Rensselaer Republican, Volume 22, Number 2, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 September 1889 — Page 3

FORGIVE AND FORGET. Oh! forgive and forget, for this life is too fleeting To waste it in brooding o’er wrongs we have met; It is better, far better, to smother our anger, To teach the proud heart to forgive and forget. frn the path we must tread loading down to the valley, Are crosses and trials to lift and to bear, And the chalice of life from which we are drinking Oft bears to opr lips drops of sorrow and care. * Cut life is so short, be it sunshine or shadow, That we cannot afford to brood over a wrong; Let us lift up our burdens and bear them s on bravely. We’ll lay them down shortly, it cannot be long. ♦Then forgive and forget! If the friends yon love fondly Prove themselves false and unworthy of trust, Deal with them kindty, for they are but mortals, Erring, like us, for we, too, are but dust. Ceal with them tenderly-, pity their weakness , We know every heart hath its evil and good, We ait have one Father in Heaven, hence are brothers. Then let us forgive and forget as we should.

TOO LATE.

j A Story of St. Valentine’s Day. CHAPTER IV. The Squire did not put that embarrassing question to the Baron; he did rot need; Iho information required was given voluntarily. The next morning he asked his quest if he should like to see his stud, of which lie was not a little proud, and deservedly so—the Nettlethorpe stud had a wide reputation. 1 ‘But you don’t hunt, I believe?” he added. The Baron said he did not, but that Tie knew a little about horse-tiesh, and •did love a line horse. Smoking cigars. the gentleman proceeded to the stables. The Squire was not quick at observation, and, even when observant of somo unaccountable trifles, he was not given to put two and two together; they simply puzzled him for the time being, and then he was apt to forget they had occurred. To-day he was struck by the extensive knowledge of matters pertaining to horseflesh evinced by liis guest, and thought it odd, considering that he had disapproved of any sporting proclivities. Then he remembered that he had been in the Guards, and ceased to wonder. In a little while however he ■was again forced to notice a further and more marked discrepancy. In an animated discussion with the Squire’s stud-groom, the Baron’s broken English seemed suddenly repaired, a very unmistakable cockney vernacular making itself evident. Every now and again, though, ho seemed to recollect his part, and diverged into the imperfect pronunciation of a foreigner. Then the Squire thought it odd that a foreigner and a gentleman, ostensibly so ignorant of the English language, should be so familiar with the technical terms of a trainer’s stable; these he not only understood, but applied correctly. The Squire expressed his surprise. “My fader,” replied tho Baron, lapsing into his broken speech—“‘my fader had a very’ fine stud too, and Always English grooms, Vend was a small boy I did rido like one jockey;” and he laughed. His host was satisfied. “Madam Konuett, she did tell me her broder had splendid horses,” he continued, “and asked me to come and see dem; so, as I did always hear how hospitable de English Squire was, I did eojnenow.” Squire Nettlethorpe was more than satisfied; he was intensely relieved. The situation had explained itself; but he must warn his sister to be more careful with foreigners for the future. Then, feeling that he had harbored ■unworthy thoughts of the stranger, he Intended to treat him to a piece of gratuitous confidence. “Stub,” he said to the stud-groom, “show the Baron tho colt.” With a reluclant air the groom Obeyed. “For de Derby?” said the Baron. The Squire nodded. “I’ve kept him quiet,” he said. “I think he’ll be a surprise;” and then he sketched the splendid animal’s pedigree. Unwittingly he made an omission, which, with unerring quickness, she Baron detected and corrected. “You know it!” he said, startled. ‘ The Baron saw his mistake. “Everybody knows Dickey-bird,” he eatd hastily, naming the colt’s great-great-grandsire. 1 *My father did breed from him. What you call this one?” “Nettle,” replied the Square, almost hesitatingly. “If I vos one betting man I know ■yhat I should do;” and he went up to the colt and felt him with a hand evidently used to the office. “I do not heUeve dat in all England there is such a beauty,” he said; and then he •asked some experienced questions concerning the stable management, which the groom answered with reserve. They had proceeded some yards on their return to the Hall, when the Baron suddenly turned on his heel, iaying he had left his stick in the •table, and would feten it. The Squire Waited for him, standing still. The stick was found behind the door, Whero the Baron hud left it, and Stubbs produced it. The men looked each other in tho eye steadily, tho stick in tho groom’s grasp. “What game is this you are up to?” ho said ipenacingly. “Don’t you cut up rusty now, or I’ll nlow on you,” was the answer; “keep dark and I’ll square it.” “If you hry a-finger on the coll. I’ll II * “Not likely—l’U lake every penny I

