Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 10 October 1886 — Page 2

GRANT IN PEACE. BT GENERAL ADAM BADEAC. NO. XIX. Cabinet-Making. Written for the Indianapolis Journal—Copy righted. On the 4th of M-arch Grant refused the company of the outgoing President on his way to the Capitol, and Johnson remained at the White House signing his last papers, until noon. Then he made room for the man whom he doubtless detested more than any other, who had done more than any other to foil his plans and thwart his wishes, and who now was to supplant him and demolish whatever of a policy Johnson had been able to establish by obsti nancy or circumstance or craft. At the Capitol another of Grant's rivals, Chief-justice Chase, administered the oath of that office which he had himself so earnestly hoped and striven to attain. And thus the highest honor that any American can achieve was added to tho military glories already heaped on Grant. He was very reserved, and oven restrained, colder in manner than ever before, and evidently felt the gravity of his position, the full dignity of bis office. I had never jeen him so impressed but once before. In the first day's battle in the Wilderness he was almost stern at times, and wore his gloves and sword. Both were unusual circumstances with him, and they seemed to me to indicate his sense of the novel and increased responsibilities, for that was his first battle as generai-in-chief of the armies. On the first day of his presidency there were no trappings of office to assume, but he bore him•eif with a distant and almost frigid demeanor that marked how much he felt he was removed from those who had hitherto been in some sort his associates. That day there was no geniality, no familiar jest, hardly a smile; but the man who became the chief of a Nation of fifty millions, and stepped into the ranks of earth’s mightiest potentates, might well be grave. His personal staff attended him to the Capitol and afterward to tho White House, where their military relations with him ceased, He desired them to meet him next morning in the Cabinet chamber, and then returned to bis private residence, which his family did not vacate for several weeks. He directed me, however, to remain at the White House and receive any communications for him during the day. In this way it happened that his first correspondence as President was with me. I give it in fall: ExKxcTiv;: Mansion, March 4, 1809. Dear General—Mr. George H. Stuart is oue of the committee, the others being the Chief-justice and Senator Frelinghuysen, who desire to pre sent you. ir. the name of some religious society, with a Bible. They will wait on you whenever you say. except that the Chief justice must be at the Supreme Court and Mr. Stuart leaves hero to-morrow night. If you will send word to me what time will suit you, I wiil let Mr. Stuart know. Mr. Stuart proposes to-morrow morning, before 10 o'clock, or, if the court doe3 not meet till 11, before that time. With great respect, Your obedient servant, Adam Badeau. To the f'rt- nide nt ot the United States. My note was returned to me, and on the back of it Grant had penciled these words, the first he wrote as President: “To morrow before 10 a. m., at my house, or between 10 a. m. and 3 i\ m., at the Executive Mansion. u. S. G.” The meeting took place in the Cabinet room, and Chase presented the Bible, expressing a hope that its contents might enable Grant to fill bis high office worthily. The Chief justice must have required a full share of Christian sentiment to enable him to perform his task. Immediately afterward Grant received his stall' for tho l<i3t time and announced the disposition to be made of them. Three were nominally placed on the staff of Shorman, who succeeded Grant as General in chief, but they were in reality to be on duty at the executive mansion. Horace Porter was to act as private secretary, with Babcock to assist him; Comstock bad some nominr.! duties from which he soon requested to be relieved, and ordered to duty as engineer: Dent remained as aide-de-camp with ceremonial functions, and Parker was shortly afterward appointed Commissioner of Indian Affairs. I was assigned a room at the executive

mansion, where I was to finish my military history, and to hare some charge of Grant’s unofficial letters fora while; but when I saw the President alone he informed me that he meant to give me the mission to Belgium. Ho did not wish, however, to appoint mo at once, lest it should provoke a charge of favoritism. A few weeks before the 4th of March, as nothing was said by Grant to either Rawlins or Washburne of their nature, botn became ill. Rawlins went off to Connecticut, and from there it was reported to Grant that he was dying. Grant then sent for him and told him he was to be Secretary of War. whereupon Rawlins at once got very much better. But Washburne was ill of the same disease, and to him Grant offered the position of Secretary of the luterior. Rawiins. of course, was satisfied with his promised dignity, but Washburne would have preferred to bo Secretary of the Treasury. This position, however, Grant designed for A. T. Stewart, the well-known merchant of New York. He thought that a man who had managed his own affairs so well must be successful with the finances of the Nation. Stewart was. indeed, the first of those designed tor Cabinet positions whom Grant informed of his intention. It was necessary that the great business man should be apprised in advance, that he might make his arrangements in time. When Washburne was positive that he could not obtain the portfolio of the Treasury, he asked for tho State Department, but Grant was unwilling to make the appointment. Wash burne then declared that ho would prefer to bo minister to France, and to this Grant consented. Bat Washburne again requested as a personal favor that be might hold the position of Secre tary of State for a few days. The consideration this would give him afterward both at home and in his new position was something he thought Grant should not refuse. Washburne, indeed, had been a devoted friend; hAd made many opportunities for Grant in the days when Grant needed them; had first suggested and afterwards urged in Congress every one of Grant’s promotion that required legislative action, from brigadier general of volunteers to general of the armies, and if Grant was under obligations to any human being it was to Washburne. He knew, besides, that Washburne had expected more than he was receiving, that he was a disappointed man, as he well might be; and Grant consented to the temporary appointment of Secretary of State, with the understanding that no important places were to be filled while Washburne held the position; that he was to have tho name but not the authority. James F. Wilson, of lowa, was offered the permanent position, but declined it on the ground that he had no private fortune and that the salary was insufficient for the inevitable expense that muat be incurred. Wilson also probably felt that hi3 abilities were better fitted for other posts. Rswlins had suggested Wilson’s uams, for alter Rawlins knew that he was himself to be a Cabinet minister he felt free to offer advice on many points, and in fact regained an

THE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL, SUNDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1886—TWELVE PAGES.

