Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 12, Number 36, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 4 March 1882 — Page 6

THE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

EQUAL TO THE EMERGENCY.

We stood, one night, on B«aeon street, Befoie her family mansion, •\Vhi!o in my heart the throbs of love

Were struggling for expansion We just hadleft the theatre. Had heard '"II Trovatore," j\ nd, on the door-«tep talked about,

The music and the story.

8lf raved about the wondrous voice Of Signor Campanini, «he praised his acting and his face,

While I stood like a ninny. 1 wanted to—but why explain? (f half suspected she knew It) 1 hemned, and twisted like a foo.—

And hadn't pluck to do it.

I waited long for some excuse My stupid brain preplexing. And then, at lengh,a silence fell.

Ho awkward and so vexing But suddenly she brightened up, This loveliest of nilases'Oh, by the way, did you observe

How gacefully he kissesT" Ben Wood Davis, in Boston Advertiser.

DEEDS, NOT YEARS.

Ho much to do, far to climb, Ho little learned at fifty! .Ah! youth is prodigal to time,

Age only makes us thrifty.

dl

4

The silveu -deans that in our locks Arc sunsb.'spale fore glances, Teach a* thai deeds, not beating ciocks,

Jiark fltiy Timo'to advances.

"On the Circuit."

Desiree pulled her hat down over her face—a fair round little face, with a delicate bloom upon it—and leaning farther ovor the low gate, looked in a troubled, pathetic sort of way up the white dusty road. It was a hot summer day, and so the road looked especially white and dusty. It was far too hot to be pleasant. Desiree thought. The roses in the garden seemed to burn upon the bushes those climbing upon the arch over the gate actually named and panted when a faint breath of air touched them at least this was Desiree's fancy about them but then the truth was, Desiree •was not quite herself this afternoon. She had been happy enough this morning when she had risen. Life had looked a different matter to her then. She liadgoueto her small window and thrown it open with an indrawn breath of delight. The roses had been heavy and wet fragrant dew the thick long

gonswith

rass had sparkled with it, the carnaand sweet old-fashioned clove-

Sirdsarid

inks had worn crowns of it, the blueswallows had.seemed to shake it from their joyous wings. And Desiree, leaning from her bedroom window, and drawing in that ecstatic morning breath, had felt the fine, subtle influence of dew and sweet air, fragrance And song of bird, actually tingling in her youn^ veins. "I will finish my work early," she had said softly to herself. "I will have the churning over and the house tidy in ood time, so that I can dress as soon as inner is out of the way. And then," with a sigh of innocent anticipation, "I shall have all the rest of the day to myself if he comes and he said he would. Besides didn't Baat give it out in the meeting?"

ShO had arranged her own room for the day before going down stairs it was HO early that, she had time to do it. And after sne had sot everything in order she had gone to her trunk and taken out the

Eod.

ink gingham to lay it ready upon the Perhaps, too, she wanted to take a lost look nt it. It was so pretty, so fresh, and, in away of its own, so suggestive of the day's coming happiness! She had never Nvorn it beforo, and it was so nice to think of lirst wearing it on this particular day, when there would be somebody to see it who could appreciate its prettiness—some one who had said a few weeks ago, "Desiree, you are like a blush-rose in its first bloom." She had thought of that speech tvhen she chose the pink dress rather than a blue ono. Would not her pink dres^make her look more like arose than over? So there it lay upon the bed, and Desiree stood and regarded it with growing pleasure, feeling a little excited in prospective, her little brown heau oti one side, like a robin's, her brightest bloom upon her soft round oheeks.

But before half the morning had passed over evory tiling had changed. She had got the churning Jout of the way, and cleared the kitchen, and was just standing nt the back-door feeding her pot brood of chickens—round, plump little downy things, it little like herself in typo—when her grandmother came out 'on to the porch and spoke to her. "Desiree," she said, in her plaintive, melancholy tone (she never called the offild by lier pretty French name—the name her young mother had chosen out of one of* her s.ecretlv mid romances: Mrs.J Rcid was inclined to regard every tbinqf French as dangerous and worldly) —"Desire," she said, "you are trying to tan -yourself again." "fiut I might try a loug time without .succeeding,' answered Desiree, cheerfully, her happv mood defying even irrandmothor to disturb it. "You know don't tan, granny."