can get on him. What are you in for if he wins?” “More than you could square; so be off. And look here,” the groom added, as he handed his companion his stick. “Don’t you show your nose here again, or I’ll make a clean breast of it to the Squire.” With unruffled effrontry the Baron took out a pocket-book and handed the groom a hundred-pound note. “For old times, Bill,” he said; “I’ve turned over a new leaf. Never go inside a stable now—-doing the foreign noble for a spree. Keep dark; I’m off at the end of the week.” “Well”—and Stubbseyed the note—“we’ve been pals; and, if I’d been half the rogue you was, I’d maybe be doing a Spanish make-believe. Bein’ on the square's often a virtue that’s its own reward. If so be as you clear out of the Hall when you ses, an doesn't seek to come here agin, I’ll take the note—its New-Year limes, and it’ll come handy.” The transfer was made under the conditions laid down, and tho Baron rejoined his host, accounting for the time he had detained him by stating that the stick had got among the straw, and he had difficulty in finding it. Before the end Of the week, the Baron had established his footing in Nettlethorpe Hall as first favorite with all save Nell and Janet. Andrew declared him a good fellow, and invited him to his quarters in London, and the Squire pressed him to return at no distant day. Nothing had been said about the brooch; at Janet’s express desire, no allusion was made to the Baron on the subject; but, the night before his departure, his adieux being all made preparatory to an early start in the iiiorning, be found on liis toilet-table a small parcel containing the trinket. No sign or word accompanied it; it" was there by itself, to speak for itself. The Baron was'not sensitive. His attentions to Janet had answered the end for which they had been paid—namely, -intimate—relations with the family. He had seen that they were not acceptable from a serious point, even had he intended them seriously, which he did not; the prize, he said to himself, was not costly enough. So he put away the brooch as future stock-in-trade. During his brief stay at the Hall, he had picked up some valuable pieces of information outside stable-matters. Nothing had escaped his ears or his notice. Nell's little love affair with her cousin, her anonymous Christmas gift, her supposed disappointment of the autumn, all were known to him. He had listened to good purpose, and, being quick of apprehension, had understood allusions meant only to contain meanings to the ears addressed. What remained to be told he drew from the Squire in apparently inadvertent questioning, and from Mrs. Kennett, who was apt to be cofidential if well led up. A few days after the Baron's departure Ihe twins returned home. Randall, at his sister’s request, said nothing of the anonymous gift the latter had received on Christmas morning; but Nell, to whom unnecessary concealment was abholrrcnt, took a private oppoi'tunity to display it to her mother, requesting that she would not mention the circumstance to any one, with the exception of her father. On taking it from its case, Nell found it was broken, two of the links having snapped across. She was distressed, far more than the occasion seemed to warrant. “It. must, have been aunt Kennett,” she said. “She asked to see it one morning; I took it to her, and, when she was examining it, Janet called me out of thcToom. When I came back I found it neatly done up in the ease, and lying on the table. Aunt was not there; so I took it away, and put it into my box without examining it.” “It could not have been your aunt, Nell,” exclaimed Mrs. Thanet. “Some one must have come in in her absence, opened the case from curiosity, and, handling the chain roughly, broken it —your servant probably.” “Or it might have been the maid who helped me to pack,” said Nell. “I forgot to lock my box when I went down to dinner, and she may have returned to my room from curiosity, and so broken it. We packed the night before as we left early the next morning. Oh, lam so sorry—-it is so unlucky!”—and she burst into tears. Her mother took the girl’s hands and held them to her breast. Her eyes too were moist, and her voice tender with sympathy. “My child,” she said almost in a whisper, “I did not ask you for your confidence. I knew why you withheld it. You had nothing definite to tell me; but a mother’s eye is keen, Nell, and I read your secret. Even now I do not ask you to tell me all that has passed between you. I too have had my young days, and I know there are things too delicate for speech, things so fragile Bpeech would break them. But I do ask you one question, Nell, and you will answer me truly, that I know. Did he ask of you any pledge?” A faint “No,” was the answer Nell gave. “Do you consider yourself pledged to lnm?” “Yes,” was' the reply - this time, lowly spoken, but firm. “Do you believe that he will return some day and ask you to he his wife?” “Yes,” again answered, the girl, looking suddenly up into her mother’s eyes half, defiantly, aa if rebutting an Unworthy suspicion, and yet not wholly with the ring of confidence in her voice. “You are young: Nell dear. You may have mistaken fapey for love; for, when you do lovo. you will not love unworthily, and a fancy is easily set aside. “Mother darling,” said the girl, drooping her eyes, “it is love, net fancy. Lovu with me is love for evermore:” V'”™' —' • ' “Even if you knew Elm to be unworthy?"

