Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 3, Number 23, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 7 December 1872 — Page 6

I it -I

'*i- NOBODY KNO WS. How the world wags, from the dawn to the close,

Who are oar friend*, and who are oar foes, Nobody knows. How many wake, and how many sleep How many laucb, and bow many weep: How manv now, and bow many reap,

Nobody knows.

How many pray, and how many sin How many lone, and bow many win, Nobody knows. How many watch, and how many wait How many tarry, and bow many mate How many early, and bow many late,

Nobody knows.

How many rive, and bow many take How many brew, and bow many bake, Nobody knows.. How many smile, and bow many sigh How many sing, and how many cry: How many are low, and bow many hlgb,

Nobody knows.

a How many bless, and bow many corse How many better, and how many worse, Nobody knows.

How the world ways from the eve to the I dawn How many love, and bow many scorn

H«w many die, and bow many are born. Nobody knows.

The jOne-Eyed Conductor.

Our wedding vu a very quiet one. There was no money to spare on either side, and, after a family breakfast, we went directly to the cars and started for our future borne. I was a young thing then—Just eighteen—ana my dear Joe was only three years my senior two ahy, happy, foolish things we were, it seems to me now, as I look back upon that day Kjf many years ago. The very trip—from Philadelphia to Harris burg—commonplace as most peo1 pie would think it, was a wonderful

event to me, who had never taken longer than an boor's ride In the cars before in my lite.

I viewed, with eager, interested eyes, the country tbrougn which we passed, and all that was going on around me the passengers, the tar itself, with its fixtures, the conductor and the brakeman, were all objects whose novelty gave me thoughtt, in those days, that were very apt to evince themselves in eaier, unreserved chatter.

We thought we were conducting ourselves with all possible case and dignity yet I do suppose now there was not ai individual who looked at us that did not guess at a glance our recently Msummed relationship. I am sure that the conductor did. He was a fine, portly-looking man, with a genial brown-whiskered face and busby hair he would have been a really handsome man had it not been for the loss of one eye it bad been lost by disease—the exterior of the eye. save that it was sunken and expressionless retained its original appearance. The remaining ay® was bright and blue, as jolly ana sparkling as the rest of his pleasant, good-humored face.

As he came to collect our fare, Joe handed him a bill. For yourself and wife. I suppose, sir he asked, with a smile.

Joe turnod very red, and bowed a dignified assent. As for me—I confess It—1 turned my head and tittered. Very ridiculous, was It not?

The car bad not been near full when it started, but people dropped in at the various way-stations, so that by the tiuno we reached Lancaster nearly evory seat was taken. We, at starting, had taken two seats, turning one to face uh, upon which our various bandbaggage was placed. At Lancaster the cars stopped some time for dinner and Just as they were about to start again, our conductor entered the car,ushering in an old lady in Quaker garb, beneath whose deep bonnet was visible a kind, plump,rosy face,with bright spectacles.

She glanced around on either side as she advanced up the aisle in search ot a seat, and, in obedience to a nudge from me, Joe rose, and beckoning to the oonductor, said ''There Is a seat for the lady here."

Smilingly the old lady approached. I coimnonced gathering up the shawls and packages that lay upon the vacant aaat, that it might be turned to its proper position but the old lady cbeoko.l me.

Don't trouble yourself, friend I S y\n sit Just as well with the seat as it 1*and without further ceremony she oasconced herself opposite mo, while the one-eyed conductor deposited a 1 irge covered bandbox at her feet and paid her so many little attentions, at tbo same time addressing her in so familiar and affectionate a manner, that I saw at once she was no stranger to hlui.

A glance at the kind old face opposite soon told me they were mother aid son. for the two ffceos were wonder1" illy alike, esprclally in the open, cheerful expression. My heart was drawn toward her at once, and, as the conductor moved on, I could not resist making some overtures toward acquaintance by asking if she was quite Qjmfortable,

Quite bo,thank thee,*' she answered at onoe. "but I am afraid I have disQimmoded thee somewhat."

Not at all," I sssared, and the Ice onoe broken, we chatted together very ireely and pleasantly.