influence, if not an ascendancy, which at one time seemed to have waned. Rawlins, however, was not to be Secretary of War immediately. Sohofleld was to hold over for awhile. lie had proved himself a friend in a position where he might have given Grant trouble, and this recognition was his reward. He sat as Grant’s first Secretary of War. No other appointments to the Cabinet were made known in advanoe. even to those for whom they were intended. The other ministers first read their names in the newspapers on the sth of March. A few days before the inauguration Adolph E. Borie, of Philadelphia, was in Washington, and on the 3d of March he called on the President-elect. Grant had given orders that no visitor whatever should be received; for he had only a few hours left in which he intended to close his business as gen-eral-in-chief. But when Borie was refused admittance he sent his card to me, and begged me to procure him two or three moments’ audience. He had two friends with him from Philadelphia whom he was extremely anxiou3 to present to Grant, and he promised not to remain nor to mention politics. Accordingly I suggested that as Borie had been so pood a friend he might be accorded a moment’s interview. Grant acquiesced, and Borie and his friends came in. There had been a vast deal of talk in the newspapers about a Cabinet minister from Pennsylvania, and Grant at once inquired: “Well, Mr. Borie, have you come to learn who is to be the man from Pennsylvania?’’ Borie disclaimed any curiosity, and two days afterward, returning to Philadelphia, he read on the train that his own name had been sent to the Senate as Secretary of the Navy. He was “the man from Pennsylvania,” and that was the first he knew about it. Grant, indeed, at this time, looked upon Cabinet ministers as upon staff officers, whose personal relations with himself were so close that they should be chosen for personal reasons —a view that his experience in civil affairs somewhat modified. If he had served a third term in the presidency, his selections for the Cabinet would hardly have been made because he liked the men as companions or regarded them as personal friends. At this time, also, "liawlins was constantly urging that Grant should have no men about him who could possibly become his rivals. He was always pointiup to the trouble that Chase, and Seward aud other aspirants had made in Lincoln’s Cabinet, and declared that a man who would not subordinate his own ambition to that of his chief should not be allowed to enter the Cabinet. Grant never replied to remarks like these, but he would have been no more than human if he remembered them. He certainly now took no man into his Cabinet whose presidential aspirations .seemed likely to come into conflict with his c-wn. And Grant from the first, I am sure, desired a re-election. He did not say so; but no man can hold the presidential office and not be anxious for this indorsement from the people. The ambition is both proper and inevitable; and Grant entertained it, like every President who either followed or preceded him. 1 haye, however, no idea that he was planning for re-election thus early; and he certainly never admitted, either at the time or afterward, that such motives affected him in the selection of Cabinet ministers. Nevertheless, I thought then, and I think still, that he was determined to have no rivals near the throne. On the sth of March the Cabinet appointments were sent to the Senate. Washburue was to be Secretary of State; Stewart, Secretary of the Treasury; Borie, Secretary of the Navy; C'resswell, Postmaster-general; Hoar, Attorneygeneral, and Cox, Secretary of the Interior. Schofield remained Secretary of War, It was soon discovered that Stewart was ineligible to the post for which he had been named. The law declared that no person engaged in trade should be appointed Secretary of the Treasury. Grant had been ignorant of this provision, and the Senate wa3 equally so, for the nomination was confirmed unanimously. As soon, however, as the disability was ascertained, Grant requested that Stewart should be exempted by Congress from tho operation of the law; but this the Senate was unwilling to concede, and Stewart’s name was accordingly withdrawn. Both Grant and Stewart were greatly mortified at the result. Stewart offered to place his business in the hands of trustees during his entire term of office and to devote tho procerdsto some charity or public interest, but this was insufficient to remove the scruples of the Senate, and Grant could not delay the formation of his Cabinet. Stewart, however, felt sore because Grant gave him up so soon, and their friendship was never again so intimate as it once had been. The whole occurrence provoked much harsh criticism, and it was said that if Grant had consulted men of civil experience, and not trusted entirely to his own judgment and knowledge, the blunder would never have been made. George 11. Boutwell was now hurriedly selected for the Treasury, but as he and Hoar were both from Massachuseets, another change became almost inevitable. Hoar, indeed, remained in his place a year, aad was nominated for the position of Chief-justice on his retirement, but Senate refused to coufirm him. He naturally disliked to be displaced to make room in another department, and his relations with the President were always somewhat strained. He knew from the first that his position was insecure, and was never the ardent friend of tho President mat as Gapinet minister he might otherwise have been. At least so Grant always thought. And now. as vvilson declined the position of Secretary of State, and Washburue was not to be allowed to remain, it became necessary to find a substitute. In this emergency Grant offered the place to Hamilton Fish, of New York, and sent Colonel Babcock, one of bis now secretaries, to that city with the proposition. The offer was entirely unexpected by Fish, and at first he was not inclined to accept it. He would, indeed, have preferred the post of minister to