“Even if I knew him to be unworthy.” “Nell, would you be false to yourself?” “No; only too true, mother. Love is no part of moral nature, to be evolved from virtue; it is a thing* apart. How it coines no one yet has told; but, once com 6, no one yet has castit out if you will—but dominant, and. vital beyond time.” The girl spoke calmly; but her eyes glowed; And her mouth had a line of will which her mother read aright. She quailed for her child; but she saw her duty, and with a beating heart she performed it. One tender word first she spoke, “You would make one effort, darling, to forget, would you not? Your pride would help you. You would not waste your youth in vain regrets; you would up and do.” Nell’s eyes took a troubled look, as of vague apprehension. She answered gently. “I should never try to forget, mother; don’t you know a sorrow’s crown of sorrows is l’emembering happier things’? But, if it were possible that the need should come, my pride should . arm me against vain regrets; and life and I should find something better to do than pine in a ‘moated grange’.’} She tried to smile, but her lips quivered. “Mother, Ibelievein work.” Then the mother went silently to her desk, and laid before her child first the copy of the letter she wrote to Lyon Leslie, and then his answer. With a face pale as the moonbeams, and scared eyes, Nell read the documents. Mrs. Thanet’s was simple and dignified. Even as her heart burned within her, Nell held her mother blameless if not wholly justified. It ran thus—“My Dear Mr. Leslie,— May I ask you, if circumstances forbid you to follow your in olinations to the only ultimatum her parents . would approve, to cease the particular attentions you have lately paid our daughter. I have no reason to suppose that you have made yourself peculiarly acceptable to her; but youth is impressionable, and I would spare her unnecessary pain. We live in too small a community, and a,young girl’s name is a delicate commodity; “Yours very truly, "Maky Thanet.” The gentle and almost portentous bringing-up of her mother had in a measure prepared Nell for the blow Lyon Leslie’s letter dealt. Like a young sapling she bent to the blast, every leaf trembling, every fibre quivering. The rebound was sudden—a spring back as from an inner force; but in after time the perfect growth would ever bear the traces of the storm it had weathered. Nell’s nature, though sympathetic with others, was partially independent of sympathy in itself. In her lightest hours she had been reticent of her own inner feelings, and in hor grave moods, though often the recipient of the hopes and fears of doubting hearts, carefully enveloping her own in a l-eserved silence, not her most intimate friends, save Janet Kennett, and she but in part, had ever dared to question her. The letters fell from Nell’s hands. “My poor child?” whispered her mother, the tears rolling down her cheeks. But Nell’s eyes were dry. Her oyos had deoponod into night, they seemed to have suddenly sunk in their cavities. She spoke; her voice was cold and hard. It was nearly five o’clock, and she heard the servant coming to draw the curtains and light the lamp. Her senses were keen and clear. As she spoke, she bent and kissed her mother on cither cheek, so brushing away the tears. “I would be alone, mother,” she said. “Good night. You will tell father—what She went to the door slowly, as one walking 1 in an uncertain light; but her Step was firm. It seemed to Mrs. Thanet as if blood were oozing drop by drop from her heart, so intense was her sympathy with her child in this her hour of agony. Nell’s hand was on the door. With a sudden recollection, she turned back, went up to the table, replaced the locket and chain in its case, and, not trusting herself with a glance at her mother, left the room, Mrs. Thanet thought, like a shadow. CHAPTER Y. For once in his life Mr. Thanet had, in the matter of his children, to yield to his wife; but not without a battle. Randall was to return to his studies at University College at the end of the week, and Nell was to accompany him in her deliberately chosen capacity of medical student. She had decided to be a woman-doctor. But not even to her husband did Mrs. Thanet confide her daughter’s motive, nor the circumstances which had led up to her decision. She had accepted Nell’s determination as sound. She recognized the fact the girl in a few, words stated, that work of an imperative and absorbing nature alone could save her mind from preying upon itself, and prevent her nature from drifting into hardness and recklessness. “Just at present lam indifferent to the whole human species,” she said, “save my own family; so do not give me credit for the wish for a vicarious life; but the science of medicine is a noble one, and I shall love it for itself, and in time it will humanize me once more. Randall does not like it; but eyen he is Interested, and, perhaps, when we come to study together he will apply himself in greater earnest, and so better.” And It was this argument that gave Mrs. Thanet the victory over her husband. Whether Nell would pass a good curriculum or not, or would even pass at all, seemed a matter of perfect indifference to Mr. Thanet. If however her “fad” was likely to be of service to Randall, there was an end to serve in letting her take what he considered an unwomanly step; and he would give hie consent