Mr*. Reid regarded her discontentedly* "Bart says—,, she began.

Desiree's cheeks caught an extra glow of pink all at once. She did not want to hear about Bart. "Bart is always saying something," she spoke up, a trille pettishly. "Desire?, returned Mrs .J lleid, in a monotonous sort of disapproval, "I am afraid you you are growing very worldly and unbridled ot speech. You were not always so uncharitably minded toward Bart. It is not becoming to you either. What hu said was nothing concerning you it was only about the voting man from Hamlinford- that Mr. Ruysland."

Desh-ee bent lower over her chickens. Hhequite felt her heart beat in her throat. Oh dear, how sharp and bad-tenipcol she was and what a mistake she had made! What might she not hive missAd hearing, all throngh her own evil tendency It would be a jrast punishment if granny kepi the rest to herself. She felt almost tearful about it. She was such sensitive, childish little creature that the tears were never very far from her dark soft eyes. "Now, Blac*wln»t, don't Neicwly she faltered, faintly, rill up the pause, as it were "Brighteye and Speckle want some.'* "Bart only said," ended Mrs. Reid, «'that he had been called away/

Dofiree forgot her «hicken» that instant. She stood up. with her eye* wide onen. the picture of fear and wonder. "That kt had,"—"Bart himself

Luckily Mrs. Rtiid was not the sort of person to read expression readily. "You are dropping all your meat, aire," she sain. "No, not Bart—Mr. Raysland so Bart will have to preach In his place."

It wa* then that the change came. The sun l«ccame too hot, the garden too glaring in its profusion of brilliant

bloom. The pink dress lost its charm it was of no value. He was not coming. There would be no long, sweet, warm afternoon for her spent on the front porch, in the shade of the jasmine and honeysuckle, with soniebody talking in a low, gentle, familiar voice no long,

tha meeting-house. It came upon like a dreadful shock. And yet it would probably seem such a trifling disappointment to men and women who have lived long enough to forget the bittersweets of seventeen years. "You are giving those chickens too much too eat," said Mrs. Reid. "\ou had better come into the house and Jeave them to themselves." And she walked in herself as quietly as she had walked out. ^That was how it had happened. Desiree left her downy brood, and went up stairs to put the pink dress out of sight. She laid it in the trunk again, poor little soul! quite solemnly, as in a sort of tomb, a«d she shed divers large, bright tears over it. "I don't care about," she said, piteously "I don't care about anything, couldn't bear to put it on."

And here now she stood at the gate, with her small linen hat pulled down over her eyes, partly to hide them, partly' because the long stretch of white dusty road seemed to glare* so. She scarcely knew why She was looking out. There waa no one to look for nobody whose appearance would affect her. Somebody was coming—a very insignificant somebody, however—a tall youhg man on horseback, "who jogged along toward the house quietly enough. "Nobody but Bart," she said, "thinking of what he shall say to-morrow, and settling on the hymns. He never thinks of anything else."

But it was not in her nature to speak crbssly to Bart, or even to look crossly at him, when at last he reached the gate and bej^n to dismount. She turned her pretty, dixnpled face to him and smiled and the shadow of her hat—not much of a smile, but still a faint attempt at one. "Where have you been to?" she said. "To see one of the Rndd boys," he answered. "He is very ill has been for some time, too, poor fellow! Isn't it rather warm for you out here, Daisy?" (That was his version of* it—"Daisy." He had a fancy that she was like a daisy, and he had given her the name in her ohildhood, though I doubt if he had ever told ker of the fancy.) "It is too warm everywhere," listlessly. "I suppose I must have come out here to cool, though I hardly kuow. I may as well go in aud see about supper. It is along ride to the Rudd place, aud I dare say you are hungry."

She turned away and walked toward the house, Bart following her, a queer wistfulness in his strong Saxon face* She did not know that the shadow of her hat was a very poor pretense at a disguise. She did not know a great many things about Bart. It had never occurred to her in her life that Bart noticed anything but "awakenings'' in 5ople. "1 am afraid," Bart said, "that the congregation will be disappointed tomorrow. Ruvsland is so popular, and they are expecting to hear him." "Wbydiau't he come?" faltered Desiree. "Granny only said that he had been called away."

