Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 7 November 1886 — Page 2

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GRANT IN PEACE. BY GENERAL AI)AML IJADEAU. NO. XXII. Grant anti Seward. Written for the Indi- .apolis .Journal—Copvrishtod. There was a positive antagonism between Grant and Seward. Their characters were as unlike as their policies and their achievements. ■During the last months of the war Seward paid A visit at Grant’s headquarters at City Point, and while there he told me a story which illustrates more than one point in his character. He was describing the alarm and anxiety of the North in the autumn of 1864. For months Grant had accomplished nothing in front of Richmond; Hood had forced Sherman to retrace his steps from Atlanta, and Early had nearly captured Washington. The opponents of the government at the North made the most of the situation for political purposes. The elections were approaching, and a Cabinet council was held. It was necessary, Seward said, to throw something overboard in order to save the ship, and emancipation was to be the Jonah. He was selected, he told me, to make the sacrifice, and proceeded to Auburn, where he delivered the speech, which r* any will remember, reopening the whole question of slavery and emancipation, when the States should return to the Union. “When the insurgents,” he said, “shall have disbanded their armies and laid down their arms, the war will instantly cease; and all the war measures then existing, including those which affect slavery, will cease also; and all the moral, economical and political questions, as well questions affecting slavery as others, which shall then be existing between individuals and States and the federal government, whether they arose before the civil war began, or whether they grew out of it, will, by force of the Constitution, pass over to the arbitrament of courts of law and to the councils of legislation.” So spoke the Secretary of State a year and a half after the Proclamation of Emancipation bad been made. A few days later he returned to Washington, and soon the news was brought of Sheridan's victory at Winchester. Seward took the telegram to the President. It was long past midnight, and Lincoln came to the door of his bedroom in his nightgown. There he held the candle while the Secretary of State read to him the great intelligence. The President was delighted, of course, at the victory; but Seward exclaimed: “And what, Mr. President, is to become of me?” He told me this story. I suppose, to illustrate his apiritof self-sacrifice, but when I repeated it to Grant the soldier looked at the act in a different light. He thought the sacrifice of principle should not have been made, and was shocked that Seward could have thought of himself in such a crisis. But Seward believed in sacrificing even political principle to the success of a great cause or the salvation of a country. He said to me at this time: “Nations have never more virtue than just enough to save themselves.” Grar.t’3 course under somewhat similar circumstances was different. He often told me of the pressure brought to induce him to sign what was known as the inflation act. Personal and political friends of importance assured him that his refusal would be fatal to Republican success at the polls, and, although his judgment was opposed to the measure, he finally wrote out amessage approving the bill. He even read the message to his Cabinet, but in writing and read ing it the weakness of his forced reasoning became more apparent than ever. He could not bring himself to do violence to his own convictions. That nieht he tore up the message and wrote another, which contained a veto that for Aver defeated inflation. Each of these men had, m his own way, accomplished great thing3 for the state. Seward was an adroit and intellectual strategist—a man horn with the instincts and used to the arts of diplomacy; a statesman who had aimed at the highest place—but, when ;he failed in his aim. had humbled himself to take a secondary post, in which he conceived and carried out an international policy for bis triumphant rival; a man who, after the war, and the success of the principles aim the party with whom and for whom he had battled half a lifetime, found himself suddenly in the Cabinet of a Southerner, determined to bring the defeated Southerners back to the position and the power they had enjoyed before they rebelled; and Seward not only acquiesced in the design, but aided it with all the skill and intellect he had once employed on the other side. There was nothing in such a character or career to attract or to assimilate with Grant, who was by nature biunt and plain in woid and act; a soldier to the core; unused to bending when ho could not break, and ignorant of any means to accomplish his purposes but the most lirect and forcible. Even in war he had been less of a strategist than a fighter, and he carried the same characteristics into civil affairs. Indeed whenever, later in his political career, he was induced by political associates to lay aside bis own peculiar directness and attempt manoeuvring he failed. His ways were never those of diplomacy, nor even of legitimate craft. The more of a technical politician he became the less was bis bold on the people, and the less the success he achieved. When he returned to his native straightforwardness and outspokenness his influence and popularity were regained. Such a man could not appreciate Johnson’s Secretary of State.

Seward had succeeded by temporizing nnd negotiating, by ratiance and subtle skill, by submitting to what was inevitable and obtaining whatever was attainable, in at first postponing and at last preventing the active intervention .of England and Franco in favor of the South during the war; nnd he boned afterward to secure the withdrawal of the French from Mexico by the same means. But to Grant this seemed to indicate indifference to the result, and be finally came to believe that Seward was willing for Maximilian to remain. Here was their first opendifference. They were antagonists apparently even in aim and certainly in means and methods and manner. The consequence was not only a marked divergence of opinion, but, on Grant’s part, a coolness of feeling that lasted for years and was never entirely removed. But though Grant at times could hardly force himself to be civil, and disliked even to go to Seward's bouse, the courteous Secretary kept ud his visits and bis compliments. Mr. Blaine, in his “Twenty Years of Congress," attributes to Seward the conception of Johnson’s entire scheme of restoring the States. I have uo knowledge of my own on this point, but Grant never gave Seward credit for the plan. He thought it the child of Johnson’s brain, developed by the situation in which he found himself —a bumble Southerner suddenly raised to a position where he could dispense essential favors to those who had always seemed bis superiors, but now courted him for their own purposes. 3rant, in his “Memohs,” speaks of Johnson as a 'President who at first aimed to revenge him-

THE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL, SUNDAY, 1886-TWELVE PAGES.