Professions in commerce for his sons, and husbands for his daughters, were Mr. Thanet’s moral responsibilities to his children; In these, until the episode of the twins, he had acquitted himself satisfactorily. To Randall the news of his sister’s sudden determination Was an altogether joyful surprise, He pledged himself to increasing exertion to his father, and even went so far as to declare that, now Nell was to share his studies, he would rather follow the medical profession than any other in the world. And Mr. Thanet, more than satisfied, gave his wife carte blanche to make liberal arrangements for their daughter's comfort in London. The nurse who had been in the family for over a score of years was to accompany the twins, and to have Nell rnder her special charge. She was a Scotchwoman, Mclan by name, and a native of Mrs. Thanet’s county, shrewd and faithful and of sober years, being over fifty. In a very short time the trio had settled comfortably down in a small suite of rooms in Gower Street, and the twins were busy at work. Before appearing among her fellow-students, Nell paid a quiet visit to a hair-dress-er, from whose sanctum she issued shorn of her woman’s glory, her abundant and wavy hair. What remained was a crop, just long enough to cttrl slightly up all around the neck, and to fall, as her brother’s did, in a large lock over her forehead, touching her eyebrows. Seated opposite to each other at night in their little study, the shaded lamp between, their likeness to each other was simply startling. The dress too was illusive—she in a close serge jacket buttoned to the throat, with a narrow collar just appearing, he in his student coat of similar material. Nell’s step had caused a commotion at Nettlethorpe Hall. Perhaps it was not altogether uupleasing to Mrs. Kennett. The lady had noticed with no favorable eye her son’s evident admiration of his beautiful cousin. She had other views for him; the baronetcy to which he was heir would be a barren honor, and her own fortune, though considerable, when it had been mulcted of portions to liex T daughters would not suffice to restore dignity to a title now associated with poverty and a menial profession. It was therefore incumbent on the future Baronet to marry well; money in the first place, but family also, if possible. * * * * * * Lyon Leslie had joined his regiment, the —th, stationed in London. But his brother-officers all declared that he was not the good company he had been. He was hasty too, an unusual thing with the easy-going, self-indulgent Leslie. Some ventured to hint at country quarters, and to ask leave to look at his late additions to his photograph album; they did not find it convenient to touch on that ground again. The officer who had relieved him in his reeruiting appointment at had written to him once or twice, detailing such gossip as he thought was likely to be of interest to his predecessor. It was in this way that Lyon heard of Nell’s Christmas visit to Netthorpe Hall, and then he called to mind the connection between his own family and that of the Kennetts; he was conscious of a tame regret that he had not remembered it sooner. If only there had been fortune, it might have been possible then; the Kennett baronetcy was important enough on paper, and really, after all, such a girl—she was like a queen—needed very few adventitious aids, he was sure—now he remembered, he used to feel she had good bloddTn Egr 'veins. After all, race never did die out. It might degenerate, but ever and again, it asserted itself in a perfect specimen. It had done so in the case of beautiful Nell Thanet. Well, he would think over it time enough; she wouldn’t soon forget, that he knew; and there was no knowing what might turn up. Then he hoped with a sudden fear, that a certain little note might never reach Nell’s eyes, he wished he had not been so hasty; but he hated manoeuvering mothers. With these thoughts chasing each other with uncertainty and regret through his brain, Lyon Leslie strolled into his club, and ordered luncheon. At a table close to his own were seated two men, one a Captain Barnes, known to him rather intimately. They were about to lunch, and Captain Barnes asked Lyon to join them, which he did. Captain Barnes then introduced his companion to Lyon as the Baron von Melkenburg. “The Baron had come to buy some racing stock,” he said; “he has made some good hits already, I think;” and the conversation became horsy. The Baron, although he had made no sign, had at once recognized in his new acquaintance the gay recruiting officer of the little town of Thorpe, known to him well by reputation, and the haughty Miss Nell Thanet’s lover. The horsy talk led the Baron to Nettlethorpe Hall, He had been staying there during Christmas, he said, by special invitation, had gone to see Squire's stables, knew Mrs. Kennett and her three' pretty daughters at Dresden, had nearly lost his heart to the youngest, Mees Janet; feared though, he was not of constant mind, for he fell head over heels in love with her pretty cousin Miss Neil Thanet. He found out In time however, that she was only a flirt; he caught her one night in the conservatory with her consin, kissing him, not under the mistletoe, but under the rose. She gave him however a very pretty souvenir, and he took from his waistcoat pocket a tiny box, opened it, and gave it to Captain Barnes to inspect. “You’re a pretty fellow for girls to give love-tokens to,” he said, laughing, a« he took out a tiny link of delicate workmanship and examined it curiously. “Read de inside,” said the Baron,

