People's Pilot, Volume 3, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 March 1894 — Page 3

fHt OLO LOVE SONQ. Play It slowly, sin* it lowly, Old Yam i liar tone! Once it ran in dance and dimple, Like a brook in Jane; Vow it eoba along the measures With a sound of tears, Dear old voices echo through it, Vanished with the years. Sipple, ripple goes the love song TUI, in slowing time. Early sweetness grows completeness, Floods lts every rhyme: Who together learn the music Life and death unfold Know that love is but beginning Until love le old. Play It slowly, It is holy As an evening hymn; 'Morning gladness hushed in sadness. Fills it to the brim. Memories home within the music. Stealing through the bars: Thoughts within its quiet spaces Rise and set like stars. —The Campus

MATT A TALE OF A CARAVAN

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.

CHAPTER Vll.—Continued. Matt shook her head again. Once inoro the young man was lost in meditation. Doubtless it was owing to his abstraction of mind that he quietly placed his arm around Matt’s waist, and kept it there. At first Matt went very red; then she glanced up at his lace, and saw that his eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the distant sand hills. Seeing he still kept silence, she moved a little closer to him, and said very quietly: “I didn’t tell William Jones that you —kissed me!” Brinkley started from his abstraction, and looked at the girl’s blushing lace. “Eh? What did yon say?” “I didn’t tell William Jones that you kissed me!” These words seemed to remind the young man of the position of his arm, lor he hastily withdrew it. Then the absurdity of the whole situation appeared to return upon him, and he Woke into a burst of boyish laughter —at which his companion’s face fell ■once more. It was clear that she took life seriously and dreaded sarcasm. “Matt,” he said, “This won’t do! This won’t do at all!” “What won’t do?” “Well, this,” he answered, rather ambiguously. “You are rather young, you know—quite a girl, although, as you suggested just now, and, as you probably believe, you may be ‘growed up.’ You must —ha—you must look upon me as a sort of father, and all that sort of thing.” “You’re too young to be my father,” answered Matt, ingenuously. “Well, say your big brother. I’m interested in you, Matt, very much interested, and I should really like to get to the bottom of the mystery about you, but we must not forget that we’re —well, almost strangers, you know. Besides,” he added, laughing again cheerily, “you are engaged to be married, some day, to a gentleman of fortune.”

Matt sprang' up, with heaving bosom and flashing eyes. “No, I ain’t!” she said. “I hate him!” “Hate the beautiful Monk, of Monkshurst! Monk, the beneficent! Monk the sweet-spoken! Impossible!” “Yes, I hate him,” cried Matt; “and —and —when he kissed me, it made me aick.” “What, did he? Actually. Kissed you?” As he spoke the young man actually felt that he should like to assault the redoubtable Monk. “Yes, he kissed me —once. If he kisses me again I’ll stick something into him, or scratch his face.” And Matt looked black as thunder and set her pearly teeth angrily together. “Sit down again, Matt!” “I shan’t —if you laugh.” “Oh, I’ll behave myself. Come!”— and he added, as she returned to her place: “Did it make you sick when I kissed you?” He was playing with fire. The girl’s face changed in a moment, her eyes melted, her lips trembled, and all her expression became inexpressibly soft and dreamy. Leaning gently towards him, she drooped her eyes, and then, seeing his hand resting on his knee, she took it in hers and raised it to her 'ips. “I should like to marry you,” she said, and blushing, raised her cheek against his shoulder. Now, our hero of the caravan was a true-hearted young fellow and a man of honor, and his position had become • extremely embarrassing. He could no longer conceal from himself the discovery that he had made an unmistakable impression on Matt’s unsophisticated heart. Hitherto he had looked upon her as a sort of enfant terrible, a very rough diamond; now he'realized, with a shock of surprise and selfreproach, that she possessed, whether "'growed up” or not, much of the susceptibility of grown up young ladies. It was clear that his duty was to disenchant her as speedily as possible, seeing that the discovery of the hopelessness of her attachment might, if delayed, cause her no little unliappijess.