self upon Southern men of better social standing than himself, but who still sought their recognition, and in a short time conceived the idea, and advanced the proposition to become their Moses, to lead them triumphantly out of all their difficulties.” I remember once returning to him from the White House, whitner he had sent me with a message to Mr. Johnson, and describing to him what I had seen; the antechamber of the tailor President crowded with magnates of the South. Hunter and Richard Taylor, and others of that sort, waiting for a chance to ask to be pardoned. Grant, like every other human being, was sometimes unjust in his judgments, and did not always allow the credit of the highest motives to those who opposed him. He thought Johnson affected by the influences I have described, and that Seward, for the 6ake of place and power, followed in the political somersault. No word intimating a belief that Seward originated Johnson’s policy ever escaped him in my hearing, either in the excited intercourse of the time or in the deliberate discussions of later years. It is needless to say that Grant thought Seward intellectual ana able; and, of course, he never dreamed of denying his patriotism; but the genius of the one was so diametrically opposed to that of the other, that Grant could not do justice to the considerations, whether of legitimate ambition or lofty statesmanship, that may have actuated Seward. lie wa3 too intensely himself to be sympathetic. He could not put himself into Seward’s place. He could not understand how Seward could reverse the feelings and principles of a lifetime to remain in Johnson’s Cabinet He could not perceive that Seward, once the bugbear of the slaveholders, might take an exquisite pleasure in the thought that they owed their exemption from many misfortunes to the man they had so long end so bitterly reviled. But although Grant thought Seward only a follower of Johnson in the reconstruction policy, he certainly believed that many of the devices of Johnson were due to Seward's suggestion. He did not think Johnson clever enough tc initiate all the craft that gave the country and Congress so much trouble and alarm. Many of the acutest arguments in defense of Johnson Grant thought were in reality perversions of Seward’s intellect in an unworthy cause; and the effort to send Grant out of the country he always attributed to Seward. The conception was worthy of the diplomatic Secretary, to whom it would fall to carry out the device, if it succeeded; for if Grant had accepted the position pressed upou him he must have received his instructions from Seward, who had opposed and defeated Grant’s Mexican policy. Those instructions, in fact, were written out, and Seward once began to read them in Cabinet, but Grant refused to hear them. Even after this they were forwarded to Grant through the Secretary of War, but were finally turned over to Shermafi. It would indeed have, been a Machiavellian triumph to have got rid of Grant at that, juncture in affairs at home, and at the same time forced him to carry out Seward’s policy in Mexico. But though, as I have said. Grant never got over his dislike of Seward's course, either in the Mexican matter or in the general policy of the administration, Seward was determined not to quarrel with Grant. He was never personally conspicuous in the strategems which Grant was obliged to contest, and even at tlio crisis of the relations between Grant and Johnson, when other Cabinet ministers ranged themselves on the side of the President, Seward contrived to write a letter not entirely unsatisfactory to his chief, while vet he refrained I'rom giving the lie to Grant. Thus their relations, although after this perion never intimatn, were not absolutely interrupted. Some of Seward's admirers even proposed to Grant to invite Seward to remain in the State Department, but he never entertained the idea. I remember a dinner at the house of Mr. Thornton, the British minister, given after Grant's election, at which Seward sat on the right of the host and Grant on the left; and Seward remarked as he took his seat: “After the 4th of March, General, you and I will be obliged to change places at table.” But there were many even then who placed General Grant above the Secretary of State, and Grant himself. in more important matters than rank or etiquette, was asserting his own consequence. He had endeavored, as 1 have shown, to prevent the host who was then entertaining them from negotiating a treaty with Seward, and he had striven successfully to lessen the influence of Seward’s minister to Mexico. Still the honors were divided. Seward had defeated Grant in what the soldier had so much at heart—the forcible expulsion of Maximilian, accomplishing the overthrow of the empire by diplomatic mean?, though ho risked, as Grant believed, the existence of the Mexican republic; but Seward himself was defeated in the great object of Johnson’s administration—the reconstruction policy; and in this defeat Grant was the principal figure and instrument. Grant’s election, indeed, was the seal of Seward's and Johnson's overthrow. Up to the last their differences continued. In sending Rosecrans to Mexico Seward must have known the affront he offered Grant, and by the rejection of the ClarendonJohnson treaty, which Grant did so much to accomplish. the final effort of Seward’s diplomacy was foiled. But, after all, both were patriots, both were indispensable to the salvation of the state. Grant’s victories would have been useless, if not impossible, uuless Seward's skill had stayod the hostile and impatient hands of England and France: and Seward’s diplomacy required Vicksburg and the Wilderness to be of any avail. As Lincoln once said to Sicklos, when they were discussing the battle of Gettysburg: “There is glory enough to go all around.” Nevertheless, it is well to toll the whoie truth about great men in great emergencies. Adam Badeau.