He.sent word to me," answered Bart, gravely, "that he was obliged to go to Hamlinford. There must have been some# imperative reason for his goiug, though ho did not mention it."

Desiree made no comment. It was quite enough for her to know that he was not coming. She did not care about anything else. She went into the house to prepare supper, and as she stood at the table before the window making up. her biscuit she fell to watching Bart wielding his axe at the wood pile. It had always seemed an odd sort of thing to her that Bart should have taken to preaching as his profession. He was not her ideal of a minister of the Gospel. He was too big aud strong and simple, and too undignified. How could any one ever imagine Mr. Ruysland splitting stove wood, or, indeed, doing anything but preaohing those tender, poetic sermons that people cried under? Bart's sermons were so different! Good and honest, of course, but Desiree was so used to heariug his doctrine every day, and to scoing it work itself into his life, that it had no novelty, and never impressed her much. It was only Bart! Bart was a distant relative of here, aud as he had been left an orphan to granny's care, just as sho herself had been teft, they had seen as much of each other as any brpther and sister, and I am afraid there had. ulways lieen a tendency to undervalue the good fellow in Desiree's mind. She was always sweet-tempered and gentle with him, and the tendency was a strictly private one, but still it had its existence. Granny clung so to him, and was so prone to praise his virtues in her cheerless, plaintive style, that Desiree had a fancy that he eoultl not need her very much, and so she gave herself up to her chickens and other pets, and lavishing her extra affection upon them, lived a qpiet, innocent, happy enough gir'.s life. *But wheu Mr. .Ruysland came this was altered. He was "on the circuit" like Bart,-but he was like Bart in nothing else. He was a member of an old and once wealthy family he had lived a life different from the lives of his simple farming congregations he had had rare opportunities he was a fine, handsome young fellow, with a graceful, wisning manner, ana the very first Sunday morning that his dark eyes fell upon the pretty, childish face, looking like afresh apple blossom under the little linen hat, Desiree's fate was sealed. He dined with them that day, and sat opposite Desiree pt table: and after dinner he followed her out on to the vine-covered porch, and made friends with her, even letting her hear something of his personal history. She was such a pretty creature! and her bloom and her sweet, shy, dark eyes so appealed to his ruling weakness—a passionate love for all things beautiful— that he conld not resist tb« temptation of trving to interest her. Resisting temptation was not Everard Ruysland forte. It was his forte to be a hero—the eloquent, handsome young hero who had given up all sorts of easily imagined worldly advantages for the sake of the simple Methodist faith in which he had been brought up. iNo on# knew very defmitelv what it was that be had given up but ft

WHS

quite clear that he must

have made a wondrons sacrifice in concerning t« nw ni* talents i»i Ihf service of these unsophisticated peoplesunsoph is located church, and he was admired accordingly^ It WHS the most natnral thing in the world that he should stay with Bart's foster-mother when became to preach at the white meeting-house: so after that first vi*lt he saw Decree often, and it became an understood thing that when he had no other engagement he should spend with her the greater part of the spare time left to him oetween services, and that he should walk with Mrs. Reid and herself to the door of the church. He was such a friend of Bart's that such friendlv familiarity won Id almost be expected of him.

This had been the

beginning

readv

of it. and

the end of it was that he drifted further

And then all at once a sort of sudden light seemed to dawn upon her, and she looked sorrowful again. "Perhaps," she said, slowly and regretfully—"perhaps I have not thought enough how''good be is. I am afraid that sometimes I have forgotten his goodness, and only remembered that he seemed rather dull."

In her little fit of penitence she was so sweet and gentle when Bart came in that ho saW the change in a moment, and was quite touched by it, as well he might be, knowing what he did. There was more in bindlv, quiet Bart than poor little Desiree ever suspected, and hiaeyeswere quicker than she would like to have fancied. He took his cue with tender aptness this evening, and submitted to being amused with generous gratitude. Desiree tried very hard to amuse him when supper was over. She tied on her hat and followed him about, talking to him in her pretty, soft way, while he fed and secured the stock for the night, and when they returned to the house she sat down upon the steps of the porch quite close to him, bent on being good and showing him that she likod to be with him. "I will ask him to tell me what has troubled him," she said to herself. "I am almost JUS much his sister as if his mother had been mine."