As I had surmised, the oonductor was her son, and very proud and fond of him tho old lady was. She told as many tales about his wonderful goodness, his kind-heartedness and unselfishness, and when, after we bad left the next station, the conductor approached us, we really felt as If we were already acquainted with him, and were disposed to be as friendly with him as with his mother.

Ho stopped to exchange a few words with her, and, as she was talking with us, we very naturally all fell into convorsatlon together. He proved to be an intelligent man, who bad seen a great deal of lite, particularly on railroads, so his conversation to me at l&ast, waa very entertaining. Among hor Interesting things he explained to us the signs and signals used by railroad officials upon the road. One ot thoee signals—the only one I need mention here—he explained as rollowst

When a person, standing in the roal, or front of, or by the aide of the car, throws both hand rapidly forward as If motioning for the ears to go backward, he means to give information that there is "danger ahead-" "When you see that signal given, madam," said our conductor, "It the oars don't obey it by backing, do you prepare yoursoHfbr a living leap, for the ohancee •re that yon will have to practice it baton* long."

He spoke lightly, but noticing that the Ideas suggested were not very pleasant on« to me, he changed the subject, and 1 soon forgot the little Peeling of discomfort his words had occasioned.

The old lady did not travel

with us Tar. She stopped at a waystation some twenty-five miles weet

I Lancaster aUtlou, where she lived with a married daughter, who kept a boardin

hou*«.

She gave

one of her

daughter'* cards, and Jo® promised If eVr had oeotsiou to visit Lancaster lie would try and find her ouU

With mutual kisd wishes and cheer

TRRRR-HAUTE

fUl ad lens we parted. The old lady was helped out of the train by her son, and we saw her a moment later upon the arm of another gentleman, whom we supposed to be her ron-ln*law, walkins briskly up a little hill that led from the station to the heart of the

Til

lage. Our own journey came to a conclusion in due time, and the last I saw of the one-eyed oonductor was when he stood on the platform of the cars helping us out with our baggage, which he had carried for us from where we had been sitting.

It is not my purpose to entertain the reader with any details of my private history further than is necessary to give a'just comprehension of what is to follow. Two years had elapsed before I was called upon to take thejseoond journey, to the event of which what I have already narrated forms a necessary prelude. This time I jouro6vod •Ion® from Hartisburg to Philadelphia, upon a visit to my parents, whom I had not seen since my marriage. I had been having a good deal of trouble. I was ill for some time after my baby's birth, and before I had lullv regained my strength my little boy was taken ill. He had the whoop-ing-cough, and after I had nursed him throngh it the whole summer, be took a oold in the fell that brought it back upon him *od finally kilted niiii. I was so weak and miserable myself that I could not struggle with my grief as I should have done I pined and moped and wasted away until the doctor said that if I did not have a change ofseene, or something, he would not answer lor

did "not went to leave home and the dear remains of my lost baby above all, I did net want to leave my husband, for, in my foolish despondency. I felt a foolish dread that he was to be taken from me. It was impossible, Just now, tor him to leave his business to go home with me they were executing a heavy order at the foundry, which kept all hands working almost day and night. He promised that he would join me as soon as he eould but after what the doctor had said, he would not hear of my departure being delayed a minute longer than oould not be avoided so he wrote to my fsther that would be In Philadelphia on a certain day, in order that be might meet me at the depot and having seeme in the cars at Harrisburg, and put

Ealf

bia after a comfortable, uninterrupted day's ride. Ah how different was the trip from the one I had taken two years before! How different was I—the wan-faced, hollow-eyed invalid, in my mourning robes—from the shy, blooming girl in her bridal array, who found so much to amuse and fnterst her in that brief journey 1 Nothing interested me now nothing amused me all was wearisome and monotonous. I leaned from the car window as long as I oould to catch the last glimpse of poor Joe, who "with a smile on his face and a tear in his eye," stood upon the platform waving his hat to me as ws moved

aiA&er

that I sank back in my seait,

too sad snd despondent even to cry, and lay there as we sped along, thinking of nothing, caring for nothing, but the memories from which I was trying to escape. I did rouse up a little as the conductor approached to collect my fare—the resemblance of the one-eyed man and his nice little mother recurred to me the first time for many months. This conductor, however, was not my old acquaintance, being a sallow, darkeyed, cross-looking man, as different as possible from the other one. I felt a little disappointed at first, but after he left me I leaned back and thought no more about the matter.