The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; 110 hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swi:t sword, Ilis truth is marching on. I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps: They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. H is day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: “As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel. Since God is marching on.” He has sounded forth the trnmpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hoarts of men before llis judgment seat; Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me; As ho died to make mon holy, let us die to make men free. While God is marching on. —Julia Ward ilowe, *■ ■— One of Rate Chase's experiences. Washington Letter. The greatest mistake of her life was in marrying Governor Sprague, of Rhode Island. It was not long after tho marriage that she discovered this. Sprague's temper was entirely incompatible with hers. His rude actions cut into her finer feelings. I remember an instance which was told at the time of her divorce. It happened early in the sixties, and he annoyed her both at home and in society. It was at a dinner uiveu by President Lincoln in honor of Chief-justice Chase, shortly after bis appointment as head of tho Supreme Court. Chase sat at Mr. Lincoln’s right hand, and Kate Chase Sprague was seated on the other side of the table, just opposite. Senator Sprague escorted a distinguished lady to the dining-reiora, and his seat was a little bit further down the table. Shortly after the dinner began it was seen that Spraguo bad been drinking. He had taken a cocktail or so before corning to the White Honse, and the mixing of the whisky with the wine ho found there reduced bun in a short time to an intoxicated condition. Before the fish had been passed his tongue grew thick in his mouth, and at the serving of the first entree it was seen that he had sunk back iuto his chair, and was breathing heavily in a drunken sleep. At this moment Mrs. Sprague saw him. She became pale, but did cot lose her head. She

went on with her conversation as gaily as though her husband was the brightest man at the dinner table. But a moment later she caught her father’s eye and by a glance called his attention to the situation. Chief-justice Chase said in a low tone to Mrs. Lincoln: “I see that Senator Sprague is ill. Wili you kindly have the butler assist him into the cloak room.” Mrs. Lincoln whispered to a waiter and the drunken Senator was quietly removed. He slept upon the sofa during the whole of the evening, and was taken home in his carriage, still in a drunken stupor. This event is one that happened in public. A man who will so forget himself at a White Honse dinner must have been a perfect boor at home, and there is little doubt that Kate Chase Sprague was more sinned against than sinning. * Autumn Leaves. A BOXDEAU. When autumn leaves, in air that grieves That they, the golden season’s crown, Are flung in all their glory down. And binds them into burning sheaves, And gleams of summer round them weaves. In memory of their bright renown, And with a heart that still believes, ' Thro' windy days and chilly eves, When autumn leav6?— I tell yon what! When autumn leaves Are painting all the country brown, The overcoatless man in town Looks Southward, as a sigh he heaves. Where men can go in their shirt-sleeves When autumn leaves! —Lew Dawson. The Man Who Sits. Atlanta Constitution. We arj averse to betraying secrets of the editorial floor. But we feel compelled to put before the public the “curious language” and the more curious doings of Mr. Wallace P. Reed, an esteemed member of the Constitution staff. Mr. Reed says: “If you will sit down and stay down you will live forever. It is exercise that wears a man out. The man who sits is the man who lasts." Mr. Reed has long practiced his newly-declared philosophy. He has never been in the Kimball House. Only once in five years has he been in the Union Depot, It is six years since he saw Whitehall street, and sis teen since he saw McDonough. He has been to the theater once in four years, and never to base ball. Hi* home, by the air line he takes, is threehundred yard3 from the office. Twice a day he walks this. For five years he has not averaged fifty yards a day extra walking. One pair of shoes has lasted him three years. He carries an umbrella always, and never looks beyond its bending rim. One day his umbrella was pushed aside rudely, and looking out he saw a half dozen elephants and some camels crossing his path. He carefully picked his way through the unexpected caravan, and on reaching the office remarked that there must be a circus in town. Here, then, is the roan who sits. Fo twelve hours every day he sits at his desk; four hours he sits at home. It takes twelve minutes to walk 300 yards four times each dav. He sleeps seven and a half hours. Ilis health is perfect. His appetite is keen, his brain clear and his capacity for work remarkable. He is never sick a day, or an hour, or a minute. He is genial, fresh, bright, and does not age a shade. His knowledge of men and things is unusual. The only character in books that perplexes him is “The Wandering Jew.” “I can not understand,” he says, “how he lived so long when he was continually moving about.” He has never seen Grant's Park or Peter's Park, and says he will probably never see Whitehall street again, or ever look upon the new Capitol. “I do not care to wear myself out,” he says, “therefore I sit down. Colonel Thompson, who wrote ‘Major Jones's Courtship,’ was a man who sat. For years and years he never left his office except to go, air line, to his home. He saw whole generations of fellows who walk perish of gradual exhaustion, and at something above eighty years, in full possession of his faculties, be smiled placidly at the lumbering, young steam-engines-in breeches, who were at forty running uneven and worn on their joints. The best prescription a doctor can give in nine cases out of ten is ‘Sit down!’ The men who sit are the men who stay; the men who flit are gone in a day. You see that poetry even is not impossible to him who sits!”