So sho gathered courage to speak, aud crcpt up to the subj/ct with as much diplomacy as a soft round ball of a three-weeks-old kitten jnight have shown. "Bart," she said, after a little silence, 'do you know what I was thinking of wheu I was making biscuit at the window before supper?" "I don't believe I could guess, Daisy," 1%H ri

QtFftWtfj

Sb6 twisted the strings of her hat for minute, and looked at him with innocent gravity. "I was thinking," she said, "that you were not quite happy."

He actually gave a faint start as he turned toward ner. And then, after his swift glance at her face, she was sure he appeared relieved arvd then, another expression showing itself as quickly, she was emboldened to stretch out her kind little band and put it into his big brown one. He took it with an odjd, setting readiness, almost as if he would ike to protect her from something. "My pretty Daisy!" he said, in a voice quitenewr to her.

It was very queer, she thought, that the tears shoula spring to her eyes with such foolish suddenness. They were there in a second, and she could not keep them back. Was it because she was sorry for Bart, or because she was sorry for herself Perhaps she was a bit sorr'v for herself, and it made her sorry for Bart, too. "And I thought," she went on, feeling lad that he was holding her hand on .jis knee, "that if you had any trouble on your mind, perhaps /might help you, "you would not mind trusting me with /because, you st**, I am almost like vour own sister." "My pretty D»Myf h« «*i»l: "u»y dear, tender littlo DdayJ" but not a word more. 'If," she faltered—"if you had ever cared for anjr body "Cared for anybody?" he interposed "eared for anymdy,*t)aisy

She blushed to her very throat—such a pretty, sensitive, innocent blush! •'Iioved anybody," she said—"loved anybody as—«s people love each other wber they would like to ipeud all their lives togethe&r. Bat you know you have never loved like that, Bart."

His great, strong hand closed upon hers with such a force that she turned to look at him, and the moment she saw his face she gave a little start and a little frightened cry.

TERRE H^lUTE SATURDAY EVENING1 MAIL.

than he had intended, and did things which afterward caused him frequent twinges of conscience, and many resolutions for the future, which somehow or other were never kept. There were reasons why he should have been generous enough to leave poor little Desiree Reid alone but then how could he help himself he often said, when he was thinking over the matter. What man, being inner presence, could resist that pretty, blossom-like face, those soft, timid, appealing eyes? He could not and yet he was quite conscious that he ought to have done so, and of course woulcT have been

to make any sacrifice for her

happiness*but this first one of denying himself. It is so easy to meditate of a far-off heroism, so difficult tocutoffa little self-indulgence when quite near at hand!

So it went on for several months, and Desiree's life was ull'of the lingering remembrances, full of her innocent hopes and gentle fears. Surely he must love her, and yet how could he? Surely he would not say that she was dear to him in every look and gesture unless he meant it. So true, so brave, so grand, so self-sacrificing, so heroic, and yet mean to be cruel to an untaught girl whose first young love he had won! Her sweet ignorance knew of no such falsehood as that so she went on believing in him, and trusting to the coming of the time when he would be able to speak plainly. There was something in the way now— that was it. And when she said her prayers at night and morning she prayed half timidly that the time might not be long, and that she might bo made worthy of her happiness.

She could not help feeling her disappointment keenly to-day. She had looked forward to this visit with such tremulous longing! The last time some tender influence had seemed to draw them nearer to each other than they had ever been before, and she had felt that surely to-day wonld not pass without a gleam of new sunshine for her. And after all he would not come, and the Sabbath which was to have been such a golden one would be like all other Sabbaths, and there would be nobody but Bart. The tears rose into her eyes, and she was obliged to press her trembling lips together to keep down a little sob. Sne barely checked it in time—so barely that she felt half frightened. It would never do to let people see. What if ranny should come in and find her eyeashes wet and her voice unsteady! She must think of something else—of Bart, for instance, wielding his axe out there in the sun. So she began to try very hard to think only of Bart, aud succeeded in so far that she found out before very long that he looked troubled himself. He was even rather pale, and he set his lips together as he worked, as if he had something upon his mind and was pondering it over. What could it be? Was it pdssible that he too—but no, he had never cared for any woman in his life.