After awhile I fell into a dote, which lasted until the call of "Lanoester— twenty minutes for dinner!" ringing through the oars aroused me, ana informed me that we were just entering the city. I sat up then, sleepily and languidly. It was a warm day in early Ootober, and the window of the car was lowered I leaned my elbow upon the sash, and looked out upon the scene before me. As I was thus gazing, drowsy and indifferent, neither caring nor thinking much about what I saw. I noticed a man upon the roadside, a little in front of the car in which I sat gesticulating violently with his hands and arms.

The next minute I was sitting bolt in my seat, my heart lea ..most into my mouth with sudden fright, for in the gestures that were being made I recognised the signal which, twe years before, the one-eyed conductor bad told me meant "danger ahead." The cars were not moving very rapidly, and during the moment that we were passing by the msn that had Riven the signal, I had a lull view of him—his free being turned toward the car, and his eyes meeting mine so directly that I could have spoken to him had I chosen. I recognized him at once—it was the one-eyed conductor

Impending for I knew he must occu py some responsible position upon tho road, and oould, therefore, have mads no mistake In the matter.

No one else, however, either Inside or outside of the car, seemed to pat take of my alarm. The earn were alackeaing their speed, but that waa because we were approaching a station, and I had not intendod getting out of the oars until 1 had reached the end of my Journoy, but had been so startled by what I had seen that I could not sit quietly In my seat.

I got out with the rest of the passengers, but did not follow thorn to the hotel. I stood upon the platform gazing up and down the track uneaally but eoula not see nothing at all that could awaken apprehension. The oneeyed conductor was nowhere to be seen, though I watched the road, in the direction where we had passed him, for some time, expecting every moment to eee him oome in sight. A porter, trundling a wheelbarrow, passed me, and of htm I ventured to Inquire:

Is there anything the matter with the engine or with the track "Not as I know on," he answered gruffly, snd missed on.

I was terrible uneasy: I was certain that 1 had not been mistaken in the man or the signal—the latter especially I remembered—a forward motion of both bands, as if directing the cars to back. I could recall distinctly the face and gestures ot the oonductor who had explained It to me, and also the words, "Ifeveryoa see that S*—* pare tor a flying leap, ties are that you will soon have to take

ignal given, premr the probabil-

It and the longer I dwelt upon what I had witnessed the more convinced dkl I become that the signal had not been given caroleealy. went into awaiting room to sit down until I could determine what It would be best for roe to do. I folt a most invincible repugnance to returning turning to the cars and continuing the Journey the excitement and worry had made toe sick and faint, and I felt that Iran a great risk of becoming ill before I reached my journey's end, even II

there was no other danger to be dreaded. What if I should stay over at Lancaster until tne next day, and telegraph to father to meet me there And at the same instant I remembered that there waa in my traveling satchel, in the outer pocket, where it had rested undisturbed for two years, the card which the old lady had given me, bearing the name and address other daughter, who kept a boarding-bouse. That remembrance decided me if I could find lodging at that place I would remain oyer night at Lancaster.

Summoning a driver to me I showed him the card, and asked him if be knew the address. "Certainly, mum," he said promptly, "take you there in ten minutes Mrs. Elwood's boarding-house quiet place, but excellent accommodations."

Thus assured, I entered his carriage, and he fulfilled bis promise by setting me down after a short drive in front of an unassuming two-story frame house, whose quiet, elderly appearance made it look unlike a boarding-house. A boarding-house, however, it proved to be, and in the landlady, Mrs. Elwood— who came to me after I had waited awhile In the darkened parlor—I traced at onoe so strong a resemblance to my old Quaker friend, as convinced me I had lound the place I sought.

As she was leading me up stairs to my room I ventured to state I had met bor mother two years before, sad had formed a traveling acquaintance. Mrs. Elwood's pleasant smile upon hearing this encouraged me to ask if her mother was living with her, adding that I should be pleased to renew the acquai ntanoe. If she was. The reply was in the affirmative. "You will meet her at dinner, which is served at two, and she will be glad enough to have a chat with you, I'll venture to ssy."