Burdette's Method of Managing Servants. Brooklyn Eagle. It doesn’t lie in some people to get along with servants. They have no tact, no knack of managing. There is a great deal in managing a servant in such a way that the minion isn’t aware of it. But somo people don't know how to do this, and consequently a servant that is a jewel in iny well-regulated household is utterly useless in my neighbor’s service. Now, not long ago I had occasion to part with a colored man. I didn’t want to cast him out upon the cold world, because I feared that if the world got too cold he would comeback tome. So I unloaded him upon a neighbor. I never had a ripple of trouble with him. I had emuloyed him ostensibly to groom a horse occasionally and mow the lawn once or twice a year. 1 soon learned that he was running an African dormitory and a poker layout in my stable, and the eeueral appearance of my premises finally broueht me letters from the American Missionary Union, asking permission to establish ono of their Congo out stations between my barn and the kitchen. This, as much as anything else, induced me to part with Albert. He shipped with me under the nom de plume of Albert Wilson, but I noticed that some of the natives cailed him “Lame Jake,” and he requested me, in writing his letter of recommendation, to call him Thompson Easley. By and by my neighbor said to me: “That man. Sam Norton, you sent me—did you ever have auy trouble with him]” I said no, never. “Well,” said my neighbor, “I can't get along with him. He won’t do one thing I tell him; not a thing.” “Oh, well," I said, “he tried that on me, too, when he first came, but I settled that in short order.” “How did you manage']” asked my neighbor. “Well,” I told him, “I quit telling him to do anything.” And do you know my neighbor was real angry with me, and abused me. and said I was a fool and had deceived him? You see, he had ho tact. That very night Albert landed on my coast again. He confided to me that his real name was James Sinclair, and he brought with him his brother, whom be introduced as Walter Taylor. They took up their old quarters in the barn and boarded with me for a week, before I was able to secure them places in the county work house. They both left me with sincere regret, aud Albert said, in parting, that any time I wanted him to come back a letter addressed to Charles Martin would reach him. Albert was a saddle-colored pagan, but he was the richest man in names I ever worked for. A Cnrlons Piece *f Jeweler’s Work. New York Commercial Advertiser. A woman from Cleveland, 0., had rather a peculiar pieco of work done, last week, at a Union Square jeweler’s 6hop. Ten years ago she was a willowy blonde, whose figure was as lithe as Sarah Bernhardt’s. At this time she allowed a bracelet to be locked on her slonder arm, and made a promise that it never would be removed. The donor of the golden band died, and the prettv blonde married a young society man. Time has not dealt quite fairly with her, for the beautifully-modeled figure is now almost too pronounced in its curves for beauty. The white arm is just as fair as ever, but it, too, is more rounded than formerly. The bracelet, alone, had r.ot unt’l a few days ago increased in size. In fact, it had become so tight as to cut into the flesh, and, when its owner was in evenine dress, it created remark. So she came on to New York, and her case was put before a skillful workman. He thought it over, and finally told her that, if she would spend three days in his work-room he thought be could enlarge the bracelet aud yet not take it from her arm nor break the circle. A cast was taken of tho closely-woven links, aud three new ones, exact sac similes of the old one, were made. Then the fair arm was stretched out on a shelf, and the new gold was caught into the old by fine wires. Two of tho old links were cut out nnd the new ones slowly and carefully substituted for them, tho improvised wire links keeping the bracelet a unit, as it were, all the time. The woman spent, in all, eighteen hours in the place aud a lot of money. As it is said that all her family grow stout, she will perhaps have to have the ornament enlarged several times.