In the meantime he suffered her to nestle to him. He did not like to shake her off roughly, or to say anything unkind. He glanced round into her face; the eyes were still cast down, and the cheeks were suffused with a warm, rich light, which softened the gTeat freckles and made her complexion look, according to the image which suggested itself to his mind, like a nice ripe pear. She was certainly very pret<<y. He glanced down at her hands, whici* rested in hei lap, and again noticed that they were unusually delicate and small. Her foot, which he next inspected, he could not criticise, for the boots she wore would have been a good tit for William Jup*s Hat the

whole outline oi her figure, In spite ot the hideous attire she wore, was fine and symmetrical and altogether— His inspection was Interrupted by the girl herself. Starting as from a delightful trance, she sprang to her feet and cried: “I can’t stop no longer. I’m going.” “But the picture, Matt?” said Brinkley, rising also. “Shan’t I finish it today?” “I can’t wait. William Jones wants to send me a message over to Pencroes, and if I don’t go he’ll scold.” “Very well, Matt.” “But I’ll come,” she said, smiling, “to-morrow; and I’ll come in my Sunday clothes, somehow.” “Don’t trouble. On reflection, I think you look nicer as yon are.” She lifted up her hat from the ground, and still hesitated as she pat it on. “Upon my word!” cried the artist! “those Welsh hats are very becoming. Good-by, Matt.” She took his outstretched hand and waited an instant, with her warm, brown cheek in profile temptingly near his lips. But he did not yield to the temptation, and after a moment’s further hesitation, in which I fear she betrayed some little disappointment. Matt released her hand and sprang hurriedly away. “Upon my word,” muttered the young man, as he watched her figure receding in the distance, “the situation is growing more and more troublesome! I

“THOSE WELSH HATS ARE VERY BECOMING.”

shall have to make a clean bolt of it, if this goes on. Fancy being caught in a flirtation with a wild ocean waif, a child of the wilderness, who never even heard of Lindley Murray. Really, it will never do!” CHAPTER VIIL THE DEVIL’S CALDRON. It so happened that the young man of the caravan had >vo considerable faults. The first fault my reader has, no doubt, already guessed; he was constitutionally lazy. The second fault will appear more clearly in the sequel; he was, also constitutionally inquisitive. Now, his laziness was of that not uncommon kind which is capable of a great deal of activity, so long as that activity is unconscious, and not realized as being in the nature of work; and its possessor, therefore, would frequently, in his idle way, bestir himself a good deal; whereas, if he had been ordered to bestir himself, he would have yawned and resisted. Here his other constitutional defect came in, and set him prying into matters which in no way seriously concerned him. A little time before the period of his present excursion, when he was studying law in Dublin, and rapidly discovered that he loved artistic amateurship much better, he had often been known to work terribly hard at “cases” in which his curiosity was aroused; and I may add, in passing, that he had shown on these occasions an amount of shrewdness which would have made him an excellent lawyer if his invincible objection to hard work, qua work, had not invariably interfered.

No sooner was he left to his own meditations, which the faithful Tim (who had fortunately been away on a foraging expedition during the episode described in my last chapter) was not at hand to disturb, than our young gentleman began puzzling his brains over the curious information she had given him. The facts, which he had no reason to question, ranged themselves under four heads: (1) Matt had been cast ashore fifteen years previously, at an age when she could pronounce the word “papa.” It followed, as a rational argument, that ■he had been, say, one year old, or thereabouts. (2) Mr. Monk had found her, and given her into the care of William Jones, and had since handed that worthy sums of money for taking care of her. Query: What reason had the said Monk for exhibiting so much care for the child, unless ho was a person of wonderfully benevolent disposition, which my hero was not at all inclined to believe?

(3) Said Monk and said Jones were I on very familiar terms, which was j curious, seeing the difference in their j social positions. Query again: Was ; there any private reason, any mysterious knowledge, any secret shared in common, which bound their interests together? • (4) Last and most extraordinary of ! all, Mr. Monk had now expressed his | wish and intention of marrying the 1 waif he had rescued from the sea, committed to the care of said Jones and .brought up in ragged ignorance, i innocence of grace or grammar, on i that lonely shore. Query again, and | again, and yet again: What the deuce | had put the idea into Monk’s head, and | was there at the bottom of it any deep- | er and more conceivable motive than | the one of ordinary affection sci a 1 pretty, if uncultivated, child? | The more Charles Brinkley pondered • aU these questions the more hopej lessly puzzled he became But his curiosity, once toused, could not rest. He determined, if possible, to get to the midriff of the mystery, ho intent was he on this object, which fttiod Iq bssutifullv with hiai natural