I wrote out my telegram to father, and Mrs. El wood promised to hsve it attended to at once tor me after doing everything that kindness oould snggest, she left me to the rest I was beginning very much to feel the need ot tidy-looking little maid came to me when the dinner-bell rang to show me the way to the dining-room and there the first person I saw was my little old lady, already seated near the upper end of along table.

She bowed and smiled when she ssw me, bht we were too far apart to engage in any conversation. After the njeal was over she foined me, shook bands very cordially, and invited me to come ana sit with her in her room. I was glad to accept the invitation, for in my loneliness tne kind face of this chance acquaintance seemed almost like that of a friend and soon in one of the easiest low-cushioned ebairs in one of the choicest of the old ladies apartments I was seated, talking more cheerfully and unreservedly than I had talked since my baby died.

I expressed some surprise that she had recognised me so promptly, to which sho replied: "I had always a good memory for faces, though nsmes I am apt to forget when my daughter spoke to me about thee, I could not at all call thee to mind, yet as soon as thee entered the diningroom, I remembered thee." "And yet I do not look much like I did twoyears ago," I said,sadly. "That is true, my desr thee has altered very much. I almost wonder now that I should have recognized thee so promptly. Thee has seen trouble, I rear,''she added, gently touching my black drees. "Yes," I said, "I have had both sickness and death to battle with I neither look nor feel much like the thoughtless, happy bride whom you met two years sgo." "Is it thy husband who has been taken from thee 7" "Oh. no! no!" I cried, the ready tears rising to my eyes: "I don't think I oould have' lived ir I nad lost him. It was my baby that died—that was hard enough the dearest blue-eyed darling you ever saw—just ten months old."

My old frlejd's face betrayed her sympathy, as she sat silently waitiug tor me to regain my composure. After a little she said, sighing: "It is hard to lose a child, whether young or old. lean folly sympathize with thee in thy bereavement, for I, too, have lost a son since I last saw thee, though I wear outer garb as a badge for my bereavement."

I looked at her, a littte surprise mingled with the sympathy I tried to express. "I thought I remember your telling me you had but one son." "That was all," she said, sorrowfully. "God never gave me but one, and him He has taken away."

I stared at her now in undisguised astonish meht. "Was not that gentleman—surely, madam, I was not mistaken in thinking the oonductor—the gentleman who brought you into the cars when we met two years ago—was your son "You are right, he Was the son of whom I have spoken." "The one-eyed man I gasped, forgetting delicaoy in astonishment.

The old lady flushed a little. "Yes, friend, 1 understand whom thee mean at, my poor Richard had lost the sight of his left eye."

T,I

saw that man this morning!" I cried excited "I saw him from the oar window before we entered Lancaster. What atrangs misunderstanding Is IhisT" "Thee has mistaken some one else for him, that Is sll," said my companion, gravely. My boy thee oould not have seen, lor he died fifteen months ago the 16th of the month. He died of cholera after two days' illness. Thee could no*, have seen Robert." "I did though—I did!" I cried, excitedly: and then 1 related to her the whole Incident, dwelling particularly upon the signal I had never seen but onoe before in my life, and then made by him when he explained It to me. "I waa not mistaken," I bad concluded "It oould not be your son wss not an ordinary-looking man, and 1 remember his sppearance distinctly. Sure as I ait here, I saw this morning the man who, you tell me, died fifteen months

*%e old lady looked white and frightened, while as tor me, I wasgrowingso hysterical with bewilderment and excitement that she would allow me to pursue the aubject no forther. 8he led me to my room and persuaded me to lie down*, leaving me then, for she herself wss too much agitated by the con to be venation we had able to soothe me.

I saw her no more that day. I did not go to tea, for the excitement of the day rendered me so seriously ill that I wss not able to rise until a late hour on the following morning. I was still dressing when there came a rap at my door, accompanied by the voice of my Quaker friend aaking admittance. 1 opened the door and she entered with awe-struck Owe, snd bands that trembled so she oould hardly hold the newspaper to which she directed my attention. "Friend," she said, "thy life has been saved by divine interposition. The train la which thee was yesterda passenger, in less than two hours

SATURDAY. EVENING MAIL. DECEMBER 7. 1872,

lay a after

thee left it,wss thrown over an embank mentataplace called tbe 'Gap' and half of the passengers have been killed *r wounds*."