| Printed by Special Arrangement—Copyrighted 18WJ.J THE fortdsesSMippa FASRFAI By Mrs. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, Author of "A Fair Barbarian," “That Lass o' Lowrie's,” "Through One Administration," Etc., Etc. CHAPTER XIV. When he was gone she sat down at the window, trembling with excitement She could not return to the drawing-room just then. She remained there; until the moon rose. He? tears flowed fast “Nobody will miss me,” she said. “They are happy enough together without me, but they would bare missed me once,” suddenly becoming inconsistently aggrieved. “There waa a time when they would have missed me.” It might havt! been in answer to her speech that she heard, the next moment, the sound of someone coming lightly up the stairs. She knew it was Wilfred. It was a habit of his to take two or three steps at a time. Directly he opened the door, and her heart quickened; but she did not turn round. “Phil,” he said, “are you here?” “Yes,” she answered from the depths of her chair. “I am here, by the window.” He came forward hurriedly, with more of hi3 old warmth and boyishness of manner than she had seen for many a day. “This is better than I expected,” he said. “I have been looking everywhere for you. May I sit down, too?” “Yes,” she answered, speaking almost softly. This was all ho needed —this suggestion of softness in her tone and manner. He was io a hopeful frame of mind. Since his resolution of the morning bis spirits had risen. He had been full of tender and buoyant fancies. He had blamed himself for remaining silout so long and allowing circumstances to get the hotter of him. Perhaps if he had spoken before they might both have been spared all that had passed. “I have been looking everywhere for you,” he said, “because I was determined to find you and say what I have to say. I cannot bear uncertainty any longer. Why should I wait and choose words when lam so much in earnest? I came here—don’t turn your face away, Phil —I came here to ask you to be my wife.” And he knelt upon one knee, like a young hero of romance, and took her hand, though with an air rather impetuously tender than heroic. “There is no need that I should say I love you,” he went on. “You know that without being told. I think you have known it, even when you have been coldest to me. You have been cold to me of late, Phil, and it is because I cannot bear your coldness that I say all this in this headlong fashion. I cannot say it well —1 love you too deeply. Something has come between us since these people were here. We have not been so happy as we were. Don't let them estrange us from each other, Phil. Give yourself to me and then they will understand that we have the right to be left to ourselves and allowed to be happy in our own way.” This was so unexpected a turn for affairs to have taken that Philippa lost her self-possession entirely. “I don’t—” she faltered—“l don’t know how to answer you. I don’t know what—to say.” “If you can say three words—if you cau say to me ‘I love you,’ I do not ask you to say anything more,” he answered. “That is all I want, Phil.” She could not resist the temptation to ask him one question.

“Do you mean to say that —that you do not doubt—that you are not afraid to tru3t me without an explanation,” she demanded. “You havH not been blind, or you would not have been as unhappy as you say you have been. You must have asked yourself questions—why don't you ask questions of me? Perhaps," somewhat bitterly, “perhaps you would not want me for your wife if you knew all.” “Phil, my dear,” he said, eravely, “if you will say those three words, they will be enough for me. Will you say them?’ She brushed her tears from her eyes with her free hand and answered him, blushing, yet persistent and proud. “You are generous,” she said. “And you love me, but you are not wise. Because you are generous and good, you are taking me on trust, and —and I do not choose that you should do it. You shall not do it I will tell you what you ought to know, without being asked. You have seen me under suspicious circumstances lately, and every suspicions circumstance has been brought about by Mr. Ernest Duval. He has tried to give you the impression that thore was an understanding between us, and be had almost succeeded, because once it is true that we were better friends than wo are now. Once, once, when I was very young and ignorant, I thought —I thought that I loved him and he loved me. He is a bad man and a coward, and l found hitn our; and he has not forgiven me. Then if you despised me as much as I despise myself, Will—you would not hold my hand.” “Despise you? I adore you!” he cried, with all the delightfully dramatic fervor of a quarter of a century. “My dearest Phil, have you no answer for me?” The one she gave him was very pretty and gracious, notwithstanding the utter failure of her attempt to preserve her dignity. “If you want me in spite of everything,” she said, “ana will persist in wanting me, I will be your wife. I—there is no one else who loves me so well.” And unsatisfactory as this final clause might have appeared to an ordinary lover, it was by no means unsatisfactory to Wilfred. He scarcely knew how the next half hour passed. It was a kind of raDturous dream. There is not the slightest doubt that he talked a great deal of eloquent nonsense. He did not care whether it was nonsense or not. It was enough for him that Phil listened and blushed. As to her, It seemed as if her troubles were really over, and she need have no care for the morrow. Even if she had not loved him, she must have done so now, and the truth was that she had learned to love him, with the whole strength of her girl's heart In taking her by surprise, however, Wilfred had done well. If he had given her time to think, poor, conscientious little thing, ten chances to one, she would have persuaded herself that she must refuse him, and make herself miserable. When they returned to the drawing-room Mrs. Dorothy looked up at them with an anxious air; but after her first glance she looked anxious no longer. She read Wilfred’s success in his radiant face. It is more than probable that Duval understood also. He looked on with a bitter sneer and was even more cynical in his remarks than usual. His game was ended. He wondered if Phil had told her story, as she had threatened to tell it. Certainly, Wilfred’s manner bespoke no great favor "towards himself: and yet he scarcely believed the girl would dare so much, with all her courage and spirit. Bah! She would tell no more than she could help. When tne ladies had retired, Wilfred poured out his heart to Mrs. Dorothy. “Cousin Dorothy,” he said, “to-night I am the happiest fellow in Scotland, in Great Britain, in the world. She has promised to be my wife.” Then he told all. The day. when Mrs. Dorothy met Ernest Duval, she found it difficult to comport herself towards him with her usual dignity. Her mind was made up upon one point, however. It was impossible that she should receive such a guest again. Not long after breakfast Isobel Duval, standing at a window, saw a boat pushed out from the loch side and recognized, in the two figures it contained, Philippa and Wilfred Carnegie. She watched them, with a stern face, as they crossed to the opposite side. She believed that a cruel and false wrong was being done, and with her own wrongs always present before her, she could keep silent no longer. Alr& Dorothy, coming up behind her, only saw

the boat and its contents—Phil sitting at the prow, in her light dress, and Wilfred bending to bis oars. ‘•They have run away together,” she said, smiling. "They find life a pleasant thing this morning. They are yonng enough to fancy it will be summer always.” She stopped and glanced at her companion, who was quite pale, and looked startled. “You don’t mean—” said Mrs. Duval; “you don’t mean that she has accepted him? Has it gone so far as that?” “My dear," said Mr3. Dorothy in gentle amazement; “why should it not have gone as far as that? They are young and lore each other, and why should they not be happy? You speak as if—" “I speak as if I knew there had been wrong done,” interrupted Isobe!. “I speak because I know the truth. I speak because I have suffered myself, i did not want to speak, but now I must” “My dear!” Mrs. Dorothy exolaimed; “surely —surely you misunderstand— ’’ “No!” said Isobel sternly; “I do not misunderstand. 1 understand too well.” “In heaven’s name, what do you mean?” cried Mrs. Dorothy, now thoroughly alarmed. “I mean that I cannot see an honest man deceived and betrayed,” was the stern reply.

