St. Joseph County Independent, Volume 19, Number 19, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 25 November 1893 — Page 2

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W ’ > Mike. And chicken pie jist to yer taste, And I*ll fill ye a cup of tay soon, If only ye once would make haste. St’s hap^y I am to-day, darlint, And me heart with thanksgivin’s light, For this area gate flints behind me. In a week from t^tfiorrow night Next year we will Haye our own turkey, And al! the nice taXpgs as they come. While at the frbnt JwrtSfftur houSS, Mike, To Thanksgivin' I’ll welcome ye home. — Texas Siftings. CLASS. It was the day before Thanksgiving, but the warmth of the late Indian summer lay over the world, and tempered 1 the autumn chill into mildness more I I’ke early October than late November. i Elsie-Thayer, driving her village cart ' rapidly through the “Long Woods,” i caught herself vaguely wondering why I the grass was not greener, and what should set the leaves to trembling off the trees in such an unsummer-like fashion, —then smiled at herself for being so forgetful. The cart was packed full: for, besides Elsie herself, it held a bag of sweet potatoes, a sizable bundle or two, and a large marketbasket from which protruded the unmistakable legs of a turkey, not to mention a choice smaller basket covered with a napkin. All these were going to the little farmstead in which dwelf Mrs. Ann Sparrow, Elsie’s nurse in childhood, and the most faithful and kindly of friends ever since. Elsie always made sure that “Nursey” had a good Thanksgiving dinner, and generally carried it herself. The day was so delightful that it seemed almost a pity that the pony should trot so fast. But the day before Thanksgiving is sure to be a busy one with New England folks; Elsie had other tasks awaiting her, and she knew that Nursey would not be content with a short visit. “Hurry up, little Jack,” she said. “Yo”u shall have a long rest presently, if you are a good boy, and some nice fresh grass—if I can find any; anyway, a little drink of water. So make haste. ” Jack made haste. When the, two miles were achieved, and the little clearing came into view, Elsie slackened her pace; she wanted to take Nursey by surprise. Driving straight to a small open shed, she deftly unharnessed the pony, and wheeled the cart away from his heels, all with the ease which is born of practice. She then gathered lapful of brown but still nourishing gj Jack, and was about to lift YBi^4roin-sh<" wagon when she • Xt by Mrs. Sparrow. Out she —, uurrying and flushed with pleasure, —the dearest old woman, with pink, wrinkled cheeks like a perfectly baked apple, and a voice which still retained its pleasant English tones, after sixty long years in America. “Well, Missy dear, so it’s you. I made sure you’d come, and had been watching ali the morning: but somehow I missed you when you drove up, and it was just by haccident like that I looked out of the window and see you in the shed. You ‘re looking well, Missy. That school has n’t hurt you a bit. Just the same nice color in your cheeks as ever. “Why,”—her voice changing to consternation, —“if you have n’t unharnessed the horse! Now, Missy, how came you to do that? You forgot there was n't no one about but me. Who’s to put him in for you, I wonder?” “Oh, I don’t want any one. I can harness the pony myself. ” “Oh, Missy, dear, you must n’t do - that! I could n’t let you. It’s real i hard to harness a horse. You’d make some mistake, and then there ’d be a haccident.” “Nonsense, Nursey!’ I've harnessed Jack once this morning already; it’s just as easy to do it twice. I’m a member of a Harnessing Class, I’d have you “HUBBY UP, LITTLE JACK!” SHE SAID. to know; and, what's more, I tock the prize'” £Now, Missy, dear, whatever do you mean by that? Young ladies learn to harness! I never heard of such a thing in my life! In my young time in England, they learned globes and langwidges, and, it might be, to paint in oils and such, and make nice things in chenille.” ^‘J'll tell you all about it; but first let us carry these things up to the house. Here’s your Thanksgiving turkey, Nursey,—with mother’s love. Papa sent you the sweet potatoes and the cranberries, and the oranges and figs and the pumpkin-pie are from me. I made the pie myself. That's another of the useful things that I learned to do at my school.” “The master is very kind, Missy; and so is your mother; and I’m .thankful to you all. But that’s a queer school of yours, it seems to me. For my part, I never heard of young ladies learning such things as cooking and harnessing at boarding-schools.” “Oh, wo learn arts and languages, too, —that part of our education isn't neglected. Now, Nursey, we’ll put these things in your buttery, and you shall give me a glass of nice cold milk, and while I drink it I’ll tell you about Rosemary Hall—that’s the name of tho