with a sly glance at Lyon, who, with a quickened eye that betokened mischief, was watching the box. “Dinna forget,-” read! Captain Barnes, passing the tiny ring on to Lyon. “Did Miss Thanet give you, that— that link?” he asked. “Yes, surely, I did say she did;” and the Baron replaced the box in his pocket. With a violent effort, Lyon restrained himself. His caution, never long at fault, whispered to him how compromising a dispute with a so called Baron would be, a man who already was a little more than suspected to be an adventurer. His common sense, on which he prided himself, also told him that he had no right to be angry, no manner of right to question Neil Thanet’s acton. Lyon Leslie was, if not base, yet hollow of heart; it never occurred to him to doubt the Baron's statement. “She is gone to be one female medicine,” added that gentleman. “I did see her in Gower Street this day; but she did not see me. I did take good care of dat. She was dressed like one boy, and hep hair it was cut like one mop. Ye have woman doctors in Germany too—dey are ver’ strongsouled females.” A letter from Lyon’s Thorpe correspondent corroborated the Baron’s statement. There was something in the matter unaccountable to Lyon Leslie. He felt an inner conviction that, in some way, ho was connected with the step the girl had taken; but he smothered thought, and tried to keep from speculating. His friend at Thorpe threw no light on the circumstances attending Nell’s strange conduct, as it seemed to' him. Tho affair of the link rankled in him, and, after a day or two’s unwonted uneasiness actual indecision, he determined/fo forget all about the girl, who, no doubt, was a designing little minx, after all. His heart smote him, and he anathematis. ed an unobtrusive crossing-sweeper. He had had a good escape; and he would take good caro of country quarters next time. (to be continued.) Tolstoi’s Religious Teaching. Count Tolstoi claims to have gained perfect peace and happiness from his sudden discovery of the true meaning of Christ’s teaching. Whereas he once hated life and dreaded death, he now enjoys a complete serenity and a tranquil empire over himself. Whereas life once appeared to him appalling in its emptiness, and he experienced the thrice-doubled “vanity” of the preacher, he now lives with “happy yesterdays and confident to-mor jtws. ” Whereas wealth and fame and rank and comfort once seemed to him to slip into ashes at a touch, like the body of an exhumed king, he now finds contentment, hope, health, and blessedness’in the life of a peasant and the toil of a shoemaker. I have no doubt that in all this he does not deceive himself. In all sincerity and in ail self-sacrifice there lies a potent alchemy, and the extent to which true happiness depends on external surroundings is inappreciable in comparison with what it gains from those elements of contentment and charity which have more power than aught besides to make our thoughts “Pleasant as roses in the thicket’s bloom, And pure as d6w bathing their crimson leaves.” He who lives up to an unselfish ideal will find with certainty that it yields him a delight which neither the world, the flesh, nor the devil can pretend to bestow. But it no more fellows that the same ideal should be adopted by all mankind, than iT follows that the joy inspired by a delusion is an argument in favor of accepting the delusion. A hermit, a trappist, a stylite may be supremely happy, and yet the theory on which their lives are based may be radically false. Tho church, he says, has nothing left her but the valueless pariphernalia of temples, images, gold embroidered banners, and—words. With her metaphysical explanation she has hidden the light of Christ’s doctrines under her vestments, and has been scorched by it. She has done any work she ever had to do, and is atrophied* Therefore mankind has repudiated her and everything that is alive in the world of Europe has detached itself from her. All churches (he says) are like sentries carefully keeping guard over a prisoner who has long escaped them. He expressly oompares himself to Jonah preaching to the Nineveh of a disregardful world.— Archdeacon Farrar in the December Forum.