England, and it required some urging before he consented to enter the Cabinet. Thus the two most important places in the new government were filled by men who had not been originally selected by Grant; men. however, who proved themselves not only the efficient public servants they had been before, but as faithful friends to their new chief as any of his earlier or later associates. Meanwhile Borie had read the notification of his appointment as Secretary of the Navy, and proceeded to Washington to thank the President and decline the honor. I was intimate with him. and, knowing his reluctance to accept the post, I met him at the station to do what I could to change his feeling. I represented the unfortunate condition of affairs, the frequent changes and disappointments, the blunder about Stewart, the uncertainty about Fish, and Cox, and Hoar, who had all been taken by surprise, and the discredit it would bring on the new administration if still another Cabinet minister delayed or declined. Borie was personally very much attached to Grant, and I urged that his acquiescence under the circumstances wouid be an act of positive friendship. He finally consented to remain in the Cabinet for a few months, until the President could find a successor without increasing the public dissatisfaction at these frequent changes. Os course it was his regard for Grant that decided Borie, but he often laughingly said to me that but for my urging he would not have entered the Cabinet. Cox and Hoar also finally accepted tho honor tendered, but not until the former General-in-chief discovered that he could not order eminent civilians into office as he had been used to send soldiers to anew comiqand. He was somewhat surprised that anyone should hesitate to accept the position he offered, but as a matter of fact, nearly every member of his Cabinet but Rawlins had to be urged to take his place. Even if their ambition was gratified, the suddenness of the summons found them unprepared; they had their private affairs to arrange, and every man Assuming a high political place desires some time to fit himself properly for his new career. Thus Washburne was supplanted in a week by Fish. Stewart’s name was withdrawn aud Boutwell's substituted, Schofield was followed before the end of tho month by Rawlins, and in less that a year Akerman succeeded Hoar. All these changes came from Grant’s inexperience, and from the secrecy with which he had veiled his intentions, not only from the individuals most affected, bnt from others who might have predicted, or perhaps prevented what occurred. C Finally, however, the Cabinet was constructed and the new President began his administration of the government. He was the same man who had been surrounded at Belmont, and nearly crushed at Shiloh, who had plodded through the marshes of Vicksburg and foucht the weary forty days in the Wilderness. He had indeed made a false start, but it was not the first time, and one rebuff never daunted or discouraged Grant. He remembered that he h&d overcome Johnson in polities as well as Lee io war, and he tele no unwillingness or inability to cope with his new difficulties. Adam Badeau.

I Printed by Special Arrangement—Copyrighted 1336.1 THE FORTUNESOFIiPPA FAIRFAX By Mrs. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, Author of 11 A Fair Barbarian," “That Lass o’ Loicrie's," “Through One Administration," Etc., Etc, CHAPTER IV. During her absence someone had been up stairs, and laid a letter upon the table; and this letter was the first thing that she saw when she entered tho room. She walked over to it idly and looked at the envelope. It was directed to her, but in a hand she was not familiar with. She tore it open, full of curiosity, and turned to the signature: “Believe me, my dear Philippa,’’ she read; “Yours most sincerely, Dorothy Oswald." Something—almost like a chill, fell upon her. Why had Mrs. Dorothy Oswald written to her—of all people in tho world? She did not stop to take off her hat. She carried the letter to the fire, and stood there to read it; and when she had finished reading it she let the band that held it fall at her side. “I wish I hada’t come,” she said. “I wish she had never heard of me.” For Mrs. Dorothy Oswald had written, asking her to come to Brackencleugh, and give her an opportunity of learning to know her young kinswoman. “I am fond of young people,” she wrote, “and blame myself for knowing so little of you. My young kinsman, Mr. Wilfred Carnegie, is with me now, and makes the old place so much brighter by his presence in it, that I find myself anxious for more youth still." It was late when Mr. Fairfax came in that night, but Phil had not gone to bod. She was waiting for him, and Mrs. Dorothy Oswald's letter lay on the table. If he hau looked his best in the morning. Fairfax looked his worst now. He was haggard and worn, his eyes were hollow, his skin quite deathly in its waxen pallor. “I am very tired, Phil,” he said, throwing himself into a chair. “Fearfully tired." Then he saw the letter. “Is it a dun?” he said. “Who is it?" Phil picked it up and opened it for him. “It is not a dun, governor," she said. “It is an invitation from Brackencleugh—from Mr3. Dorothy Oswald." He started and held out his hand for it quite eagerly. “From Mrs. Dorothy Oswald/’ he repeated, after her. Phil watched him rather curiously, as he read the letter, and was plainly excited, and his face flushed. When he had finished he looked up, with a smile. “You are very lucky,” he said. “Lucky!” Phil answered, somewhat constrainedly. “Why?” “For a variety of reasons," he replied. “You are young, you are handsome, you are invited to Brackencleugh, yon are to share its hospitalities with Mr. Wilfred Carnegie." Phil colored hotly. She had not expected he would 6av quite as much aa t‘ni3. “I do not think I shall go,” she faltered. “I don’t want to go. I would rather stay here." He shrugged his shoulders, impatiently. “That is foolish,”he said. “And you are not often foolish.” “You think I ought