Siohri Bound.

I know I am pretty," said Clara Wintringham to herself, garing composedly into her mirror, "but I do not think I am sufficiently beautiful to send all the young men of my acquaintance into ecstacies over me."

It is not always very easy for a girl to judge cf her own looks but Clara tried to be as impartial as possible on this special occasion. And what was it she reflected in the glass before which she stood, critically surveying the creature whom tbe world called Clara Wintringham

A tall, supple figure, with sloping shoulders ana a daintily taped waist a skin as soft as satin, and tinted like an oleander blossom, deep bine eyes, just shaded into violet, at the iris, and a little fresh mouth, where tbe teeth shone at every smile like pearls through a crimson shell.

Yes," said Clara, nodding her head so that oertain spirals of golaen brown hair which always hung over her head danced coquettisbly up and down, "I am pretty. Then that five hundred pounds a year that Uncle Bruce's will secured me isn't altogether a disagreeable pill for some of my lovers to swallow. I don't think I was made for an heiress. I like to mend, to patch and contrive, and I've always had an idea that I would make a splendid poor man's wife. I mean, of course, a splendid wife for a poor man,"

She took from her belt a withered red rose snd a bunch of violets as she spoke and arched her pretty eye-brows over them in a puzzled fashion.

Harvey Gillette gave me the rose," she soliloquized. ''He's very bandsoms, is Harvey, andl always aid have a weakness for handsome people and he's arising young man in bis profession, people say. 1 like talented pie, too. I'll keep the rose just a little while." And she laid it away in a certain satin-lined box where she was wont to treasure souvenirs of these her girlish days. "And Frank Hood's violets—poor Frank Hood He's so silent and so awkward, and yet there is something about him that won't let one despise him. He certainly is not handsome, though be has fine eyes, snd a face like one of those old marble creations one sees in the School of Design. Well, I won't throw away the violets either, not just yet."

Clara took tbe jeweled hair-pins out of her shining tresses, and laid aside the white tarlatan dress and wreaths of blue blossoms, and went composedly to bed.

For why should she lie awake and lose the fresh rose of her complexion, and the sparkle of those glorious violet eyes, thinking about the respective claims of the various lovers who hovered, mothlike, about the torchlight of her charms There was time to make up her mind—quite time enough. Why, she was not yet nineteen, and life was so full of bloom and freshness tor her. Clara knew that the autumn must come sooner or later, but she meant to have a good time first. Sensible Clara!

So, in the very middle of the season, when balls, parties, operas, masquerades, and dijeunes santantes were at their height, and when old Aunt Dalmayne wrote a piteous letter up to her brother in town, setting forth that "she had the rbeumatiz dreadful bad, and there wa'nt any help to be had, and she was that lonesome that she couldn't stand no longer, and wouldn't stand It no longer, and wouldn't one of her thrfie nieces oome down and stay with her for a short time Clara astonished tbe family circle by volunteering to go.

My dear." said Mrs. Wintringham, "you don't know what you are undertaking. It is a common farm house."

And Alantha Ann is lull of whims." said Papa Wintringham, rubbing bis nose. "But I suppose she is poor and lonely."

Well, but," said Clara, "Miriam ia busy with her music lessons and her German Class, and Laura belongs to those sociaoles I seem to be the only one disengaged. Besides I'm getting tired of balls and parties and twelve o'clock suppers. I should like to try the other extremejust for fun." "You'll find It anything but fun," said Mrs. Wintringham, putting her gold-stoppered casoletto to her aristocratic nose.

Well at any rato, I mean to try," said Clara, valiantly. "So papa, you may write to Aunt Dalmayne that I am coming*"

The scene looked indescribably beautiful to Clara Wintringham, that frosty December nlgbt, as tbe jolting old chaise, with a sleepily old horse trotting in front, turned into the valley road, and she could see tho ancient farmhouse, steep roofed, and brown with a half century of suns and rains, with the elm boughs wrestling overhead in tbe gale, and the wooden hills rising upon every side while one ruddy beam of light glowed from the tiny window under the eaves, casting, as it might be a favelin of brightness athwart the road in front of the door. "I think she's expectin* of yon," said ths rough charioteer who bad been sent to tbe station to meet Mrs. Dalmayne's niece "but I'm afeared you'll find it very lonesome." "Oh," cried Clara, gleefully, as she sprang out of tbe vehicle, "I think it is splendid!"