I school, you know; and it’s the dearest, I nicest place you can think of.” I “Very likely, Miss Elsse,” in an un- ! convinced tone; “but still I don’t see i any reason why they should set you to I making pies and harnessing horses.” “Ch, that’s just at odd times, byway ; of fun and pleasure; it isn't lessons, you ; know. You see, Mrs. Thanet —that’s a ‘ rich lady who lives close by. and is a I sort of fairy godmother to us girls— I has a great notion about practical edu- ! cation. It was she who got up the । Harnessing Class and the Model | Kitchen.” “Missy, dear, I won’t deny but cook- ! ing may be well for you to know: but ' for that other —the harnessing class, jas you call it, —I don't see the sense of that at all, Missy.” “Oh, Nursey, indeed there is a great deal of sense in it. Mrs. Thanet says it might easily hqppen ; in the country ! especially, —if atty one was hurt op ; taKqn very ill, you know, —that life I might depend upon a girl’s knowing i how to harness.” “It don’t seem ladylike for you to be ; knowing about harnesses and such j things.” ; “Oh, Nursey, deair, what nonsense! ! I must go.” she efied. “Come out and i see me harness up, Nursey.” ■ It was swiftly and skillfully done, but ; still Nurse Sparrow shook’her head, i“I don’t like it!” she insiste'd. “‘A horse shall be a vain thing for safety’ i —that's in Holy Writ.” j “You are an obstinate old dear,” said । Elsie, good-humoredly. “Wait till | you're ill some day, and I go for the j doctor. Then you’ll realize the ad- ' vantage of practical education. What ! a queer smell of smoke there is, Nursey!” gathering up her reins. i “Yes; the woods has been on fire for quite a spell, back on the other side of Bald Top. You can smell the smoke most of the time. Seems to me it’s stronger than usual, to-day. ” ‘You don't think there is any danI ger of it’s coming this way, do you?” “Oh, no!” contentedly. “I don’t supi pose it could come so far as this.” | “But why not?” thought Elsie to her- ; self as she drove rapidly back. “If the i wind were right for it, why shouldn't ; it come this way? Fires travel much i farther than that on the prairies—and ■ they go very fast, too. I never did : like having Nursey all alone by herself on that farm.” i

HANKS G IVIN G FOR » MICHAEL O’TOOLE. How glad I am now that ye're cornin’, I've waited here, Michael O' Toole, An hour since the dinner was over, And i ve r y thing's glttin so cool. I've saved ye a bit of the fowl,

। : 2 flu nwr few!' wiwSII w. SHE DROVE BY ONE PLACE WHERE THE WOODS WERE AFIRE.

Sho reached homo to find things in ' unexpected confusion. Her father had been called away for the night by a ; telegram, and her mother—on this of I all days—had gone to bed disabled with j a bad headache. There was much to be done, and Elsie was into it, too busy to think again of Nurse Sparrow and the fire, until, toward nightfall, sho noted that, the wind had changed and was blowing straight from Bald Top, bringing with it an increase of smoke. She ran out to consult the hired man i before ho went home for the night, and j to ask if he thought there was any dan- j ger of the fire reaching tho Long ’ Woods. He “guessed” not. “These fires get going quite often on I 1 to the other side of Bald Top, but there ■ i ain't none of 'em come over this way. and ’tain’t likely they ever will. I ; guess Mis’ Sparrow's safe enough. You I needn't worry, Miss Elsie.” In spite of this comforting a.-surance, I Elsie did worry, and when, at 2 in the i morning, she woke with a sudden start, j her first impulse was to run to the window. Then she gave an exclama- । tion, and her heart stood still with fear; for the southern slopes of Bald Top were ringed with flames which gleamed dim and lurid through the smoke, and showers of sparks thrown high in air showed that the edges of the woods beyond Nursey's farm, were already burning. “She’ll be frightened to death,” thought Elsie. “Oh, poor dear, and no one to help her!” What should she do? To go after the man and waken him meant a long . delay. He was a heavy sleeper, and j his house was a quarter of a mile dis- ; tant. But there wasJ** ble, aadt tire sfaTHe key was in the hall below. As she dro—-''L decided. ; “Flow a iua iam that I can do this!” j she thought as she flung the harness | over the