to go?” The fit of coughing, which attacked him just at that moment, prevontod his answering her at once, but when he could speak his reply was a very decided one. “You must go," he said. “The last straw has been whirled towards you again on tho current, and it must not pass you this But Phil scarcely heard him. She was looking at the white handkerchief he had held to his lips tho moment before. “Governor!” she cried, with sharp dread in her voice: “What is that stain upon your handkerchief?" He was leaning back in his chair, breathless, and shaken with his unavoidable exertion; but he managed to give her one of the smiles he was always so roady with. “It is blood, ray dear,” he said. “Only a little—but blood, nevertheless. And it i3 not the first time, either.” Tho girl burst into tears and flung herself down upon her knees beside him. “And you want me to go away and leave you,” she exclaimed. “Oh, governor, darling, it isn’t fair?” His answer struck her to the heart. “You must go for my sake as well a3 your own. Phil. lam beginning to find out that ray day is over." She looked up at him in sudden horror. “Over!" she said. “Over! You mean to say—’’ “I mean to say that I must give up," he returned. “I mean that I—that I think—that I know I am a dying man,” and he turned paler as he said it. “My strength has failed me,” he went on, after a pause. “I have been obliged to give up play of late because my hand is unsteady and my nerves are unstrung. I am becoming weak and useless. I can do nothing. \es! I have given up. Duval’s wedding has been my last festivity, Phil, mv dear." He laid his hand upon her hair. She had hidden her face upon his arm, which rested upon his knee, and she was weeping passionately. “If I was a rich man,” he continued, “as rich as Mr. Wilfred Carnegie, 1 might afford to be an invalid. I might linger on to the end in a comfortable luxurious way; but. as it is— Dont cry, Phil, my dear." But she did cry—piteously—tempestuously—despairingly. She cried until she was worn out, and then she lifted up her pretty, impassioned, tear-stained face. “If you will go to bed, I will write to Mrs. Dorothy Oswald. As long as lam at Brackencleugh I shall need no mouey, and—and J. am going to Brackencleugh.”

CHAPTER V. Mrs. Dorothy Oswald looked up at her young kinswoman, with the least possible shade of anxiety in the scrutiny. “You are not a Roscoe, Philippa,” she said. “Are you like your father?” Phii, still in her traveling wraps, was seated in a large carven chair, opposite to her relative, aud she saw the anxious expression, aod rather resented it. “No,” she answered. “Governor—my father, is the handsomest man I ever saw—-and I have seen a great many men.” “Have you?” said Mrs. Dorothy, gravely. “Yos. I remember hearing it said that you must have seen a great deal of life for one so young. Phil laughed bitterly. She wondered who had 6aid so. and if Mr. Wilfred Carnegie had heard it, and if he did not consider it rather au unenviable sort of reputation for a girl of nineteen to have. Mrs. Dorothy’s next glance had sympathetic tenderness in it —almost pity. “If you have rested sufficiently I will take you to your room myself,” she said. “You must bo very tired.” Phii rose and followed her. She was tired — almost too tired to observe her surrounding. Brackencleugh impressed her with a sense of antiquity and vastness. It was quite a journey from one end of a room to the other. The ceilings seemed at an enormous height from the floor, and there was nothing modern anywhere. There were cabinets, and chairs, and mantelpieces of black oak, grotesque in carving; there were dingy pictures and massive doors, tail Indian jars and innumerable old weapons and pieces of armor. Mrs. Dorothy ied the way up the staircase in silence. Then she passed down a long corridor and opened a door at the end of it. “This is your room," sho said. “I chose it because you can look down from your window upon the Loch. Wilfred is ao fond of the Loch, and I am so fond of it myself that I could not help fancying that you wouid like it too.” When she was alone Phil went to the window. The Loch was so near that she was sure she could have thrown a pebble into it from where she stood. Hills covered with heather rose up beyond it, and there seemed to be bracken and rowan trees svsrywhere. A misty raia was fall*

ing, and a light gray vapor trailed itself over land and water; but even in this discouraging mood outer Brackencleugh pleased her. She had never been in Scotland before, and had spent the greater part of her life in cities. She was accustomed to smoke, and noise, and dinginess of all complexions, and the solitariness and the silence were anew experience for her. She could imagine, as she leaned from the broad sill and felt the fresh, cool air on her face, that there was no London, or Paris, or Vienna in the world. It was not easy to realize any phase of existence so utterly beyond the influence of solitary stillness. Everything was so quiet that a certain faint, weird 60und which floated to her from somewhere indefinite, a short time afterwards, quite startled her. She wa9 not prepared for aoan and of any kind, and felt impatient at being disturbed. She listened for an instant, and then, when she heard it repeated, recognized its nature, and shrugged her shoulders. “It is someone touching a violin," she said. ‘‘■And I should think it could be nobody but Mr. Wilfred Carnegie. Is he a violin playing man, I wonder?" Thus she was brought back to Mr. Wilfred Carnegie and earthly things. She closed the window and reminded herself she had to dres3 for dinner. “Its a bit queer, by the way," she said to her self as she turned to the toilet table; “its a bit queer that I have never formed even an atom of an idea of him. But if he's a violin-playing man, I shall be sure to not to like him at all —at least, if he is the kind of a man who is usually an amateur. I always detested amateurs of any kind—particularly musical ones. They always bore you so. They are constantly