CHAPTER XV. And on the hillside Phil and her lover sat together, talking, dreaming blissful nonsense and making the most of the junehine and summer breeze and fragrant air. It was Wilfred who talked the most, however. Philippa's part was to listen and try to realize that all this was not a dream. “Suppose I was to wake up in the sittingroom in London?” she said At one time. “Sudpose I was to wake up to the dingy dinners, the hair cloth chairs, and the striped carpet, and the fragrance of Mrs. Trimbleton’s dinner in the air.” “You shall never awaken to that again,” said Wil. But Phil laughed, nervously. “I don’t know," she answered. “I don't feel sure —I am almost afraid that I shall.” Not many minutes after Wilfred glanced upward and saw that her eyes were wet; and then she laughed the same little nervous laugh again. “Are |you very fond of me?” she asked him —“very—very fond of me? Is—is —there anything you could not forgive me, if I confessed it to you, and told you that I was sorry with all my heart?” “Forgive you?" said Wil, rapturously. “There is nothing you could havo done for which you need even ask forgiveness!” “Don’t be too sure,” she said, turning her face away, and speaking with some tremor in her voice. “Don’t trust me too much; lam not worthy of it.” But he did not believe her, of course. He thought her disquiet only arose from the sweet humbleness of an affectionate nature. Helooked up at her with adoring eyes and wondered if the gods had ever so favored a man before. He could hardly make up his mind to leave the place at all, he would have been glad tc have stayed there forever. And Phil shared his reluctance, though, perhaps, from a different reason. “I wish we need not go,” she said, when they rose, “I wish we might stay always. Trouble cannot reach us here. One feels as if one had nothing to do with world and living." Wil stood quite near, her with his hand upon her shoulder. “Yes,” he answered, “but after all it is a pleasant enough world, Phil, and life is bright enough —or it seems so to me this morning.” “I am glad of that,” she said softly. And then he kissed her cheek and they went down the hill together hand in hand like two children. It was not as bright in the house as it was out of doors. A little chill fell unon them both as they entered tho hall—Wilfred shrugged his shoulders. “It is the atmosphere of a cathedral,” he said. “Let us find Cousin Dorothy and the sun.” But though they found Cousin Dorothy, she was not alone. Isobel Duval was with her and Philippa was struck with sudden misgiving so soon as she saw them. It was not like Mrs. Dorothy to look pale and disquieted, a:|d on this occasion she was both. There was pain in her face, and anxiety; and even her voice seemed to have altered its tone when she spoke. Phil felt her heart sink. “Ah," she said to herself, “it is as I knew it would be. We have come back to the world, and it is as hard as ever. Are we going to waken up indeed?” Wilfred was a little out of patience with the constraint he noticed. It jarred upon his mood. All his gayety did not bring the color back to Mrs. Dorothy’s cheek. Luncheon was a dull affair. The cloud had gradually overshadowed Phil also, and she looked unlike herself aud ill at ease. As soon as luncheon was over she disappeared. Left to himself, Wil sauntered into an adjoining parlor and took refuge in his violin. It was his pauacea for all ills. If he had lost his friends, his fortune, his hopes, he would have found some degree of comfort in ihis frail shell of an instrument; temporarily thrown upon his own resources, he consoled himself with it. Phil heard him in her room up-stairs, and smiled somewhat sadly. “He wants me to come down,” she skid, “but I cannot go just yet. 1 don’t want to try him with my humors any more, and I am not in a comfortable frame of mind at present." Someone else heard him also. This was Isobel Duval, and, having listened fora short time, she left her seat and spoke to Mrs. Dorothy. “I am going to him now,” she said. “He is alone.” “Yes," Mrs. Dorothy answered; “he is alone. Philippa has eone to her room. If she was with him we should hear them talking." Wil stopped in the midst of a minor chord when he heard Isobels footsteps. He hoped that it was Phil, and recognized Mrs. Duval with some surprise, and perhaps, also, with some impatience. She had never impressed him very favorably. He had thought her too cold to bo exactly womanly, and had fouod even her beauty a chilling and unresponsive affair. “I heard you playing,” she said, “and followed the sound of your violin." “You are fond of music?” he said, placing a chair for her. “Pray sit down." But she refused the chair, with a gesture, and then he began to see that she also was pale and then there was in her face a strange resoluteness —as if she had made and wa3 carrying out a painful and desperate resolve. “I am fond of music,” she said, “but it is not because I am fond of it that I cams here. I have something—painful—to say to you.” Will dropped his violin from his shoulder in amazement. “I am very sorry,” hb said hesitantly, and in manifest embarrassment. “I really trust most sincerely—" and there stoppod. “What I have to say," she began again, “is as painful to me as it can be to you. It is a miserable, humiliating business from beginning to end.” with a scornful