pony's back, strapped, ' buckled, adjusted. Not even on the 'i day when she took the prize had she । put her horse in so quickly. Deftly | guiding Jack over the grass that his I hoofs should make no noise, she gained j the road, and. quickening him to his fastest pace, drove fearlessly into the { dark woods. The main fire was still ■ far distant, but before she reached Nurse's little clearing, she even drove by one place where the woods were afire. She had expected to find Mrs. Sparrow in an agitation of terror; but behold, she was in her b d sound asleep! Elsie at last shook her into consciousness, and pointed at the fiery glow on the horizon. “Oh, dear, dear!” she wailed, as with trembling, suddenly stiff fingers she put on her clothes. “I’m a-going to bo burned out! It’s hard at my time of life, just when I had got things tidy and comfortable.” “Perhaps the fire won't come so far as this after all,” said the practical Elsie. “Oh, yes, it will! It’s ’most here now.” “Well, whether it does or not, I’m going to carry you home with me, where you will be safe.” Elsie coaxed and remonstrated, and at last got Nursey into the scat, with the cat and a bundle of her best clothes in her lap, her teaspoons in her

pccket, a basket of specially beloved baking-tins under the seat, and a favorite feather-bed at the back, among whose billowy folds were tucked awav an assortment of treasures ending with the Thanksgiving goodies which had been brought over that morning. “I can't leave that turkey behind, Missy, dear—l really can't!” pleaded Nursey. “I’ve been thinking of him, and anticipating how good he was going to be, all day; and I haven't had but one taste of your pie. They're so little they'll go in anywhere.” The fire seemed startlingly near now, MFpr A \ J IK! JACK IN HIS STALL. and the western sky was all aflame, while over against it in the east burned the first yellow beams of dawn. People were astir by this time, and men on foot and horseback were hurrying toward the burning woods. They stared curiously at the oddly laden cart. "Why, you didn't ever come over for me all alone!” cried Nurse Sparrow, rousing suddenly to a sense of the situation. “I've b’en that flustered that I never took thought of how you got across, or anything about it. ’ Where was your pa, Missy—and Hiram?” Elsie explained. “Oh, you blessed child; and if you hadn’t come I'd have been burned in my bed as like as not!” cried the old' woman, quite overpowered. “Perhaps the fire won't reach your house, after all. But, anyway, lam glad you are here and not there. We cannot be tco careful of such a dear old Nursey as you are. And one thing, I think, you’ll confess”—Elsie's tone was a little mischievous —“and that is, that harnessing classes have their uses. If I hadn’t known how to put Jack in the cart, I might at this moment be hammering on the door of that stupid Hiram i who, you know, sleeps liko a log)!

trying to wake him, and you on the I clearing alone, scared to death. Now, ; Nursey. own up; Mrs. Thanet wasn't so j far wrong, now was she?” Nursey's house did not burn down. ' A change of wind came just in time to save it; and, after eating her own , Thanksgiving turkey in her old home, ! and being petted and made much of for a few days, she wont back none the I worse for her adventure, to find her goods and chattels in their usual places i and ail safe.—Susan C olidge, in St. I Nicholas. The “Walking Stick" Business. Under the general term “walking ' i stick trade" is included the manufacti ure of sticks for umbrellas, etc., of • which an incredible number are pro- , i duced annually. In England—which, ' i by the way, almost supplies the world I —the number of men employed is about four thousand. The trade is i rather scattered, though by far the 1 greatest part is done in London, where I in the east end it is carried on exten- | sively. The workmen are chiefly drawn from the poorer classes of St. Luke’s, Finsbury, Shoreditch, Whitechapel and Bethnal Green, in which parishes the principal workshops are situated. It is among the first to feel depression and among the last to recover. A large number of the men employed earn on the average a fair living, especially those in the largest houses, who enjoy, as a rule, the most regular employment. ' But a large section of the trade pays ' bad wages—ifi fact, in some cases it is । n dXTswnce. A great quantity of sticks produced by these latter are manufactured indwelling houses—nay, j in the very living rooms, though in I this respect there is a gradual improve--1 ment going on. The people among whom this state of things exists are I mostly small manufacturers who work ।on their own account. In busy times । it often happens the man is compelled ; to work nearly all night in order to get I the work done in time for payment on I Saturday. It has been known for ! wives’ and even children’s help to be j put to account. This is true when the ! trade is busy, which is generally from 'larch to November, wh m sluck time begins and continues with more or less abatement till the following spring. In the “Jonsing Fambly.” # a- - ■''' i ! 1 ” "''' ■. :‘ ‘ A ' “Dar, Bimilec Johnsingl Didn’t I tole yer all ’long you dun feed dat turkey too much veg’table diet?’’--Harper’s Weekly. *