She entered the low-rocfed kitchen, all aglow with the soaring fire of logs on the hearth, and forther illuminated by two tallow candles in bright brass candle sticks. Aunt Dalmayne bad evidently bestirred herself, for the table was spread with hot biscuits, baked apples, custards, and preserves, and the ola lady herself hobbled forward on a crutch to welcome her neice. "Why, my dear," cried Aunt Dalmayne, stepping back to take a second survey, "you're as pretty as a picture!" "lam?" said Clara, coloring and laughing! "But, aunty, what a glorious fire you have got, and what a darling old urn, and how nice that tea does smell!" "Sit down and have a cup my dear," said Aunt Dalmayne, highly flattered.

Before Clara Wintringham slept that night she had taken Mrs. Dalmayne's heart fairly by storm.

She had been an inmate of the oldfashioned farmhouse for about a week wbea one of those grand snow storms came on which veil tbe whole countryside iu spotless whits, ahd hang the woods in royal robes or ermine. Aunt Dalmayne's rheumatism grew worse, and she kept her room but Clara went about as light-hearted as ever, doing the whole work of the house, with such assistance as Moses, tho handyman, was able to render her.

Tbe snow bad fallen all day, blown into drifts by the wind that howled lugubriously through the clefts of tho hills, and at last twilight deepened over

the stormy earth. Clara was sitting thoughtfully before the firelight, paring apples for a pudding which was dear to Aunt Dalmayne's invalid soul, when Moses came In.

Miss Clara," said he, "there's two gentlemen got storm-bound outsideThey've missed their way, their homes are clean tired out, and they wanted know if we'd give 'em a night's shelter. I told 'em Mrs. Dalmayne was ill, and I wasn't master, but I'd ask the young woman—Miss Clara."

Clara winced a little, then laughed out-right «t Moses' unpolished lan-

"§f course they may come in," she said. "I wouldn't turn even a dog from the door on such a night as this."

She threw a fresh log on the fire, and lighted the candle as she spoke. But what was her amazement, on turning to welcome the strangers, to behold in them no strangers at all, but Mr. Harvey Gillette and his friend, Frank Hood.

Powdered liberally with the snow, their noses reddened by tho wind, their features rendered unnaturally rigid by cold, they stood blankly regarding her bat Clara came forward with the grace ot a young duchess.

Good evening, gentlemen. Pray come a little nearer tne fire. I hardly supposed that in tbe snow-bound strangers who sought shelter, I was to welcome old scquaintances!"

Oh, Miss Wintringham—exceedingly glad to see you, I'm sure!" stammered Mr. Gillette, awkwardly allowing bis frog-Ilk^ hand to touch her own. "But what can you possibly be doing In such a place as this?"

Didn't Moses tell you she asked, demurely. "I'm doing the housework here."

Miss—Wintringham!" C.tl! Well, why not f" Mr. Gillette had no reply ready he only rubbed his hands, smiled feebly, and advanced towards the red blase while Mr. Hood waa exchanging in turn his greeting with the former heiress. "It is a surprise, Miss Wintringham, to see you here," he said frankly, "but a very agreeable one."

Clara wondered in her heart what mood of gallantry had taken away all Frank Hood's awkwardness. "It is as good ss a tableau," she thought gleefully, when Hood had ex unexpected bu taken tbem across the country in the dead of winter, thus bringing about

Ead

lained to her that unexpected business

»Kln*

so entirely an unanticipated meeting, and she went into an outer kitchen to get cream for tbe table. As sbe stood there skimming off tbe golden accumulation which followed her spoon In thick folds, she heard Gillette's Voice speaking. "Of course the father has failed and they've lost everything. A great pity for with that face she might have married well." "What* Is to prevent her marrying well now Frank Hood's slow deliberate tones snswered. "My dear fellow, we most all look out for tne main chance. In fact, I was once a little bit smitten myself, but of course it is quite out of the question now."

Mr. Hood did not reply and Clara, as she stood there, with burning cheeks, was g)ad that he aid not.