Gladstone’s Voice.

Gladstone’s voice was heard in the Edison laboratory at Orange, N. J., the other morning. Mr. Gladstone and other prominent Englishmen talked into the phonograph at CoL Gourand’s, Mr. Edison’s representative In London, Dec. 18, and the cylinder* were shipped to this country. When the cylinder was affixed and the little machine started, the voice of Col. Gourand was first heard, introducing Mr. Gladstone to Mr. Edison. There was a moment’s pause, and then in full, deliberate tones came the following words dropped from the English stateman’s tongue nearly a month previous: “I am profoundly indebted to you for, not the entertainment only, but the instructions and the marvels of one of the most remarkable evenings which it has been my privilege to enjoy. Your great country is leading the way in the important work of invention. Heartily do we wish it well; and to you, one of its greatest celebrities, allow me! to offor my hearty good wishes and earnest prayers that you may long live to witness its triumphs in all that appertains to mankind. Mr. Edison promises to give a private rehearsal of great men’s voices in the near future.

The Detective’s Dodge.

The secret service division of the treasury department recently made a haul of counterfeiters in a clever manlier after as neat a piece of work as is usually encountered even in the modern novel. In that mysterious manner known only to trained agents of tn« service, it became known that two men, named Frederick Brodbeck and Chester Collins, were the owners of an apparatus for making bogus coin, and were turning out a quantity of crooked money, their headquarters being on a canal boat running up into the state from New York city. They carried on an ostensibly honest trade as freighters. The service agents in New York watched them pretty closely, and when the “Sinn,” which was the suggestive name of the craft, went up the canal to Boundout they laid a plan to capture the outfit. One agent —called for the purpose of the case Jones, since the service is shy about letting their men become known thereupon betook himself to Bondout, and arraying himself in a combination of rags that would disgrace a Jersey tramp, loafed around the "Sinn.” Catching the eye of Brodbeck, who posed as captain of the boat, he asked him when he was going back to New York. The reply was in two or three weeks. Jones then exhibited himself in all his wretchedness, and asked for a ride down, as he had, pointing to a pair of shoes artiscaily worn out, walked all the way from Troy. Brodbeck, not caring for intruders, refused to let him work hfs passage, as he desired, but finally gave him the job of pumbing out the boat, promising him ten cents with which the poor fellow could get something to eat. Jones pumped for two hours and was given twelve cents, including a nickel that was counterfeit. He came back the next day and hired out again, managing to keep around the boat for several days in this way, and receiving quite a large number of bad pieces. The boatman usually made inquiries as to whal he had done with the money, presumably to test its efficacy in passing. Jones nosed about a good deal, but was handicapped by the extreme watchfulneas of Brodbeck, Collins remaining in the cabin most of the time, so that all he obtained in the way of evidence was the bad money he had been paid 7 in return for his hard pumping, and occasional sniffs of the odor o ( melted leafl issuing from the cabin, which he was not allowed to enter. He