He was

not like other men in

that respect. Her heart, always a tender one, was rendered so much more tender by her secret trouble that she thought more of the sadness Bart might feel than she would have done Bt any other time, perhaps, and her recognition of the grave pain in his face clung to her. "It must mean something," she said. "I never saw him look so before. It seems strange that Bart should have a trouble. Perhaps somebody has fallen from grace. Tnat would hurt him, I know. He is so good, and cares so much for people!"

Bart." she said, dear Bart, is that it

1

'y

Hi

f- 3„ 4.

Oh, hew pale and sad you are! Is it that you do care for somebody?" He ttas pale and sad, but he managed to 8mile in his own kindly way. "Daisy," he said, "is this the first time you have ever thought I might love in that way—is it the very first time the thought has ever come to you?" "I think," she faltered, feeling terribly conscience-stricken—"I am afraid it is." "Ah, well?" he sighed, still trying to smile. "I suppose it is because I am not the sort of man a girl would connect with the thought of love." "Oh no, no!" she protested, holding his hand tight.

But even the soft grasp did not seem to comfort him. He looked out into the moonlight sadly still. "Ana you have never guessed once— not even once—whom I might love?" "I'm afraid not," she answered. "I must have been very blind and selfish, but I'm afraid not."

There was silence for a few minutes, in which Bart looked out at the moonlight with what seemed to Desiree a strange, strange smile. "Wellj well,'' he said, "it must be bett6ras it "But, said Desiree, "if I only knew— if you would only tell me "My dear," Bart answered, "it was not mv own trouble that made me look sad. My own trouble is so old that sometimes I fancy I have taught myself to bear it patiently. I was thinking of a trouble which I fear is coming to some one whom I love and the thought of her pain was harder for me to bear than any pain of my own could ever be." "Poor fellow!" whispered Desiree— "poor fellow! I see now. I won't ask any more questions. It is her secret as well as yours."

They were very quiet for a while after this but Desiree did not draw her hand away from Baft's, and when they began to talk again softly, he still held it indeed, he did not let it go until she left him to go to her room. He washoldinit when she bade him good-night, an then it was that she asked her last question, her sweet pity for him filling her upraised eyes* "Does she know that you love her "No." "No?" wondoring at him. "But you will tell her some day

He shook his head. "To-night," he said, "it seems to me that I never shall." "But you are sad to-night," she said, "and when one is sad it always seems so." And then sho stopped, with a startled blush. "Good-night,' she added, hurriedly.

But lie held her back. "Daisy," he »aid, as if impelled by some sudden impulse, "if any pain should come to you, will you trust me with it—will yon promise that I maj help you if lean?''

Yes," she answered "I will promise that, faithfully." He held her

hand'a

"moment to his

lips, and then let her go. There was a "big ineetin'" over at Hamlinford, and the church was crowded. There were vehicles of all orders standing in the road, horses tied in lines along the fences, and the yard itself was full of people—mostly men whose "women-folks" had gone into the house —gathered in

groups

talking to each

other bv way of whiling away the half hour before service. "Ruysbtnd'll ppeach this mornin', I reckon," the chief talker in one group was saying, "an' Reid this afternoon. There's"Reid now, helpih' Desjre out of the buggy. She's as pretty as a pinlc, that gal is. Look at her, boys."

Desiree stood upon the stop of the vehicle poised like a bright bird ready for flight. Sho had iiever been so pretty and fresh a picture in ber life. She had put on the pink dress her cheeks were tinted with warm, delicate bloom, her soft dark eyes glowed under their long curling fringes: her childish loveliness was at its height. Sho had drifted back into her dreams again sho was so happy in her little flush of excited trustfulness that she scarcely dared look up as she passed up the aisle, for fear that people should guess what her happiness meant. She was glad when Bart left ber in her seat, and she had time to try to control herself. She wanted to feel calmer before Mr. Ruysland came in. It quieted her somewhat to hear the low whisper of conversation before and behind her. It was not considered a breach of decorum to talk to one's neighbors a little before "meetin' look up,' and the good women of Hamlinford usually availed tbemselvs of their privileges.

Two good dames in the seat before Desiree's were discussing a late marriage, and Desiree caught occasional snatches of their conversation. "They were married on Thursday," said one, "and a grand brido she made, they say, quiet as the wodding was. She's a handsome critter, if she is rather high and notionate. They say they have been promised to one another for long enough, but it was sorter onsettled." "They say," put in another, "that she has money!" "They say so," discreetly. "And they do say that but for that it might never have come off. The old lady was powerful set on it."