But when she came back to preside at the tea table she was as. composed as ever, save that her color was a trifle deeper than usual.

The storm continued in unabated violence for two days, during whioh time Mr. Gillette yawned over tbe week old newspapers, smoked his cigar beside tbe fire, and systematically ignored Miss Wintrlngham's presence.

Frank Hood, however, reasoned otherwise. He haunted Clara's footsteps with lover-like persistency be helped clean the windows, wipe the dishes, even ©wottTod to »weep the floors, thereby creating confusion. And Clara, though she declared he was more of a hindrance than a help, seemed to like It.

On tbe third day the weather cleared gloriously, and Moses brought the strangers' horses. "Come, Hood," said Gillette, impationt "are you going to stand there all day making adieus?" "Be oft as quick as you like," said Hood calmly. "I am not going." "Not going! But business—" "Hang business!" was the unaccountable reply. "What do 1 care for business Miss Wingtringham has promised to be my wife, and my business is hero at present."

Mr. Gillette muttered a few incoherent congratulations, and rode away, ejaculating beneath bis breath: "I never saw such a fool in all my life.

Whfit Harvey Gillette was gone, Clara told her lover tbe truth, ana tbe whole trutn. At first Frank was half inclined to be vexed. "I didn't want an heiress," be said, biting bis lips. "But you want me, don't you said Clara, with the prettiest coaxing way in the world. "Ofoonrseldo," said Frank. "But darling. I had such a bright little dream of love In a cottage "And it shall all come true," said Clara, "in spite of tbe five hundred a year."

The two young loyers traveled back tete-a-tete to London, as soon as Moses Peckhsm's sister could be loduoed to come snd take Clara's place in Aunt Dalmayne'a household. What Harvey Gillette's feelings were when he learned the true state of tbe case we leave the imaginative reader to conjecture, for the best of tacticians may outgeneral themselves at times.

A WORD TO YOUNO MBS One of the meanest things a man can do, and it is not sn uncommon occurrence, is to monopolize tbe time and attention of a young girl for a year or more without any definite object, and to tbe exclusion of any gentlemen, who, aupposing him to hsve matrimonial intentions, absent themselves from her society. It prevents the reception of eligible oilers of marriage, and fastens upon tbe young lady, when acquaintance is finally disolved, the unenviable and unmerited appellation of "flirt." Let all your dealings with women, young men, be frank, honest, and nobfe. That many whose education and position in like manner would warrant our looking for better things are culpably criminal on these

faints,

is no excuse for shortcomings, bat woman is often injured or wronged through her holiest feelings, adds but a blacker dye to your meanness. One rule is always safe. Treat every woman you meet as you would wish another man to treat your innocent and confiding sister, 1

I* buying hose in France one Is not asked as In Knglsnd. if you desire inside, middle or oataide women's stockings, but to double yonr fist. Tbe shop girl then takes the foot of the •locking, and if tho hssl and toe will meet in compassing ths fist the tells you It Is your siss.

THE PEOPLE WHO MOURN FROM DUTY, When I meet them I recoil with mora horror thsn ever from crape and bombazine and all that sort of nonsense. I believe that mourning of the heart oan, be carried on without any of those outward signs which strip from us every vestige of white that might not look comme /out, and transforms us for six niontha into black monuments of.. wo*. Then the vail shortens, a strip or whita appears at the neck the veil is raised somswhat, and so the improvement goes. When I see the people who: have just put *way father or mother,sister or oroiner, appearing with white collars and cuffs, rcanduue that their grief is to great too admit ot mourning propensities. At Jackson's, down town, when you enter, a soleibn clerk with doleful voice asks your waau. "Deep mourning or light Are youfcwiclow You answer "No." Then another clerk will say, more cheerfully, "You Ve not a widow, and want light mourntyl child or mother?" By the time reach the mitigated counter you find the'clerk there all 'wreathed in smiles.' —[N. Y. Letter.

1HE, ®t\

SATURDAY EVMIXO

«t!

,»w

r* Ys-'

MAIL,

I* £&* J. 4. t-

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For tKe Year 1872-3.

Hilt

BMVUB BATES.