was at work at the pump one day when a couple of the secret service up and told Brodbeck th it Jones was a crook from Troy and that they wanted him. and proposed to search the boat for stuff they thought he had hidden there. Brodbeck declared that there was nothing in the boat, but they searched it nevertheless and hauled from the cabin quite an outfit of counterfeiting apparatus. The partners claimed that Jones had smuggled them on board. They were taken down to New York, and upon examination made clean denials of all guilt* alleging that the name of their craft was the only sinful thing about them or their lives. Then Jones told his story in a simple, unaffected manner, and when he had finished he said that he had gone there as a secret service official and had been given bad money and had smelt it cooking. This unexpected revelation entirely broke up the pair, who remarked that the jig was up and made a complete confession.— Eif.

Noble Tom Wiley.

Some forty years ago a resident ol this city parted with his wife and little girls for the purpose of going to Texas to settle permanently, intending; to send for them as soon as arrangements could be made for their comfort. Il wßs_DOt for two years that he felt secure in doing this. They soiled for Galveston on a vessel that left this city in 1844, I think. One other passenger, a young man named Wiley, a resident of Southwark, who had recently inherited a valuable estate in Texas, accompanied them. The lady and little girls became Very much attached to Wiley, whose noble nature and kindly disposition endeared him to them. He seemed to enter into their joyful hopes of a speedy reunion with their father. They counted the hours as they passed. Soon —within a few days—a storm was encountered, which increased in severity until they were finally compelled to take to the boats. The captain, one sailor, who was injured during the storm, Tom Wiley and the mother and her little ones were in one boat, with scarcely any provisions aud very little water. The sailor soon died and found a grave in the sea. The mother and little ones were cheered and encouraged by Wiley, who took off his only coat to cover the children. For nearly six days they suffered terribly, their provisions being so limited that they did not dare to satisfy their hunger. Poor Wiley, his great heart being In sympathy %rith the mother and her little ones, could not be induced to touch either food or water. Remembering the joyful hopes and earnest prayers of those little girls to meet their father, and having learned to love them for themselves, no persuasion or even strategy could prompt him to touch a drop of water cr that sacred food. - , Finally when they were pioked up he was so exhausted that he could scarcely ask, “Are the children and mother safe?” “Yes, they are safe,” was told him. He could ody say, “Well. Well,” and expired. This is my hero.—Philadelphia Press.

Uncle Sam’s Women Clerks.

Some of the old ladj clerks are finelooking, and some of them had noted careers in society before going Into the departments. One had Jefferson for an ancestor, and another, perhaps the most beautiful of the white-haired ladies of the Treasury, was the wile of an Ohio Governor. These old lady clerks dress well, and among them are some of the most agreeable talkers in Washington. Their hearts are young, though their hair is white, and they a,re almost ps fascinating now as when the bloom was- on their cheek* and they were the belles of their native states.