indolence, that he at once knocked off painting for the day, and, after breakfasting on the fare with which Tim had by this time appeared, be strolled away towards the seashore. He had not gone far when he saw approaching him a tall figure which he seemed to recognize. It came closer, and he saw that it was Mr. Monk, of Monkshorst. This time Monk was on foot. He wore a dark dress, with knickerbookers and heavy shooting boots, and carried a gun. A large dog, of the species lurcher, followed at his heels. Brinkley was passing by without any salutation, when, to his surprise, other paused and lifted his hat. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “We have met once before; and I think I have to apologize to you for unintentional incivility. The fact Is —hum —I mistook you for a—vagrant! I did not know you were a gentleman.” So staggered was the artist at this greeting that he could only borrow the vocabulary of Mr. Toots: “Oh, it’s of no consequence,” he said, attempting to pass on. But the other persevered. “I assure you, Mr. —Mr.—(l have not the pleasure of knowing your name) that I had no desire of offending you; and if I did so I beg to apologize.” Brinkley looked keenly at the speaker. His words and manner were greatly at variance with his looks —even with the tone of his disfigured brow, and his mouth twitched nervously as if he were ill at ease.

Regarding him thus closely, Brinldey saw that he had been somewhat mistaken as to his age. He was considerably under fifty years of age, but his hair was mixed with gray and his features strongly marked as with scars of old passions. A handsome man, certainly; an amiable one, certainly not! Yet he had a peculiar air and power of breeding, as of one accustomed to command.

Curiosity overcame dislike and the young man determined to receive Mr. Monk’s overture as amiably as possible. “I dare say it was a mistake,” he said. “Gentlemen don’t usually travel about in caravans.” “You are an artist, I am informed,” returned Monks. “Something of that sort,” was the reply. “I paint a little for pleasure.” “And do you find this neighborhood suit your purpose? It is somewhat flat and unpicturesque.” “I rather like it,” answered Brinkley. “It is pretty in summer; it must be splendid in winter when the storms begin and the uneventful career of our friend, William Jones, is varied by the excitement of wrecks.” How Monk’s forehead darkened. But his face smiled still as he said: “It is not often that shipwrecks occur now I am glad to say.” “No,” said Brinkley, dryly. “They used to be common enough fifteen years ago.” Their eyes met and the eyes of Monk were full of fierce suspicion. “Why fifteen years ago especially?” The young man shrugged his shoulders.

“I was told only to-day of the loss of one great ship at that time. Matt told me, the little foundling. You know Matt, of course?” “I know whom you mean. Excuse me, but you seem to be very familiar with her name?” “I suppose I am,” replied the young man. “Matt and I are excellent friends.” Monk did not smile now; all his efforts to do so were ineffectual. With an expression of savage dislike he looked in Brinkley’s face, and his voice, though his words were still civil, trembled and grew harsh, “as scrannel pipes of straw.” “May I ask if you propose remaining long in the neighborhood?” “I don’t know,” answered the artist. “My time is my owu, and I shall stay as long as the place amuses me.” “If I can assist in making it §o I shall be happy, sir.” “Thank you.' 1 “Do you care for rabbit shooting? If so there is some sport to be had among the sand hills.” “I never shoot anything,” was the reply, “except, I suppose, ‘folly as it flies;’ though with what species of fire-

“I BEG YOUR PARDON,” HE SAID.

arm that interesting sport is pursued,” he added, as if to himself, “I haven’t I the slightest idea!” “Well, good day,” said Monk, with an uneasy sco .vl. “If I can be of any , service to you command me!” And raising his hat again, he stalked i awav j “Now what in the name of all that ;is wonderful,does Mr. Monk,of Monkshurst, mean by becoming so civil?” This was the question the young man | asked himself as he strolled away sea- | ward. He could not persuade himself ! that he had wronged Monk, who was in reality an amiable person, instead of a domineering bully: no, that suggestior was contradicted by every expression of the man’s baleful and suspicious face. What, then, could be the explanation of his sudden attack of courtesy? An idea! an inspiration? As it flashed into his mind the young man gave vent to a prolonged whistle. Poosi bly Monk wis- jeaknm) *

The idea was a pra porter i*ts mm and almost amusing. It was not to be conceived, on the first blush of it, that Jealousy wonld make a surly man civil, a savage man gentle; it wonld rather have the contrary effect, unless —here Brinkley grew thoughtful—unless his gloomy rival had some sinister design which he wished to cloak with politeness. But jealous of little Matt! Brinkley laughed heartily when he fully realized the absurdity of the notion. He crossed the sand hills and came again to the path which he and Matt had followed the previous day. A smart breeze was coming in from the sou’west and the air was fresh and cool, though sunny; but clonds were gathering to windward and the weather was evidently broken. Reaching the cliffs, he descended them and came down on the rocks beneath. A long, jagged point ran out from the point where he stood and the water to leeward of the same was quite calm, though rising tyid falling in strong, troubled swells. So bright and tempting did it look in that sheltered place that he determined to have a swim.

