battalions when the marched through the Toledo, playing their brave little Alpine airs, at that time so popular in all Italy:

Giovaiesono, Fensieri non ho, Be passa OaribaldiSoldato mi faro!

The ''camicie rosse"—the redshirts of Garibaldi—had indeed already been disbanded, but they still were daily to be met with at any point of the city. They were not altogether satisfied with the manner in which they had been treated by the new Italian government In the cool summer evenings, in the "Villa Nazionale" on the seashore, every evening the noisy redshirts would insist that the band should play the "Inno di Garibaldi"—not only once, but twice, three times, until everybody had really bad enough of the martial strain—the groups of redshirts at the same time singing in defiance of the Italian carabinieri:

Si scaopron le tombe si levan mortij I martiri nostri eon tutti res tori!"

The writer had very naturally been conjuring up distant reminiscences like these, while waiting a few minutes in the office of the Grand Pacific hotel, as Salvini, the great Italian artist himself, was inextricably mixed up with the writer's aforesaid reminiscences. In 1860 Salvini h&d begun at the Teatro de' Fiorentini of Naples that brilliant series of dramatic creations that so notably affected and regenerated the dramatic tastes of the great Italian cities. The writer during the following years—that is, until 1865— bad innumerable times enjoyed Salvini's masterly dramatic efforts. They were original, individual, creative efibrts, and this accordingly was probably also the most decisive and interesting period

Salvini's long dramatic career. The writer had not seen or personally spoken to Salvini since that period. After the intervening lapse of so many eventful years we suddenly again stood face to face in, a quiet bedroom of the Grand Pacific hotel. The writer's reception was fortunately of an informal character. Salvini had just risen from his writing desk, with a closed envelope that happened to be addressed to the writer. Salvini advances and cordially shakes hands, and the writer at once takes his place on a low ottoman, while Salvini occupies a chair in front

This letter was to be sent at once," be-

looking hard at his

illustrious interlocutor, at the same time asks about his health since his arrival in this country. "It has alwayB been good, and still is all that can reasonably he desired."

The writer was inwardly comparing the young, dashing Salvini of 1860 and following years with the-.somewhat portly yet nervoudy active gentleman sitting before him. His noble, classic features had undergone only a very slight change. His hair even in 1860 was scanty and thin it was more so now and what there still remained was rather white than iron gray. But it would be unfair to judge the pbydque of actors from what they may appear in their noonday "abandon." Salvini has not as yet passed the line of elasticity, beyond which all energy and creative activity is nppoeed to be rare, if not impossible.

It is still highly characteristic of tbe

man that Salvini particularly wishes the Americans to bear in mind that he has served his own country with great distinction. But Salvini himself might now speak the writer's preliminary remarks were only meant to render Salvini's rapid touches more intelligible to the reader: "I was bern in 1829,1 was only a strip ling boy of 14 when I was placed under the dramatic tuition of Gustavo Modena. A great and clever teacher was Modena, who also, as you well know, exercised a considerable influence on the contemporary literary circles of Tuscany and the Roman states. But after all, we all seemed to feel that Modena was not perfectly convinced of his own methods. He was the genins,of a period of transition. I first engaged with the Roman company of. Domenico. The acting, as such, at that time was clever, correct, conventional. "Alfieri's tragedies might occasionally be represented along with much trash in the line of comedy. The people's attention was naturally absorbed with the unprecedented rise of the Italian opera. No one in those days would even have dreamed of the representation of any of Shakspere's plays. "My own early damatic experience wis purely mechanical. The actors— jecially the young actors—enjoyed no freedom of dramatic initiative. They had to walk in the leading-strings of handed-down tradition. Then came the memorable year of 1848. The Italian theaters were closed from Milan and Venice to Naples and Palermo. I, with many other fellow-artists, offered my services to the Roman triumvirate. I enlisted with Garibaldi's redshirts in the division of the well-known Italian patriot, General Avezzana. "I was particularly trusted with the erection .or the barricades before the Porta del Popolo and at other poin's. I took part in the great successful sortie when we brought back several hundred French prisoners. The Roman people treated them kindly. And, horresco referens, I was present at Colonel Masini's mad attack against the country house 'Casa de' Quattro Venti' outside of the Porta di San Pancrazio, bristling with French bayonets, and Masini only accompanied by fifteen men. They were shot to a man, and with the utmost difficulty did we recover the mangled body of poor Colonel Masini." •You accprdingly consider yourself under great dramatic obligations to the Italian revolution?" 'I do indeed. I came out a different man frem that social revolution. I never had read Shakspeare in the original I knew little or nothing about the past great schools of English actors. But I sincerely felt that I only needed nature's schooling for the truthful interpretation of Shakspeare's characters, ana I deemed it of the utmost importance that my countrymen should be introduced to a solid study of Shakspeare. This was the only rejuvenating intellectual achievement within my own reach. I made myself the apo. tie of this unconventional tendency, without following in the track of any foreign pattern. "It was not so easy to realize this. There was still in 1860 a fingering prejudice and opposition to Shakespeare at Naples, but it was finally overcome. As regards the dramatic situation in Italy just now, I am sorry to say that it is far from satisfactory. The theatrical managers are burdened with heavy taxes. The state and the municipalities do not afford any support, and dramatic art itself temains auper."