quiver of her lip. “I have come to you, Mr. Carnegie, to tell you—to speak to yon of Philippa Fairfax. Judge for yourself if my task is a pleasant one.” “it is not a pleasant one,” he answered, rather hotly, “if what you have to say is derogatory to Miss Fairfax. Miss Fairfax is my betrothed wife and her honor is dearer to me than mv own.” “Wait a moment,” said Isobel. “Forgive me for sayiog that I think I have the right to demand of you, as a gentleman, that you should hear me through. In accusing Miss Fairfax, Mr. Carnegie, I am forced to tell a story of my own. Think, for one moment, of the many things you must have noticed since my arrival at Brackencleugh, and then judge again, for yourself, whether my story can be a pleasant one, and whether I must not have a powerful motive for speaking of it when I might remain silent.” Wil bowed. He understood what she meant, and delicacy held him silent. But he was burning with impatience, and bewilderment, and aDger. “If I was not an unhappy woman, Mr. Carnegie,” said Isobel Duval, “I should not be so bitterly in earnest If I had not suffered wrong, and falseness, and humiliation myself, I should not be so resolute in my determination to rescue you from it. My own wretchedness is my impotus. and when I have finished I think you will not ask me tc apologize. You will not refuse to listen to me?” “No," said Wil, “I cannot do that A man of honor cannot refuse to hear a woman who has made a speech she needs to defend. Excuse me for saying this. Perhaps lam a rather hotheaded fellow. If I do.you an injustice I ask forgiveness. It is not easy to be just where the woman one loves is conceroed. And perhaps I ought to tell yon—and ask your forgiveness again—that I am listening to your defense, and not to ad Accusation of Philippa. ” “i understand that,” said Isobel Dural

proudly. “I understood that it would be so before I came, and I am prepared to abide by the consequences of my course. Otherwise I should not be here. Wilfred bowed again. ( “I will be as brief a? possible,” she went on. “In sparing you many words I spare myself also. The man I married does not appear in an amiable light in the story I have to tell you. If ho had never existed it is possible that Philippa Fairfax would be a better and more honest woman than she is. Yon know that he was her lover; you know why she is not his wife to-day. There was only one obstacle in her path. He wan fond of her, I think. If she had been Isobel Farquhar and 1 Philippa Fairfax she would have been a happier woman than I have been? at least she would have been spared the humiliation of knowing that she had never possessed his heart for an hour. He loved her, and sha loved him—and he married me. You know that much, Mr. Carnegie, and it has not made you doubt her.” “Madam,” said Wilfred, tempestuously, “must I doubt her because she was a child and innocent. and Mr. Ernest Duval was a scoundrel?” Isobel smiled sadly. “She did not love him as she love3 you,” she said. “Her love for him was only a fleeting fancy. It is easier for you to believe that than for me to believe it, Mr. Carnegie. lam the woman who married her lover, you remember, and I married him because I loved him as she did. But it was not of that I came to speak. That is au old story to you. That would be easily forgiven. The rest cannot be. lam going to explain to you why I have not regarded Miss Fairfax with favor from the first. Not long before I came here my husband told me that I might expect to meet be! here.” “Duval told you?” Wilfred exclaimed. She looked at his bewildered face with deep pain in her eyes. She even laid her hand upon the piano to steady herself as she spoke. “If 1 could spare you I would,” she said; “but I cannot. 1 must tell you the shameful truth as it stands and leave the rest to you. My husband told me that I should find her here and told me that her father had sent her.” “Why should he send her?” Wii demanded, with a desperate effort at calmness. “There is no reason—” And then he broke down. “It is a lie.” he cried, savagely. “It is a lie of Duval’s.” She answered him with the little air of chill contempt with which she always referred to her husband. “No, it is not a lie,” she said. “It is not a lie this time —because he had no purpose to serve. If he had had a purpose to serve by speaking falsely he would have spokeu falsely. He is more honest than you fancy—he never lies, unless he has an end to reach. The reason for which Philip Fairfax sent his daughter here was one good enough in hi3 eyes. He is a man of the world and a diplomatist. He is a poor man and a geutleman of leisure. Do you know what that means? He is a man who needs money ard who has wit enough to scheme for it He sent the girl here because you were Mrs. Oswald’s guest also. He sent her to please yon —to fascinate you—if such a thing was possible, to marry you. And she has done her work well.” It seemed to Wilfred that every word aud glance of Phil's came back to him at that moment; every caprice, every petulance, every evidence of coldness or reluctance to be won. A hundred things he had forgotten rose to taunt and snake him. He felt that the blood died out of his face, but be braced himself with something like stubborn fierceness. “I do not believe it,” be said. It is a lie of Duval's. I love her, and I will not believe a word.”