''D/OWbEf’ The । ri of a Woman's Atonement, ^Charlotte M. Braeme. • $ “I see - CHAPTER x_. good-t? ow it is,” said Capt. Flemyng, exhibit leredly, as they entered the advert gion; “the birds of the air must abroadfse the intelligence when you go j and unit See, there are Lord Falcon i before Hss I mistake, the Duke of Alton 1 The IMillais’ picture.” beaut^fepression of annoyance on her It inaful face could not bo mistaken, with life Paul Flemyng's heart beat b'.inL'lappiness: it led him to the very “'l.\«Cf the error he committed. saic„. c -Io not care to see him,” he rriedly. set?’ was the frank reply. “I had witoq - heart on seeing the pictures “I *tu and Ethel.” until - n you shall do so. We will wait be tei /hey have pas^d- Yoh shall ~ot n P ased, Ladv charnleigh.” , in ’ S ° 1 Bhe was finite Th\ e LiX 6 ther of tho two gentlemen. unless smiled her thanks. “ ^ soldiers are all quick of reJv she said. “I do not want to Yj beautiful I am, or how 9 4 *Xmg—and his grace tells me nothUl «^se.” o yon not like flattery?” he asked. „ ' ^metimes,” was the candid reply, an, ifrom some people; but I am not in T minor for it now.” have often been afraid that I spoke to 9 abruptly,” he sa'd. / K* looked at him kindly. I * e words of yours could ever vex mo jHie meant in kindness. Besides, Jy w, I do not class you with the id saia general.” « -we w 'ere standing then before a J* that all the world knows and aanfftes—the Huguenot lovers—the slm jale story of which is told so plainly the canvas. Round the arm of a IN'btestant lover, in the dread time of tke. great massacre, the Catholic girl 'vhibrn he loves is trying to fasten a whi£e scarf, the Catholic emblem, ^■hibh would take him safely through the^streets, but he refuses to purchase his*afety by false appearances. 1/hey stood before it f*r some minut^ wrapped in admiration. ’How grand!” said Leonie. “After all,, nothing moves one so greatly as true nobility of character, true heroism.” “Would you have sought to save your lover in such a fashion?" asked Captain Flemyng. gently. “Yes, I should have lost sight of the ■ means in the end: I would have saved him at any c st.” “Except that of honor,” he added. “Ah, honoris the idol you soldiers worship; I should have remembered his safety and my love first, and then hoaor if convenient. Do not look shocked, Captain Flemyng; there is not one woman in a thousand who would not do the same.” "I would not,” said the clear, sweet voice of Ethel Dacre; “no matter how ^^)ly I loved a man, I would rather— ! ( rather tee him dead at my feet • Wwknow him bankrupt in honor.” f Paul Flemyng looked at the pure, I 'earnest face. “I befieve you," he said; “you are the • one woman in a thousand whom Lady Charn'elgh speaks of.” Her face flushed, her heart beat faster at the words; earth held nothing for her so sweet as praise from his lip-. “You are singularly alike in your ideas.” said I^ady Charnleigh. “Pray tell me, Sir Bayard—supposing that you loved a woman very dearly, more dearly than life, and that you found had bailed in this honor you prize so highly, what would you do then?” “Cease to love her. You may think me severe, Lady Charnleigh. but I could no more love a person whom I knew to have committed a dishonorable ; action than I could ” “Commit one yourself.” she interposed, promptly, seeing that he paused for a word. “You are right,” he said. “Honor is the breath of life: the man or woman who possesses it, possesses something half div n •: without it, they are barely human. ” i “What an earnest discussion,” interrupted Sir Bertram Gordon, who had joined them unperceived. "Ah. Lady Charnleigh. vou are looking at Millais' picture.” “And we have also been discussing it.” she supplemented, turning her head lest the bright flash on her face might be seen. "Sir Bertram, are you as inexorable as Captain Flemyng? Could you ever forgive a dishonorable action in the person you loved?” He