There were more murmurs alter this, but Desiree did not hear anything definite. Her thoughts began to wander a little. Jt would not be so very long beforo he came. She wondered if she shonld know his step, and if her heart would beat in that strange, happy way. She must pretend to be looking at her hymn book. She dare not'trust herself to meet his eye until that first tumnlt of feeling was over. She would wait until she beard his voice, and then she would raise ber eyes. So the time passed on, until there came the sound of an entrance—not one person, but two or three at once, and a little stir of excitement was visible in the good women before her. "Here they are! She looks rather fine for* minister's wife."

Who were they Desiree»knew of no minister who was on the point of marriage. She began to feel curious too. They were coming. There was the rustle of a rich trailing dress a handsome, roud looking old lady 'elt quite dixzy it was mother. And toen came two otl

her. She

r. Ruysland's ,her

OU (Oil IU Ull ua»au« 0I»«4 her walked Everard Ruysland ahd Evemrd Ruysland, meeting a strange, sweet, agonised little face turned with a chilcMike wonder up to his, lost color suddenly, and plainly started. "Sake* alive!' exclaimed one of the women, forgetting the bride's bonnet all ice, "this litl fain tin1'

at one little gal behind us is

No, no," whispered Desiree but the next moment a band was laid upon ber shoulder, and looking up piteously, she met Bart's eyes. "Daisy,"' he said, "it has been too warm for'you here. You are not well enough to stay. Come with me." And scarcely knowing anything but that this was Bart who had come to relieve her from herself, she let him lead ber away, out into the open air and the dreadful sunshine, which seemed to strike her giddy and blind.

Everv one who beard about Desiree Reid's 'long after-illness beard that she

~iiSI8I

of the "big meetin'" at Hamlinfo She was not "a rugged sort of a girl." for all her roundness and bloom, people said and reallv it was no wonder that the long hot ride to meeting had been too much for her altogether.

She was ill for a long time, and Bart wasjvery good to her—so good that in herweakness she clung to him almost strangely. His,presence always seemed a sort of oomfort to her and on the one night when she was at the worst, and they were afraid she would die before morning, she called Bart to her side and bade him pray for her, and when he had finished sne whispered a strange last message in his ear. "If I die." she said, "and he should ever ask about me, tell him that I believed he did not mean to be cruel tell him that I believed it was only because he did not stop to think."

But she did not die. She lingered on, poor soul, for along while and at last, when people had almost given her up, began to mend slowly, and went on mending, until one bright Autumn day she went so far as to ask Bart to carry her down stairs out into the sunshine on the porch. "I want to try to get better," she said, "and I want to* talk to you."

So he wrapped her up and carried her down, and bolstered her up in a large homely chair in her old place and there she lay, gazing out at the gold and scarlet of the tre&s, looking so small and altered, with her great eyes and her little white woe-begone face, that Bart's heart quivered when he beheld her. "Bart," she said, after a while, "I want to ask you a few questions."

He tried to brighten up and smile, but it required an effort and when he heard the first of these few questions his strength failed him again "Dw you knew that tnis was coming?" she said, quite simply, as if her trust in him taught her that she had no need to speak more definitely.

He could scarcely answer for a moment or so, but at last he managed to say. "Yes."

She was silent for a while, and then held out her thin, worn little hand to him. "Come here," she said and when he came apd took it, sitting at hex: feet, he saw that she was cryiug in a tired, weak fashion. "I want to tell you," she said —"I want to ask you to forgive me," like a child asking for pardon. "I have not been as kind to you as I ought to have been, Bart. I think I did not understand you at all. I thought you did not see things, and I was not grateful. I am sorry now. There is no on6 like you, Bart there is no one so good and true as you and her face wont down upon his arm and rested there. "I want to make up to you for my selfishness," she went on. "I want to do something to help you, even ever, so little a thing. And while I was ill I made UD my mind to ask you to tell me who it'Is you love, and to let me make Mends with her, and try to show her how faithful and kind you are. Women can do such thixkgs sometimes without betrayine."