Jig. Salvini added, in conclusion, that his decided opinion was that the Americans were possibly endowed with a higher natural dramatic talent than the English but he regretted that the Americans did not .always seem to love study, or to hold it in very high honor.

THE LIVELY COWBOY.

is Not as Bad or as Good as He Is Painted. 'My friends seem to think," said Theodore Roosevelt, "that I can talk on only two subjects—the bear and the cowboy— and the one I am to handle this evening is rather the more formidable of the two* After all, the cowboys are not the ruffians and desperadoes that the nickel library paints them. Of course, in the frontier towns, where the only recognized amusements are vices, there is more or le?a of riot and disorder. But take the cowboy on his native heatb, on the round-up, and you will find in him the virtues of courage, endurance, goodfellowship, and j. He is not symapthetic. The cowboy divides all humanity into two classes, the sfieep and the goats, those who can ride bucking horses and those who can't and I must say hefdoesn't care much for the goats. "I suppose I should be ashamed to say that I take the western view of the Indian. I don't go so tar as to think that the only good Indians are the dead Indians, but I believe nine out of every ten are, and I shouldn't like to inquire too closely into the case of tbe tenth. The most vicious cowboy has more moral principle than the average Indian. Turn 300 low families of New York And New Jersey, support them for fift years in vicious idleness, and you will have some idea of what the Indians are. Reckless, revengeful, -fiendishly cruel, they rob and murder, not the cowboys, who can take care of themselves, but the defenseless, lone settlers on the plains. As for the soldiers, an Indian chief once askcii Sheridan lor a cannon. 'What! Do you want to kill my soldiers with it?' asked the general. 'No,' replied the chief 'want to kill cowboy kill soldier with a club.' Ranch life is epherrie ral. Fences are spreading all over tbe western country, and by the end of the century most of it will be under cultiva tion. I, for one, shall be sorry to see it go for when the cowboy disappears, one of the best and healthiest phases of western life will disappear with him 3

Foraging During the Waf. In the winter of 1864 the Colquitt brigade was encamped near Wilmington, N. C. Rations being scarce, boys would occasionally go out foraging, and bring into camp and sell anything they could buy to those who remained in camp. Upon a certain night, complaint having been made to. the general commanding, a guard was placed on the pub lie roads leading to the camps, and ail tfho-were found with anything were placed in the "bull pen." The writer, with his command, was placed on duty in camp to guard those "pulled in," and by morning IMi quitd a squad in the pen. At sunrise they were marched to the general's headquarters, each man carrying his load of potatoes. Arriving there the command was halted and the general came oat on tbe porch, and surveying the men tiiAm in v' ittering terms, addressed them in after which emptied out & man to fill his hjV in fine style, wm. 1 had carried them «v

the potatoes then for each rhich was done •Or fellows who miles looked

on with a wistful, hbpeiess gaze, that none but they could express. They were then allowed to go tb camp, and all returned to enjuy the feast of roast and baked potatoes, while the poor fellows could only look on

BtilL

He Invested in Dakota.

Mahlon Chance, the consul at Nassau under Presidents Grant and Hayes, who has heen engaged for over a year with the Equitable Life Assurance society, has gone to Dakota to administer the estate of his brother, Captain Josiah Ch ce, of the Seventeenth United States infantry,

who died suddenly last month while on a visit to Fremont, Ohio. I am told thaV the captain, who was a bachelor, left fortune ot nearly $100,000. He was about thirty-five years of age when he invested in a lottery ticket He drew a $30,000 prize. I have heard Mahlon Chance tell with particularity the exact amount that the captain received from the prize. It was a hundred dollars orjjo less than the amount drawn, the differ* ence being the express charges for sending him the money. The captain, like many other fumy officers stationed in the west thought he saw in the cheap land of the territories a good investment He bought large tracts in Dakota, some of which have since become quite valuable.

BEER1 DISEASE.