was silent for some minutes, and then the grand Saxon head was proudly raised. “I cannot imagine myself loving any person capable of such a thing,” he said. (Love has instincts that never I err.” I “ButiH you are deceived if you belibveijpe lady everything good and noble, *£<l you found that she had been guiltv pf one false action—could you forgivept?” "I caqnot say. I should take the circumstaqcss or the temptation into consideration.” Suddenly his eyes fell upon a beautiful picture near them. "Look, Lady Charnleigh,” he said; there is the answer to your question. That is how I should forgive. ” They followed the direction of his hand. The picture was exquisite beyond words. It represented “The Pardon of Queen Guinevere.” i In the background rose the gray I walls of the convent, ivy clinging round the stone crosses, passion flowers and roses climbing to the low-arched windows. King Arthur stood before the gate, tall and stately, with a look of pity, half-divine, 'on his kingly face. She, the beautiful, beloved, guilty wife, lay at his feet, her white hands clasping them: her lovely face was lowered to them, and her golden hair fell like a veil over the imperial figure so lowly bent. “To see thee lying there, - golaen head—my pride in happier summers— At my feet," murmured Ethel Dacre. “How could she—oh, how could she betray him?” ‘ That is how I should forgive, Lady Charnleigh.” The gravity of his words and the beauty of the picture had startled the youngs countess. Her face was pale; Fne tried to speak gayly as she had bo- ( 'Altar you had forgiven, would you 1 tt C 83 th® '" ' ” -1 at her before h^replied.

F -Take a lily-kaf in yettf hand, Ladv 1 Charn'eigh, and stain it. Can paint cover the mark or restore its beauty? Brush the bicorn from the downy peach: can anything give it back? Crush the jierfume from the scattered leaves of a rose, can anything make the flower whole and complete?” “No,” she replied. bo faith, once destroyed, can never be made whole. So love, once rudely । awakened, can never sleep again. So , trust, once betrayed, ean never be । wholty restored.” I think, she said, impetuonly, “I would rather ave Captain Flemyng's , iciusal to paru n than your fo?,rive- | ness, Sir Bertram.” “XV hy,” he asked, simply. He would make me proud and an- । nL' • 4 would make me sb angrv if { I had done anything wrono-. that I ; should break my heart over it?' i In after years, those words returned i to her, and she knew they had been truthfully spoken. Sir Bertram was the first to recover himself. “Our discussion has made us all very serious. Lady Charnleigh. you carry ; sunshine with you wherever you go — why this eclipse?” You have frightened me,” she replied. in a low voice. And. looking at her, Sir Bertram saw the beautiful eves । dim with tears. lor once in his life he was nearly givinjr way to a mad impulse. He wished to take her in his arms and kiss the tears away. His great heart ; yearned over her. He loved her so ! dearly and so well that the very force of his own love frightened him “I am sorry,” he said. “I have an ea-nest way of both speaking and thinking.” “Earnestness is the very salt of life.” put in Captain Flemyng: and Ethel's sweet eyes looked her approval of the words. Later on in the evening of the same day, when Lady Charleigh’s noble drawing-room was half filled with guests, these four found themselves together aga’n. “Lady Fanshawe says we have had enough of Loudon for this season.” the brilliant young mistress was saying: “she wishes to return to Crown Leighton.” “London will lose its brightest star,” said Captain Flemyng. She always smiled at his compliments. but they never brought a burning flush to her face as one word from l Sir Bertram did. ; “The 'star,' as you please to call me, Captain Flemyng, has made up her mind what to do, if possible. She will take her world to Crown Leighton, and shine on it there. Ethel,” she continued, earnestly, “you must accompa- । n y nie to Crown Leighton. I refuse to ;be parted from you. The General has ' his hands full of business: he does not I want you. I do. Come and stay with me for three months. Help me to persuade her, Captain Flemyng.” "She needs no persuasion,” he re- I turned. “She is willing. ‘You will be at XV’eildon,” continued La ly Charnleigh—“only a few miles a vay. Y; u will come over very often. , i want to have charades, private theI atricals, and everything that is gay, b- lyht- nml ! "Yon matte m- very happy, Lady I ‘ Charnleigh,” said the young soldier. "What have I done.” said Sir Ber- i tram, “that I should be banished fr m । paradise?” " ' "I do not know that you are ban- : ished?” replied Lady Charnleigh, with a charming smile. “You have not honored me with an invitation, Lady Charnleigh: you do not kn»w how eagerly I shall respond.” “I will give you one to Weildon,” said । Captain Flemyng. "We shall have । some capital shooting there in Sep- : tember. I am leaving London next ! week—come with me.” Lady Charnleigh heard the words . with a beating heart. "Verily,” she said to herself, “my jest is a true one I am taking my world with me.” CHARIER XX. It was late one June evening when the young Countess, with her brilliant train, again took possession of Crown Leighton. It was the first time for many years | that Crown Leighton had been filled i with guests. All the state rooms were i thrown open; the magnificent apartments, so long closed, were once more filled with bright faces and cheerful voices: once more the grand old mansion re-echoed with the voice of mirth and song. The guest rooms, those beautiful apartments set aside for the accommodation of visitors, were filled; it was something like olden times to see gentlemen lounging about the terraces, ■ ladies flitting through the superb apartments and lingering in the vast conservatories, and servants hurrying to j and fro in all the activity and bustle of a large household. “Thank heaven.” said the housekeeper, piously, “that I have lived to ;ee this day. My young lady will not complain of quiet again. ” I.a ly Charnleigh had not forgotten Crown Leighton during her triumphant ; season in London; she had sent down ; marvels in the way of furniture and works of ai t “After all,” she had said to Lady Fanshar®, "I am one of many in London: at Crown Leighton lam i queen.” She might be pardoned if, finding herself uncontrolled mistress of all this splendor, she was somewhat led astray by vanity and love of power. She was so young, and it was all so novel to her: she had but to express half a wish, and i people hastened to gratify it. Wherever she went, servants and dependents bowed low to her; she heard no voice save that of praise and homage. Mr. Clements declared that had she been born to a throne she could not have conducted herself with greater grace and majesty. Mr. Dunscombe said that, with all her beauty, grace and accomplishments, sho had a wonderfully clear head for business, she understood everything most readily. “She has what is a rare quality among beautiful women—she has common sense.” he observed once in speaking of her; “and that goes further than any amount of genius.” ! So Leonie, Lady Charnleigh, lived in an atmosphere of praise. She soon : made herself not only popular but be loved in the neighborhood. She gave j parties that every one enjoyed: she threw ojien her mansion for the entertainment of half the county; she spared neither money, nor labor, nor i trouble to make every one around her । ' happy. I “You are a perfect hostess,” said Lady > । Fanshawe to her, one evening after j i a dancing party; “I cannot tell where i

1 you have learned the art of entertaining people, you who in the past days saw so little of society.” "Politeness and what you call the gift of making people happy come naturally from a light and happy heart. How can I, who never sigh, fail" to long to see other faces bright? I, who have no care, no trouble, cannot help wishing every one else to be glad and joyShe spoke with a smile so beautiful, with" her face so radiant that Lady Fanshawe was somewhat struck with fear. “Will she always be so happy,” she thought, “in this world where pain outweighs pleasure? Can it possibly last?” CHAPTER XXI. Lady Charnleigh was not twenty: she was as beautiful as a vision and mistress cf a large fortune and magnificent estate. She had nothing to do but frame a wish, and it was gratified. XV hen she rose in the morning she would say to herself that she wowd enjoy a certain pleasure before night, and it was hers to enjoy. She imagined a hundred wants for the sake of gratifying them. Yet her pleasure in h'r wealth was not wholly selfish. She gloried in relieving distress: to see a pale face brighten anl dim eyes shine with happiness was to her a keen i source of pleasure. Before Lady Charnleigh had been many days at Crown Leighton her name was known wlicrever want or sorrow reigned., a. hundred blessings were poured upon her, a hundred grateful hearts beat more quickly at the mention of her name-no light praise for a young girl who had the world at het feet. Ethel Dacre was with her: and a note from Weildon told her that Paul Flemyng and Sir Bertram were there. Sir Bertram, then, was only seven miles from her! The grand old trees in her woods reached to the town where he was staying, the same sun shone for him, the same flowers bloomed, he was nca • her, and the world grew dazzlingly bright as she read the words. She rose one morning, and said to herself that she would ask the two friends to dinner, and she laughed aloud —a sweet, rippling laugh?