It was more than he could beal*. "Daisy!" he cried ont and she felt him trembling all over. "O God!" he said, "this is hard!"

She lifted her face and looked at hiin. Hard?'' she repeated. He held her up and looked straight into her eyes. "I will tell you-." he said, almost fiercely. "I have hidden iilong enough. I will tell you now, though it can do no good. Do you remember that I told you the trouble I bore was not my own?" "Yes," she answered, trembllug. "Well," he cried out, "it was your trouble, yours—the pain I had only that day found out was coming to you." "But," she faltered—"but you said—" And her eyes opened wide upon him in a new recognition. "Yes," he ended for her—"yes, I said it was the trouble I feftred for the woman I loved, and it is you I have loved, and you have nevor guessed it!" and his broken voice held something like an uncontrollable passion of reproacl). "Oh, Daisy," he said, "oh, Daisy, it is you—it is you!"

When she fell back upon her pillows and bid her face, he hid Ms face too in both her hands. "Yotl never dreamed that I could love you." he said "but I have loved you all my life. I was nobody but Bart to you, but I loved the least thing you had ever touched. It was hard enough for me when he came, but it was harder when I began to see how you must suffer, and knew I had no chance ot saving you, because you clung to your secret so closely. On, Daisy, it WHS hard!"

So be had told his secret, and the wrench was over, and indeed he had borne his load so long that after the first pain he almost felt a sense of rest.

It was sometime before either spoke. Desiree, hiding her face, cried softly, and Bart sat still, wondering wearily how it could end.

It was Mrs. Reid who broke in upon the stillness, coming to the door. "Desiree,"she said, "you must not sit here too long." "No," said Bart, "she must not. I forgot how weak she was. Daisy, will you let me carry yon in again

Yes, Daisy thought she would go. So he picked her up and carried her in his strong arms up the staircase, her tired little white face lying on his shoulder.

When he had put her down upon the lounge she held his sleeve an instant, raising, her eyes appealingly to his. "Bart," she said, "kiss me as you used to do when I was a little girl."

He bent and kissed her, and that instant she broke down again, clinging to him childishly in a now burst of sorrow. "Oh, Bart," she sobbed, "if I bad loved you instead—if I had loved you instead Oh, Bart, try to forgive me!"

A few years later the Rev. Everard Ruysland, whose career bad somehow seemed to be a failure, {net in a large city with an old acquaintance, whose career somehow seemed to have been a success. He was a simple, earnest man of kindly creed and gentle teachings, and yet when people spoke of the Rev. Bartholomew Kaid they spoke with enthusiasm. And with him Ruy®^"" saw his wife, and seeing ber—alittie tender creature whose bloom and beauty were a wonder—he felt a keen P^og. Her love for ber husband was a gentle passion ber life seemed to have grown to bis. "It almost seems," said one bearted woman who was wonderfully attached to the two—"it almost seems to my mind as if the child felt that she had done bim a wrong at some time, and 'n to

you. in my opinion it is something so beautiful that we ordinary mortar can not comprehend It."

And this wife of Bart's was Desiree.

A VAVORAHLK jcoToiuirrr—The good reputation of "Brown's Bronchial Troches" for the relief of coughs, colds, and throat diseases, has given them a favorable notoriety.

We should Jnot suffer from a cough, when a few doses of Ayers Cherry Pectoral will cure. Time, money, comfort, health, all are saved by It.

ON INDIAN RIVER.

A correspondent of the Atlanta Constitution, now in Florida, in that per of the date of Jan. 31, writes: "For breakfast this morning wo 1 ripe tomatoes grown in the garden. Ye. terday at dinner one pineapple, grov here, was served to sixteen people a: was abundant for all. It weighed net lv live pounds. I never tasted a pind» pie before. The small dry fruit we