The SATURDAY EVENING MAIL, an Independent Weekly Newspaper, will be mailed to subscribers at TWO bOLLARB a Year ONE DOLLAR for Six Months, and FIFTY CENTS for Three Months, and te Clubs at the following ratea: Three Copies, One Year...- .1 5 00 Five ,tii" i" 8 Ten ." 15 00 IWentf

With One Copy extra to the getter up of a Club of Ten. or more. Mall and office Subscriptions will, Invariably, be discontinued at expiration of time paid for. tfv v* Hi r-uf»ui4*

CLUBBING WITH OTHEB PEM1* OBNALB. We are enabled to offer extraordinary inducements in the way of clubbing with other periodicals. We will furnish the SATURDAY EVENING MAIL, PRICE 13.00 PER YEAR, with any of the periodicals enumerated below at greatly reduced rates. These periodicals will be sent direct from the offices of publication. Here Is the list: '"'.'"""".i. :a Xttvf -SEMI-WEEKLY.

The Moll and Semi-Weekly W, Y. Trlbme, price, 4.00 .«

WEEKLY PAPERS. «*.

Mall and tbe ladlanapolls Jo«r 4 sal. price 18.00 IB 00 The Mail and the iBdlaaapolls lea* tlael, price 8 00 The Mall and the M. Y. Trlfco«e, price 12.00 01 The Mall and the lMdlasia|»olls

Kewa, price 11.50 2 78 The Mall and the T«lod* Blade, price 12.00. 8 00 The Mall and the If. Y. World, price 00 The Mail and the N. Y. Ann, price ft.00 2 80 The Mall and the Prairie Farmer, __ price 12.00 8 00 The Mall and tho Weetorn Bnral, price 12.00 ...» 8 00 Tne Mall and the Chicago Advance, price 12.60 8 60 The Mall and tbe Cblcaf* Interior, price 12.80 8 80 The Mall and tbe Chicago Bepatellcan. price 11.50 2 78 The Mall and Appleton'sJeurnnl, price 14.00 4 60 The Mail and the Sural Hew Yorker, price $8.00 8 8 The Mall and Hearftk and Home, price 18.00 8 78 The Mail and the Methediat, price fg nfr 8 00 The Mall and Every Saturday, price $5.00 8 W The Mall and Harper's Weekly, price $4.00 5 The Mall and Harper's Basar, price $4.00 8 00

i...

M0NTHLIEg

The Mail and the American Agrl* enltnrlat, price $1.60 12 80 The Mall aad Demereat's Monthly. price VMO. 11 year 8 60 The Mall and Oodey'aLmly'sBook, price 18.00 00 The Mall and Uw I*dlea' Own

Magaalne, price tl 2 60 Tbe Mail and the Worth Weatern Farmer, prioe 11.00 60 The Mall and the Little Corporal, price $1.60....

r..

8 00

The Mall and the LIUIe Chief, price 75 cents. 2 28 The Mall and the Utile Sower, price 75 cents 2 28 Tbe Mall and Scrlhner*a Monthly, price, $3410 °8 The Mall and the Atlantic Month-

TleMail and^«T(i¥nd¥e^l^w'$i. 4 80 The Mall and Overland Monthly, _price, $4.00...—

The Mail and Harp«r*e Magnalne, _price $4X0 6 The Mall and Yonng Folks Ba ml 2 80

atJBBlVCI WITH COUNTY PAPERS We have made arrangements to famish tbe Mail with the following Newspapers, published in the neighborhood of TerraHaute, at very low rates. Here Is tbe list: The Mall and Sullivan Union 00 Tbe Mall and BoekvOU Ifew*. 8 00 Tbe Mall and Brazil Miner —8 00 Tbe Mall and Bowling Green Archive*.... 8 00 Tbe Mall and Marthall Herald... 3 00 Tbe Mall and HooHer HtiOe. 8 CO The Mall and Newport Trantcripi. 8 09 The Mall and Aurora BoreaU* 8 00

Persons getting np clubs for tbe MAIL,and desiring to obtain subscriptions for other periodicals on onr list at the same time, will be tarnished a list of the prices at which socb subscriptions can be taken separately by us, upon application to this office.

Address, P. S.WBBTrAIA* 2 Tsve-Haute,Jadlaaa.