“There was a letter,” said Isobel, steadily persistent —“a letter Philip Fairfax had written himself. He was in pecuniary difficulties, and wanted money, and when he wrote to ask for it he spoke of the prospects that lay before him in the event of his daughter’s success. He said tnat his chances were those of a beautiful. attractive young creature, with wit enough to understand her position and spirit enough to hold to her purpose.” “To her purpose?" cried Wil. “It was no purpose of hers—even if the rest is true. And I will not—how can 1 believe that it is, unless she should tell me so with her own lips.” “She will hardly do that,” said Isobel. “But 1 have the right to ask you to do tho poor justice of speaking openly to her. It will be justice to her also. If there is a shadow of a chance that 1 have done wrong, no words of mine would ever express my contrition. It is not me you doubt, is it, Mr. Carnegief’ “No, no,” said Wii; “a thousand times no. It is not you 1 doubt, at least But it is Phil, I believe—against ail the world—against all proof, but the proof of her own words.” Large tears stood in Isobel Duval’s eyes and fell upon her cheeks. Her own lost faith and love seemed to confront her once again. “I I had not wrecked my own life," she said; “If I had not staked all and lost —if I had not learned from such a bitter experience, what a mercenary marriage i3—tho hopeless panzs and suffering it brings upon the man or woman who had been deceived into it—l should not have had tho courage to speak. 1 am a young woman, Mr. Carnegie, and my life is over. I do not bone; Ido not believe; I do not love. Sometimes I am a'raid to think—l grow so hard and scornful of trust. There have been hours wheq I have scarcely believed in my God—because Ha has let me suffer so—because Ho seems to have marked me with such promise and crushed me with such dull, bitter depair. I think i came to Brackencleugh more because I wished to make one effort to save you than for any other reason. I did not know you, but I knew that you were in danger, and I felt that I must streten out my band. If we had more than one life we might afford to throw one way—but there is only one for us on earth; and try as we mav to think otherwise, it seems a long one while we are living. One might afford an unhappy episode, but not an unhappy life—not hopelessness and unbelief aud broken faith until tho unknown end.” Was this the face of a woman who entered to deceive him? Wil regarded her in passionate misery. She was cold and immovable no longer. Her voice trembled. She held out one hand in an appeal, almost wild. Her tears fell hot and fast. “I tell yon that I wish to God that it was a lie," she cried. “I tell you that if it was, and you should prove to me that it was, I should be glad even for the pain of knowlce that I have erred so terribly. Better that it should have unconsciously sinned than that she should bear this stain upon her womanhood and you the misery of knowing it.” Then it was—just at this moment—as they faced one another, that each of them heard light feet upon the stairs, the rustling of a dress, the low sound of a girl's voice humming a bar of a song. Wil turned white as death. It was Phil, and Phil had overcome her ghost of depression, and was happy again, aud was comiog toward them, sincing. “Listen," he said, “she is here now, and she will come into this room. I love her with all my soul—l will believe her against heaven itself. If she says to me that this is all a lie, nothing will move me. If she says to me that it is true, my life is ended.” “Must I remain here?” Asked Isobel. “It shall rest with you. What I have said I abide by. I will stay or go. Speak quickly. Must I stay?” “No!” he cried with pain. “If it is true, no one shall see her pain but the man who lovos and can pity her.” Without a word Isobel turned away and left him. [TO BE CONTINUED NEXT SUNDAY-1

The Coming ltailroad, Atlanta Constitution. “I predict,” said a friend of mine yesterday—“An earthquake?” I asked. “No; I am a railroad W’iggins. I predict • regular hair-raising advancement in railroad time making. I predict that in the next twentyfive years the people of the United States will see trains make a speed of a hundred and fifty miles an hour. My idea is this: The railroad of to-day is too small an affair; it is too crooked and too insignificant. Take points like Chicago and New York. An ordinary railroad is too small an affair to do the business. Let a mint of capital build a road as straight as the crow travels, from Now York to Chicago. Lot it go right straight through, regardless of bills, mountains and valleys. Build a track, say fifteen feet wide. Let the rails be as big—well, as big around as a sea serpent, for instance. Then build an engine with drivers ten feet high, everything heavy and strong in proportion. I mean build a great, big railroad, as much ahead of the present roads a* the present roads are ahead of stage coaches. Steam up your big engine, pull the throttle wide open and let her go. Give her a straight track, clear the deck and I'll bet she’d—l'll bet she would make the fastest time of to-day ashamed of itself. Mark me—what ecu be, end is needed, will be."