Atlanta scarcely suggests the e. quisite flavor of a pineapple of fi pounds picked from the tree just as it ready to drop of its own weight ar sweetness. The same difference is ticed in afresh and a shipped orang We go iuto the grove every morning fore breakfast, pick two or three brig! oranges each from a tree, and peel the as you would an apple. Take an oranf of this sort,—ana the Indiau river anges are the best in the world—jui*. tender and sweet—peel it well and bui your teeth and your lips and half yoi nose in it, a«d then for one minute yo will understand what bliss means*, never before found a place where could catch fish as Tast as you wail them. Ben Hill aud I take a small boa, with a negro to pull, and start up ti river, trolRng behind the boat until reach a growth of pond lilies. We in v. riablv catch three or four fine troi (black bass), while trolling up. Once & or the ponds, we bait with live in thirty minutes have half a doze

jream, an,

trout, 'the bass or trout is a game fish and a four-pounder is about all a ma wants to handle with a rod. We ha\ never yet failed to get twenty-live thirty pounds of this fish for each

iQg.

is

A TIMELY use of Brown's Iron llitte will strengthen the nerves and muscle with new life and vigor, and ward many diseases that othorwise are su.r to encroach upon a weak constitution.1

GRIEF FOR THE DEAD. Did you ever sit, after a dear ono had been taken from you by death, with idl folded hands and tearless eyes, and pot der on the mystery of life—its begintiiii and its ending—till you seemed lost in whirlpool of deep ami dark despair and felt that death would be welcomed bv you could it solve all doubts, all questioning, and, just at that moment, did the fragrance of a flower, or a sunbetv across your face, or a little warm, soi palm laid on your cold band, bring the welcome tears—eyej raised to Heaven and a fervent "Lord, believe, help thou mine unbelief!"

If only all the gentleness, love and devotion that are so freely lavished upon the living, what a hap^y world this might be made. How, then, can we better show our love and grief for endear departed ones than by striving render happy those who still are spared to bless us with their love

GAI.K FOIUSST.

A BOYS LUCK.

The Norristown (Pa.) Horald, in a recent issue, referred among others to the following cases of special interest. They are their own commentary. Mr. Samuel C. Nyce resides at 308 Marshall street, and holds the responsible position ot journal clerk in tb« Pennsylvania Legislature, at Harrisburg. While Mr. Nyce and family were in the coutitr*. recently, his boy, aged three yoars, foP. and broke his leg. He recovered, but:» very troublesome stiffness set in and could scarcely u»o the leg. The injured limb was rubbed several times with St. Jacobs Oil, and the stiffness -was so much reduced that the boy was able to use his leg' freely. Dr. lCnipe said it was the use of St. Jacobs Oil that ourei^ the stiffness.. Mr. Nyce himself used the Great German Remedy for toothache with good effect, and also for a sprain and pains of rheumatic nature, and always with good effect. Mrs. Nyce also says she thinks the Oil is a splendid thtng, and she always keeps it on hand.

WnrrB to Mrs. Lydia IC. Pinkhau No.233 Western Avenue, Lynu, Ma^ for pamphlets relative to the curati properties of her Vegetable C'on«,[ ouni in all female complaints.

THE GERM THEORY AND SMA LPOX. The value of Darbys Prophylactic Fluid in destroying and counteracting tlm effects of contagious diseases can scarcely be estimated, as small pox aud the like are caused by oortalu germs gaining a place in the human body. The Fluid successfully combats and destroys tli.-i

fforms

before they fully develop, her«*divesting them of all power to harm. Thoroughly disinfect your houses and every place with the Fluid.

GREAT GERM DESTROYERi WARBV'S

MPI1UCTIC FlUID!

xxxxxxxxxxxx ^SCAKLKT. FEVER 3 CUBED. Sbucxxxxxxxxx Contagion edSick loom purified and made pleasant. Fevered Mick

tting of Small Pox Prevented. (Jleeni purified aixl healed. Or wintry rared. wound* healed rap-

Idly. Kcmoves ull unplesant odor*. Tetter dried up. It in perfectly horml»«M. For ore Ttaroat It

Person* relieved and refreshed by bathing with Prophylactic Fluid add 1 to

Is xtire cure.

^KWUTER XXXXXXXXXX XX C»tnrrl»relieved andjp DiPTUEKIA '/i cured. Ery»lJ^*«_cured^ jp PREVENTED. Bm'rmi relieved gtantly. Bears prevented.

\y. XXXXXXXXXXXX

In Fact It Is (be Tlfflnr«c*ant and Purifier.

J. H. ZEILIN & CO.,

Manufacturing Chemists. Holo Proprietors

OVER I.OOO.OOO. BOTTLES SOLD.

tbanirf

—PITTSBURGHL PA.