hopping on one leg—and they never do anything but hop; and they are so absurdly satisfied that their hopping is better than ordinary people’s respectable, sober walking. It was rather a gloomy and severe view of the matter, but her mood was a misanthropic one. She hardly vouchsafed herself a glance as she made her toilet. The result was a mere matter of chance, and was only happy because it was impossible to destroy the effect of youth, and bloom, and unusual beauty. But with all her scorn for amateurs, it was not long before she found herself stopping, with a ribbon in her hand, to listen again. The sweet, weird tone stole up to her again, less faintly and more continuously. There was no more light touching of the strings. The performer had begun to play in earnest, and, as she heard, it gradually broke on Phil’s mind that, whoever he might be. he was very much in earnest indeed, and knew what he wa3 doing. He was playing softly, almost dreamily, and he was at some distance, but he was playing as no ordinary amateur plays—as if every note was a thought, and he was moved by a kind of rapt tenderness. It made Philippa open her eyes in wonder. “Oh!" she said, “that is altogether a different matter. Nobody suspected him of that” She began to be curious at once, and even hastened to finish dressing. “I should like to see his faco when he is playing like that,” she thought. “One would be sure to understand him a little." It is not improbable that she had some vague hope of seeing it, when she went down stairs, though certainly she had no definite idea of how such an end was to be accomplished. Chance favored her. however. Reaching the foot of the stairs, she found that the sound came from the room she had, not long before, left to go to her own, and a few steps took her to its threshold. She stook at the open door and looked in. What she saw was a haudsome, charming young fellow, with an air of such freshness, and youth, and grace, as was sheerly wonderful. In fact, it was almost impossible to find fault with him, he had so much of physical beauty and rare attractiveness. His figure was light and lithe, his dark eves were almost womanish in their softnesp, the brightness of his faco made Phil feel .as if her own nineteen years had suddenly become ninety. It was not many moments before he saw her, and then he locked brighter than ever. He laid down his violin and came towards her, putting up his hand to push aside the few stray locks, which had fallen forward, carelessly, upon his forehead—a gesture Phil afterwards observed as leing a habit with him —and, as he advanced, the girl looked at him feeling oddly uneasy, and beginning to think that she had made a mistake. “It is not—” she hesitated. “It is not Wilfred Carnegie?" He laughed a gay, happy-sounding laugh. “Yes, it is," he said, “it is Wilfred Carnegie, And why not, Cousin Philippa?"

CHAPTER VI. That was the beginning, and it was such a fan ciful. artless sort of beginning, that it was impossible that anythine ceremonious should follow. Phil laughed a little herseit as she crossed the threshold ana went to seat herself on the chair he placed for her. Her companion did not sit down. He remained standing near the mantel and looked down at her with an admiration so evident that, in another man, it would have been trying. In him, however it was altogether a different matter. “Do you know,” he said, “that I was half afraid you would not come?" “If it had not been for governor I should not have come," she answered. “Governor?’ he repeated, questioningly. “I mean ray father,” she explained, “I forgot you would not understand. And you don’t understand even now,” she added, quickly. “You think it sounds like slang, but it is not slang at all. I began to call him ‘governor,’ when I was a little child —too young to know that it was odd —and somehow I have learned to like the name, because 1 have used it so long that it seems like an old friend." “You are very fond of your father,” he remarked. She answered him with quite a proud little air. She was glad he had asked her. It is not unlikely that she had her own vague doubts of certain things, she was always so sensitively eager to defend her father against any breath of doubt in others. “I am more than fond of him,” she said. “Fond is not the kind of word to use. Nobody could help being ‘fond’of him—even people who saw him very seldom.” “Cousin Dorothy—” Wilfred was beginning, when Phil turned upon him quite sharply. “What could she say to you about him?” she said. “She does not know him at all.” “She knows something of him,” he returned. “And she has heard that he is a wonderfully handsome man, and—weU, very different from ordinary men.” Phil’s face softened. She was rather suspicious of Mrs. Dorothy Oswald, even more suspicious than she had been of Wilfred Carnegie. She had the natural feminine feeling that she had rather do battle with a man than with a woman. “I am glad she told you that.” she said. “I was—at least—we have been very unfortunate,” straightening her pretty figure, “and there are people who, perhaps, misunderstand him.” Boyish and unworldly as he was, Wilfred Carnegie did not misunderstand. He had heard more of Philip Fairfax than Mrs. Oswald I‘~<l told him; and the look in the girl's bright, disturbed eyes moved him. He drew a great many rapid conclusions. If she had ever had a suspicion of the man’s selfish weakness, she had never acknowledged its existence to herself. She had borne deprivation and humiliation, and had blamed herself for being stung by them. Certainly she had never blamed Philip Fairfax. Her affection had been as blind and faithful as her mother’s. So, being the best of chivalrous young fellows, his heart was more deeply warmed and touched by his recognition of this fact than by anything else. By the time Mre. Oswald appeared they had made rapid progress towards actual friendliness, and Phil was beginning to look pleased. Unconsciously she had been led into making a good many revelations concerning her past, and