- to think that she had only to wish and to be gratified. “if Paul were one whit less noble than he is. coming to Crown Leighton would be a trial to him.” she said to Miss Dacre as the two stood on the sunlit western terrace. “1 believe, in all honesty, were any question of ownership t-.> arise, that he would far rather this noble estate became yours than his.” observed Ethel, looking at the beautiiul face. And Lady Charnleigh laughed again. It was very sweet and pleasant to hear how much she wa? loved, and amon^ all her conquests she rated this cne of le beau sab.eur most highly. "I could not be so disinterested,” she rejoined, looking around. “I could not give up this lovely heme of mine to ( any one or fir any one.” Then she stopped abruptly. Yes, there was one for whom she could give it up. she thought —one whom ?he could follow into that cold world of poverty and privation from which she had been so glad to escape. » 'Y' Ol ’ 4 DV vou have sent an invitation tain Flemyng. - " remarked Ethel! “Hag the baronet been here before? Dees he know Crown Leighton at all?” "No: it is his first visit.” and Lady j Charnleigh, bent low over some Banksia roses lest Ethel should wonder at the burning blush on her face. Sir Bertram was coming that day, and X^ady Charnleigh locked r< und her in proud, happy enjoyment of her mag- , nificenee—proud that this was all hera i —proud to remember the magnificent dowry she would bring him when he i a-ked her for the gift he valued most —her heart. She wandered, restlessly happy, op that brfght summer day, j through the sumptuous rooms, changing flowers on the stands, tea;ranging vases and statuettes, all to please his eyes. It was to her as though a king were ccming—he was her king. The restless, bright day seemed as though it w'ould never pass—she wandered, with sweet snatches of song upon her lips, from the house to the gardens amj back again. ITO BE COXTINrED. I A STRANGE Em7g RATION. Shiploads of Australians Seeking Homes in South America. A curious emigration movement has ■ recently started in Australia. One would suppose that the conditions of life in that country are greatly preferable to those in Paraguay, but there are those, apparently, who imagine that they can attain greater prosperity in the latter land, and hence the movement now in progress, of which one XVilliam Lane, a prominent labor leader, is the organizer. The first contingent of 20) emigrants have aheady sailed from Sidney and these will be ! followed during the year by 1,000 others. The government of Paraguay, according to the London Graphic, “has . given a tract of land to the emigrants. ’ who reckon amcng their ranks skilled hands in every branch of industry, and ! who take with them all the necessary materials for a new settlement on vir- : gin soil. Money is not lacking, for tha lowest fee for male members is S3OO, ! while the rich are supposed to contrite ute their all to the common fur.ck j Women pay no entrance fee. but in other respects they are to be placed in . the new commonwealth on an absolute equality with men. The association is to be worked entirely on co-operative ! principles, without currency and it is to be composed of a number of village communities, each self-administrative, a’nd all held in check by an elective president. There is a strong feeling on the temperance question, and all members have temporarily taken the pledge. Bushmen, laborers, artisans, : sailors, with a sprinkling of professionals, have flocked from Queensland, New South XX T ales, and South Au-tra--1 lia. Schools, printing offices, newspapers and manufactures are to ba ! speedily started.” A Live Toad in a Hail Stone. A hail storm visited Pawtucket the other eveni»g, such as has not visited that vicinity for years, if within ths memory of man. Ono woman picked up a large hail stone and a! towed it to melt in her hand, she thought somei thing was inside the little piece of fn zen rain, but was surprised to find when all had melted a little live toad or frog in her hand. There is a quite general belief that a great many peb- । bles came down with the hail. Matthew Arnold's dogs, cat and I canary bird are mentioned dozens of i times in his poems.