He stripped leisurely, and. placing his clothes in a safe place, took a header off the rocks. It was clear at once that he was a powerful swimmer. Breasting the smooth swell, he struck out from shore, and, when he had gone about a hundred yards, floated lazily on his back and surveyed the shore. The clifts were not very high, but their forms were finely picturesque. Here and there wero still green creeks, fringed with purple weed; and large ; shadowy caves, hewed roughly in the side of the crags; and rocky islets, covered with slimy weed awash with the lapping water. A little to the right of the spot from which he had dived the i cliff seemed hollowed out, forming a 1 wide passage which the sea entered with a tramp and a rush and a roar. Toward this passage Brinkley swam. He knew the danger of such places, for he had often explored them both in ; Cornwall and the west of Ireland; but i he had confidence in his own natatory j skill. Approaching the shoro leisurely, ' with strong, slow strokes, he paused outside the passage, and observed that j the sea-swell entering the opening rushed and quickened itself like a j rapid shooting to thi» fall, turning at 1 the base of the c VJBC into a cloud of : thin, prismatic spray. Suddenly \ through the top of the spray, a cloud I of rock pigeons emei'geA, winging their ; flight rapidly along the crags. [TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE STRING OF PEARLS.

A Woman’s Aje Spoils Her Prospect! Before the Court. “Sir,” said Abdullah, a» he appeared with his sister, Fatima, before the judge, “perhaps you will remember the brave Abbas, who died thirty years ago. He was our father, a»d left both of us his property in equal proportions, on which we have hitherto subsisted in common. Fatima, it is true, has been peevish and quarrelsome during the last few years, but I always gave way, as I am a lover of peace. But I have recently chosen the beautifhl Zoraida for my bride and thought of giving her this valuable string of pearls—the most precious keepsake of my father’s in my possession; for he gave it to me on his return from a journey when I was five years old, and it has been mine ever since. But Fatima will have it that the pearls are part of our fathers legacy and claims half of them as her share. She refuses to listen to my arguments and insists upon her claim —not, indeed, for the sake of the pearls; oh, no! I see quite plainly she wants to spoil my pleasure and that of my bride-elect, for my sister does not like tho idea of Zoraida entering the paternal home as mistress. Now, wise cadi, give judgment.** The cadi bowed his head and said: “Fatima, is the case as your brother has stated?”

“It is all quite correct, excepting th« assertion that the string of pearls belongs to him alone. How does he mean to prove that father gave it to him? I dispute the fact and claim my share; my reason for so doing is immaterial to the question at issue.” “Well, Abdullah,” said the cadi addressing the plaintiff, “have you any living witnesses or handwriting to prove that your father gave you the pearls?” “I have nothing of the kind,” wm the reply. “That is a bad lookout,” the cadi continued. “I fear there is no prospect of an amicable settlement by persuading your sister to accept a sum of money for her share.” “No,” she broke in; “I want half of the pearls!” “very well,” said the cadi, beckoning to his clerk; “I must have a report of the case drawn up before delivering judgment. Say, defendant, your name is Fatima —what is your age?” Here she blushed, hesitated, tried more than once to speak, but never uttered a syllable. “How old are you?” tho cadi ro peated; “speak!” At last she replied in faltering tones: “I am twenty-eight.” “Really?” said the judge with an ironical smile. “I hereby award the whole string of pearls to Abdullat alone. Take them, plaintiff, and go your way in peace! Fatima is not your sister; for Abbas died thirty years ago, and she is only twenty-eight*”—Flio-gende Blaetter.

Too Trivial.

Judge Chase, of Vermont, was a man of excellent sense, and a great stickler for the dignity of courts. At one time a case of very trifling importance, which had well-nigh run the gauntlet of legal adjudication, came before the highest court in the state. The counsel for the plaintiff was opening with the usual apologies for a frivolous suit, when the subject matter, “to wit, on* turkey, of great value," caught ths ear of the judge. “Mr. Clerk,” he called out in an irate tone, “strike that case from the docket The supreme court of the state of Ver mont does not sit here to determine the ownership of a turkey!”—YomthH Companion.

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