to these revelations Wilfred Carnegie had listened with the deepest of interest. He had discovered, too. that this pretty girl who had seen so much of a queer and questionable side of the world had not been spoiled by her experience. Hers was not the nature to be easily contaminated. She was impetuous and transparent—too impetuous to be anything but transparent In fact, she only puzzled him once, and this was when she spoke, in the course of conversation, of Mr. Ernest Duvai. “Ernest was with us (hen,” she remarked, and suddenly stopped, as if intending to check herself. “Ernest?" her listener repeated, and immediately wished that he had not spoken. Phil’s manner changed at once. Her reply sounded almost hard in its coldness. “He was a friend of my father,” she said. “We have known him a long time.” She recovered her complaisance shortly, however, and was very bright aDd amusing. She charmed even Mrs. Dorothy Oswald, who, being a discreet woman, had naturally trembled for the

daughter of the family bugbear, Philip Fairfax. When chance gave Mrs. Dorothy the opportunity, she laid her hand upou Wilfred Carnegie’s shoulder, smiling placidly. “She is a nice, natural little thing,” she said. “Hash and impulsive on occasion, one can easily fancy, but lovable and so pretty —so pretty!" “Pretty!” echoed Wilfred, looking at Phil, who was at the other end of the room. “She is youth, and biootn, and beauty, and—and the rest of it embodied. I can assure you. Cousin Dorothy, I can feel already that I am falling in love—yes, in love with her,” laughing in his brightest wav. The day closed pleasantly enough for Phil. It would not be hard to stay-here at least, and Wilfred Carnegie had utterly disarmed her. He had even made her forget things the remembrance of which would have rendered her miserable. At nineteen it is not difficult to lose sight of one’s troubles for awhile. Phil forgot almost everything this evening but that Braekencleugh was more than she had expected to find it. aud that these people seemed actually fond of her. “If I had been born here how happy 1 should have been,” she said to herself, as she went, to her room. “If I had only been born here and it was ours—governor’s and rniW.” CHAPTER VII, Afterward it seemed to her that she lived for weeks in a comfortable Kind of dream. Stately as the house was and little as she was used to stateliness, it was not long before she felt more at home than she had ever done iu her life before. “I reallycannot remember," said Wilfred Carnegie, looking at her reflectively, one day, “what we did when you were not with us. It must have been deplorably dull, whether we were conscious of the fact or not." Perhaps, upon the whole, it wa3 Wilfrod Carnegie who made the place seem so home like. It was ono of his peculiarities to fit into places hirasolf. Here, it seemed to Phil, he must have spent all his life. Secretly, she was of the opinion that Braekencleugh would have been dull without him. He seemed to drive the shadows out of the house aud counteract the rather silencing influence of its size and grandeur. He filled the rooms he freauented with pleasant litter and pleasant sound. His ringing laugh was to be heard everywhere. His music was upon this table and upon that; bis violin invaded the most imposing apartment The friendship which was gradually established between Phil and himself was a very youthful sort of feeling. There was no ceremony about its expression. “He i3 such a boy!" said Phil, tolerantly, from the heights of her matureness. But she liked him very much, and her likine grew day by day. They took long stretches of walks together, they climbed tho hillsides and exulted in being blown about by the spring breeze; they found picturesque woods in almost inaccessible places and took possession of them, as two romantic children might have done. Wilfred's boat, upon the Loch, was brought into active service, and Phil took lessons in rowing, and steering, and the rest of it. She learned to ride, and grew fresh, and strong, and rosy. Os course she had her dark days, in which her London letters troubled her. and a certain stinging sense of humiliation took possession of her. “Ah!" he said once. “You have had a letter, I see: you are in such a bad temper.” It was a thoughtless speech, and exasperating enough to Philippa, who saw tho truth it contained. She reddened. “Yes," she said, “that is true. lamina bad temper: but you have no right to tell me so, for you are the only person who is to blame.” “I?" he exclaimed. “Pray, what have I done? Where is the fairness in that?" “There is no fairness in it,” answered Phil—“it isn't fair at all—it is very unfair." And she turned away and left him amu zed, and was so haughty, and incomprehensible, aud unlike herself for a day or so that she almost drove him wild, and several times wounded him far more deeply than she fancied. But they made friends again, as they always did; and, in fact, Phil's advances toward reconciliation were of so charming a nature that Wilfred's heart was stirred quite in a novel way. “I think I must hatfe a vixenish sort of temper.” she said, among other things. “I really believe I have, and I have a great many things to try mo. I have had things to trv me all my life. When lam cross, don't notice me. I don't deserve to be noticed, and it only raake9 me worse. I never liked anyone as much —I mean I never had a friend like you before, Wil, and I cannot afford to lose you." “Oh!" said Wil. with a trifle of impatient appeal in his voice, “why could’nt you leave it as it was? It would have been so delightful for a fellow to think you liked him better than other people—even if it was only in a friendly way." They were on the top of their favorite hill, Phil sitting upon a mossy rock fragment and Wilfred stretched upon the thick grass at her feet, so when ho looked up he had a full view of her face, saw at once the change that foil upon it, the shadow of unrest and pain that crept into her eyes as she looked far out upon the Loch below.