How Pasteur Succeeded in'* Discovering a Remedy for the alalady. Edinburg Review. 1

During the terrible days of the supremacy of the Commune in Paris, at the end of the Franco-German war, Pasteur was occupied in the laboratory of M. Duclaux, at Clermont-Ferrand, in studying the diseases of beer with a view to attempt to raise French beer to the higher standard of the German brewers. Beer is naturally more prone to disease than wine, on account of the comparatively large quantity of gummy and saccharine matters which it contains in a state favorable to rapid decay. When the fermentation of the wort of beer sets in at the high temperature to which it is raised 1, in mashing the liquid requires to be rapidly cooled. So long as it remains between the temperatures of 77° and 95° of Fahrenheit's scale it is peculiarly liable to be attacked by the injurious ferments roper to acetic, lactic, and-butyric acids. the must of beer were spontaneously fermented, like the must of grape juice, an acid of putric liquid would invariably be produced in the place of beer. In the old process of what is technically known as high fermentation, which is also the one that is still employed with the bitter beers and pale ales of England, the fermenting liquid was kept in barrels, at a temperature ranging from 64° to 68° Fahrenheit In the process of "low fermentation," which is more generally employed by the brewers of Germany and France, a slow fermentation is established at a lower temperature, during which the yeast settles down to the bottom of the tabs and casks. The wort is then transferred to open tubs, and the fermentation is carried on at a temperature as low as 43° Fahrenheit, which is maintained by means of floating cylinders filled With ice for from ten to twefltydays. This low fermentation beer is principally prepared in the winter season, and is preserved in ice caves until the sump*":. The cost of its production is on this account comparatively high. Twenty-two gallons ef beer require something like two hundred weight of ice for their maturation. The wort of beer, after it has been raised-to the bottling point may be kept indefinitely if it be mixed only with pure yeast, and if it be preserved from contamination with extraneous germs that are 4'ffnsed through the air. The "beers fermented and kept at low temperatures to some extent fulfill this condition.. By the employment of ice the brewer- is able to meet the demands of a long' period of consumption without any great risk of contamination by accidental impurities. But Pasteur has introduced an additional safeguard, even more sure than the low temperature fermentation. He has taught the brewers to bottle the beer when the fermentation is approximately complete, and then to expose the bottles for a short time to a temperature ranging between 122° and 13irToi:?e3hfi!t_ By this management all extraneous germs of undesirable ferments are killed, and the beer consequently remains sound for long periods of time. This is essentially the practice which is uow pursued upon a very large scale, and which is familiarly known_ as tWf Pasteurization of beer. In«addition to the adoption of this process, the principle chiefly insisted, upon by Pasteur is that the wort shall be protected while cooling from all organisms accidentally floating in the air, and that the leaven used for the wort shall be absolutely pure and itself free from contaminating organisms. At tbe recent exhibition of. Amsterdam, M. Vellen, of Marseilles, showed bottles half full of a perfectly clear beer, which bad -bee^tj^pped at the^ opening of the exhiRti^'afrfflePLij. es posed state to prove keeping power, of the liquid. Thif' beer whiiph had been subjected if is tour's method of preservation.

The Late Miss Bayard.

Philadelphia Press. W»s she pretty When you are older and know as much as an old woman like me you will understand that the question is of tbe least possible consequence. Nobody who ever saw her forgot her,-and I never saw any one she cared to interest escape her bizar're and brilliant charm.She shocked that "large pari of Washinging ton which exhausts its energiesand its. intellect in trying to recollect which coruer of a eard to turn down. She would. take any 'timber' in the saddle, and she 'st cleared familiar convenances with asocial seat so secure and a hand so Bteady that there never was a 'spill,' though good friends like myself held their breath some- V,i limes. But under all the-brilliant, dazzling side turned to the World there lay an earnest, sincere nature which put her wonderfully keen head to solid work by her father's side. Poor Katie Bayard 1 And she had to the very brim all that !ife can give to a young womtfndi very front of the whirl of public ana cial life."

The "German Census.

The German census, just taken, shows that the empire contains forty-five towns of over 50,000 inhabitants, twenty-one of which have more than 100,000. Dosseldorf, Berlin, Magdeburg. Chemnitz, Nurnburg, Hamburg and Leipsic show ... an increase during the five years of ovii^ 14 per cent. Crefeld over 21 per cent, Kiel, Dortmund, Manbeim and Carlsruhe over 15 per cent. In Uantzie the population has increased only 5 per cent, while in Memel there has been a decrease of nearly 4} per cent.

1 Wants a Limit Put to Culture,, Atlanta Constitution. .-j-.. J: It is a question how far public opinion is with the rural statesman who said, when discussing higher education for tbe colored race: "I tell yon it's a gone day for this country when yaller gals gits to wearin' specs."

48 We Know All About It Now. Boston Transcript. Begonia is a new color for the coming season. It resembles the color of pale amithyst more than anything else. It is a shade that comes sometimes in the heart of afire of logs cut from ship's timber. .-*:

Drama on the Road.

Philadelphia Telegraph. Many companies'on the road are having their salaries cut down from 10 to 25 percent Another portion, and quite aa numerous, too, would be very glad if they were receiving any salaries to be cut

yr. Hoods.

It is again fashionable to be and look comfortable. Charming hood" worn for deighing and in tb® when going to and returning to^era and balls,