“I never have liked any one so much in a friendly way/' she said. ‘’That was what I meant.” He watched her for a moment, and then his own eyes fell and wandered toward the expanse of blue beneath. “Then.” he said, “I ought to be a very grateful fellow, Phil.” And yet, while he meant what he said, he was suddenly conscious of feeling vaguely disappointed. Shortly, Phil spoke again. “Let us make a kind of agreement,” she said. “Let us agree never to quarrel—really. When I am cross, you will promise not to condescend to notice me. and I will promise to come* and ask you to shake hands the very minute I begin to feel as if I could listen to reason.” The whimsicality of the idea struck him pleasantly. “What a fantastic little soul you are," he said, laughing. “How could anyone help b&iug fond of you?” “They could help it very easily." she answered. “I am not fond of myself, and I know myself very much better than you know me. Will you promise?” “Yes, I will.” “Aud in real, honest earnest, too?” “In the best of honest earnest.” “Then we will shake hands now, if you please,” and she held hers out to him. He took it and held it delightedly, touched by her frank air. “It is a very pretty hand,” he said, not flippantly, but with quite a tender deference. “I will kiss it, Cousin Philippa, because I am in such very good earnest, indeed.”’ And kiss it he did, and 1 think she liked him the better for it, because it was so kindly and chivalrously done. She had had reason enough for her mental irritation. It was rather hard, when she had so nearly forgotten her troubles, to be rasped afresh. She had almost begun to believe that there had been no humiliating past, and the future was to be all Braekencleugh when her father’s letter came, and this was how bis letter terminated: “How is it, my dear, that you so rarely mention Mr. Wilfred Carnegie? This iB hardly fair, Phil. You give mo glorious descriptions of Mrs. Oswald, and of Braekencleugh, and of the Loch, and the heather, and the rowan trees, aud a variety of other charming things. Why not a glowing description of Mr. Wilfred Carnegie, who should be the most interesting object of all? A man who is as lucky as Mr. Wilfred Carnegie must necessarily be interesting. Let me hear if this is not so. I, myself, am deeply interested in this fortunate individual.” When Phil’s answer arrived Fairfax smiled over it. He had auSicieut experience to find it very suggestive. “i done say anything about Mr. Wilfred Carnegie because I have nothing particular to say.” she wrote. “He is very good-natured and verv kind to me. I suppose he is what you might call a genius. He plays the violin beautifully and paiDts lovely, bright little pictures; and he sings well and talks well; in fact, he does a number of things well. Most people admire him. We are good enough friends, though some ;, nes we quarrel. I think I like him as well as e Mrs. Oswald.” Reading this l&Bt sentence, Philip Fair. <) smile became a laugh. **l think I like him as well ns Mrs. Oswald,” he repeated. “My charming Phil! How exquisitely young you are- even for your years! 1 wonder what Mrs. Dorothy Oswald thinks?” Mrs. Dorothy Oswald thought a great many things. She was a gentle woman, who was prone to quiet reflection at all times. She was becoming very fond of Phil, and she began to suspect that her nephew was also. Her interest deepened as she gradually learned something definite of Phil's past. It was natural that she should learn something definite by degrees, silent as Phil had chosen to bo at first. She

was too young not to be talkative occasionally, and Wilfred was never tired of drawing her out. There were occasions, however, when she suddenly checked herself in the middle of a story. “The rest is stupid,” she saii, impatiently, the first time she was guilty of the inconsistency. “It is all stupid, in fact. I don't knov? why I began.” The truth was, she had unwittingly been betrayed into beginning a little anecdote, which would have led her into saying what might, she thought, lead her hearers to misunderstand Mr. Philip Fairfax. "Ah,” said Wilfred to Mrs. Dorothy afterwards, “I am out of patience with that fellow; lose my temper whenever l hear hia name mentioned. He is a dishonorable scamp—and yet, see how fond she is of him." “Philip Fairfax?" said Mrs. Dorothy quietly. “Yes,” he answered, pushinghis hair back from his knotted forehead and beginning to walk up and down the room impatiently. “I bad heard enough of him before, but when she begins to talk I hear more. Because she is only a girl she tells more than she is conscious of. Do you know what he is—this same Philip Fairfax'?" “A gentleman of leisure,” said Mrs. Dorothy in serene irony. “Yes, a gentleman of leisure—a fellow who lives by his wits—a professed gambler. Ho goes to Vienna, you see. and to Baden, and to Paris; he goes here, and there, and everywhere; and he takes his ‘Ernest,’ (a rascal like hitusel, the ‘Ernest,’) and drags his daughter about with him. Figure to yourself how she has lived. Cousin Dorothy! a beautiful young creature—a mere child—no woman with her—no girl friends—dingy lodgings and questionable hotels—and this ‘Ernest’ making himself entirely at home at all times. A desirable acquaintance, Monsieur Ernest, for a pretty, defenceless girl,” vehemently. “You like ‘this Ernest’ less than all the rest,” remarked Mrs. Dorothy. “Yes, less than the rest,” with still more vehemence. “You se eit is plain that he is a consummate scoundrel and an abominable puppy, and—and —” But there he stopped and wheeled round and met Mrs. Dorothy’s eye with a naivo air of recognition; and finally he broke into ft say, good-humored laugh. “Well,” he said, “and why not? You mean that I am jealous. And why should I not be jealous? Who wouldn’t be? I am jealous, perhaps. A man is often jealous very early—even before he is anything else.” And he laughed again and looked a little conscious, but not at all ashamed of himself. “I don't blame you for being jealous," said Mrs. Dorothy. “And I should not blame you for being ‘anything else,’ as you put it. It would only be natural.” “Yes, it would,” he said. “It would only be natural. She is a lovable littie thing, iso't she?” “Yes, 6he is lovable.” “And if a man wants a beauty.’ with an air of reflection, “where do you see more of itt Look at her eyes—you must have noticed her oyes. Cousin Dorothy, though I am quite certain about the color of them. Take the whole of her proud little face—the fire, and the tint, and the—well, the rest of it. Some day I intend to paint’a picture of her. It would be only natural that a man should soon learn to be fond of her. That is why I have such a particular objection to this übiquitous Ernest. I hare an objection to him—a rooted objection. I should like”—with charming frankness—“l should like, if possible, to thrash him I feel as if he had done me an injury.” [to BE CONTINUED NEXT SUNDAY. 1 He Heard the HI Master. Burdette in Brooklyn Eagle. I never heard Liszt but once. I was a young man then, younger thau I am now, but I cab never forget, and no one whose 90ul has nbl bowed in humble worship at the Feet of the M Master can ever Know the Complete Consecration I made of myself while I listened to Him. Hft wore that Weary aud Haughty expression which was habitual to Him, and as He crossed the room to tho piano, He received our Humble Homogo with Majestic yet Awful oondc. ce ision. The very Atmosphere of the room was Imbued with the M Master's Presence. As He took off His coat and rolled up His Sleeves, I held my breath with both hands. He played. The M Master played. Under the Magic Touch of His Hands the heavens Bent to Listen—the hoarse chords muttered like the Retreating Storm or the electrified keys sang all the twittering songs of all the Birds of Spring at once—the Sun burst through the Riven Clouds—the Moonlight Slept upon the Bank of Violets, and Singing Brooks ran Murmuring to the Sea—grim visaged War clanged on his Brazen Shield with mimic Thunder of the Skies, and all the Clamor of the raging Battle shook the ground beneath our feet—tho room swam with the brilliant perfection of every Marvelous Conceit that sprang into living being under This marvelous Execution, and when Ho raised Both Feet higher than His Head ami brought them down upon the key board in tho Filial Grand Hoopla. I knew no more, for I bad Swooned at the M M Master’s Feet. I nevor heard H II Him again.

Mrs. Cleveland at the Opera, Washington Dispatch In Baltimore American. Mrs. Cleveland is still a great curiosity to the people of Washington. The other night at Aibaugh’s the people in the audience looked at her sitting in a private box as if she were a wild animal. After the play the entire audience stood in the lobby in double rows, the two lines reaching from the auditorium doors the stairs, out the front door and even to the carriage door. When she came out they gaped at her and commented as if she wore a professional beauty. When Mrs. Cleveland goes to publio places she must expect to be gazed at, but it is hardly fair when she comes out of the Whit* House for her evening drive that she should be daily met by a gaping crowd of petiole. During the last few hot afternoons the White House grounds have been a cool retreat, and, happening to call at the White House about 5 o'clock on one of these afternoons, a crowd of ladies, and men, too, were seen sitting on the stone talus* trade running along the walk to the steps of the White House. Inquiry showed that this crowd came to get a glimpse of Mr3. Cleveland when she went to her carriage for her afternoon drivo. A Hoy Who Will lie Heard From. Boston Evening Record. By way of pointing out the difference between illiteracy and lack of intelligence, the Historian submits the appended letter, which was sent to a lawyer in reply to the latter's advertisement for a boy to work in his office. The letter which follows is exceedingly illiterate, but it is running over with intelligence. The Historian may precede it with the statement that the evident zeal and earnestness of the boy who wrote it were regarded as fully compensating for the defects in hi3 spelling, and he was taken into the lawyer's employment, on trial, at once:— mister i want the job mi fokes aint. rich an i got to rastle they are ded. it betes hel how hard times ia i can do chores an learn fast i want a job in your office let me in JiMMY C'arkiqak. The name of Jimmy Carrigan may yet be ranowned in the annals of the Commonwealth. A Boston Relaxation. Han Francisco Chronicle. There would appear to be a great deal of primitive human simplicity in Boston. We have heard a great deal about its culture and its dignity, but the affectionate tenderness of the Boston girls is of an equally superior and touching quality, They have dogs in Boston. I don’t know what they call them there, but they hava them. To those who believe that nothing but heavy literature is permitted there, to prove they have relaxations, anti Rtnui&niSfttf, and sympathetic occupation, let me quote from a letter from a ladv in that city to a friend here: “You will have to excuse a short letter, because lam very busy. I am bringing up nine Newfoundland pups on the bottle, and it's an engrossing duty.” _ When tlio Bruised Heart Revives. Cambridge Chronicle. There is no balm for the bruised and broken heart of a rejected lover like the sigh of his sue* cessful rival, five years later, leading a procession of seven, including two nurse-maids, a pair of twins and a singleton, through a crowded train of cars in search of a place to sit. Information Asked of Mr. Thompson. Chicago Journal. In his address before the American Association of Writers at Indianapolis, President Maurice Thompson said that poetry made for the sake of money is not poetry. Now will Mr. Thompson kindly tell a wailing world what magazine poetry ia made for 1