St. Joseph County Independent, Volume 20, Number 24, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 2 January 1895 — Page 2

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NS AN |A, | ANANNY w2l 2Ry \ ¢ ; - 3 ,“dh .\L“ N \ ‘\\\‘ » : dA’A\ )l ‘%:.’;«; : = e R (it oSI 12 0. DRI 457 ey /{v ‘((;/ '/f/v T Wesa s ih e 02l : CHAPTER Xl—Continugd. “I would give my life to seec my husband a great man, and to help him to become one!” said she, with a suppressed passionr which quite startled Roderick. Then, laughing again, as ir! hqlt ashamed of her own earnestness, . “Supr " |» since we cannot buy books, . Yol .o to set to work and write - = “'.‘ T 5 b PIR - ®Yeu little Solon! cried Roderick, and said no more. But there was a gleam in his eye, a hope in his heart. Something in his wife's words had stirred in him that ambition which every man has, or ought to have, clse f | he is no true man at all—the wish to | do something, to be something, to cease ! ; drifting aimlessly down the stream ol‘! life, in the passing pleasures of tlwl day, but to take firn root somewhere, ! strike root downward and bear I'mit‘ upward. And the woman that hinders him from doing this is no true wife, | but a meve parisite that smothers and \ impedes the growth of the trea Ay, even though she may garland him as gorgeously as the lianas do the trees in Western forests, with what she calls love, but which is in truth the nwrcst] selfishiness. She was a born mistress of a househoid, this young Mrs. Jardine; none the less so because of a something in her beyond it all, which made her often stop a moment in her daily labors to look at *the blue hills far away,” to listen to the singing of the burn in the glen, or the birds in the garden, and perhaps carol a ditty herself there, when she was gathering flowers or| pulling fruit out in the open air, fnrl they had no piano, and she would not hear of buying one till the book was done and they had plenty of money. “My darling, you are in onc thing unlike all women—at least, all that I ever knew. You invariably prefer what you have instead of what 3'o\l‘ have not. Suppose, now, just for a change, you were to begin worrying my life out because I can not give you | half a dozen servants and a carriage ___and pair, or take you out iuto sogiety.?.

“Do you? When you are a Jardine — i we are both Jardines, for that matter—and you are to be a great author, or a great man, some day?”’ 1 “Evidently my wife does not believe the two synoaymous,” said Roderick, laughing and coloring. | “Not quite, because the author may fail; whereas the man who does his work—any work—as conscientiously as you are doing it, must always Dbe, in one sense, a great man. Also the one is the world's property, the other is mine!” | She put her arms round his neck; he leaned against her, for he was,. in truth, a good deal tired. His book had been bothering him, and he was not used to being bothered, not accustomed - to the endiess labor, the perpetual struggle Dbetween impulse and perseverance, moods of errant fanecy and deliberate, mechanical, matter-of-fact toil, which all professional authors understand but too well. *“lt’s done at last,” said he, alinost with a shout, as, one late zutumn morning, with the scent of clematis | and jasimine coming in at the open window, he finished his book, writing, in his best and neatest hand, “The End” on the final page. “And yet lam half sorry! I hLave killed them all, or married them—made them quite comfortable, anyhow—and now I rather miss them. They had grown such companions; had they not, dear?”’ Silence smiled; but yet, as she tenderly tied up the ZIS., carefully counting the pages, to be sure that none were missing, a tear fell on the last one. It was so dear to her, this first work of her husband’s, done in theirl

MIMH&ZIflg and full of so | many associations. She was vo if it came to the \\\'vm‘u-\\s~,\ie\z?:‘. i‘ she should never cease to remember |1 and cherish it, every line. ‘ “rpywwentieth editions do not come every day, even to celebrated authors,” gaid Roderick, sapiently. “I should be glad to sell even the first five, and get the money.” “Money—l am afraid I haa forgotten the money,”’ said Silence—as, indeed, she had. But for a good many d:\ys\ after, when, the excitement of work over, a reactiocn came, and Roderick looked more pale and ili than she had ever seen him, she began to count over her little store, as it by counting she could double it, nd to long, day by day, for the letter which was to bring the hope of that despised necesik eel =i Se S i e

sity—pounds, shillings and Hence. The last and hardest came one day when they had been rather brighter than usual. Hilence had persuaded her husband to walk down with her to the obnoxious cotton mill, in which shie had become much interested—having instituted, or rather carried on anew, a school for the mill girls, which had been the favorite work of Miss | Jardine. “You will let me do it justl because she did it?” was the entreaty which Rtoderick could not resist. So every Sunday, while he took the long stroeteh across the country which she had insisted upon after the labors of the week, she had gone down to an empty room at the mill and kept school there for two hours.

' To-day the girls recognized her with‘ delight, and her husband, pleased with gwr pleasure, glad, too, of any relief in his monotonous life, had talked to the “hands,” examined the machinery, and acknowledged that there might ' be a worse lot in life than to be master of a mill. ; “At one time I wanted to be an engineer, but my mother thought the profession not ‘genteel’ enough. She would have put me into the ‘house,’ but TRoved machinery, I hated trade. You would not have wondered, had you ever known my grandfather I’aterson—" Roderick stopped. “But he is dead, and he was a clever man, and an honest, in his own way.” It was one of the things which Silence most loved in her husband, part of the infinite respect deepening every ’ day, which would have made her pass over so many littie faults in him, that _she never heard him speak ill-natured-“l almost wish that I had been in our firm, or some other, that you might—’ ‘walk in silk attire, And siller hae to spare. But after all, my wife, you would not have cared to see me a millionaire, and a money-grubber—Grub street secis a deal nearer my marvk.” They both laughed and entered the house gayly—almost for the first time without looking on the hall table for the vague expectation of something. It was not till Silence had taken off her hat and began to make the xv:xi that she saw a large carrier's parcel | with the *“eminent puislisher's” l:lhcll outside—one of these neatly done up, | innocent-looking parcels which often | carry with them a stroke of absolute doom. ‘ “Let me open it,” said Silence—and | her husband let her. It was a civil note, a very civil note, ‘ placed on the top of the MS., and ex- | pressing a great regret that the latter | was found ‘‘unsuitable.” In l'v:n‘xin;_" it Roderick’s hands shook nervously and his color went and came. | “Never mind, it does net matter; it was what I should have expected,” | was all he said. I “No, it does not matter,” said Si- | lence, firmly. *“They only say it is ‘un- ‘ suitable’ to them. It may suit some one | else. Let us try.” “Yes, let us try,” echoed Roderick, mechanically, his hand before his eyes. “And if we fail—- ‘ ‘We fail; We screw our courage to the sticking l place, And we'll not fail.’ “My Lady Macbeth,” said he, scarce1y able to forbear a smile at the sweet. " Bl and the brave heart e el 86 hard to keep np his own.

“Then let'us once more get togetnel T(n ‘murder sleep’—or only a publisher. i Whom shall the MS. be sent to next?” ‘ That very day—for Silence never let any grass grow under her feet—she repacked the MS. and sent it to another house. From whence it ¢ame back at i once, unopened, as all arrangements | were made up—in fact, the head of the l firm was just starting for Switzerland. | He, honest man-—for publishers are 1 but men, though poor authors will not | believe it—Dbeing perhaps a little worn ! out with a year of weiries—the ge- | nus irritable are the most worrying folk alive—added a well meant but ! unnecessary sting to the ciffect that “he would advise the author to try an- ‘ other tack-—historical novels never | sold.” | “Then I had Detter burn it,”" said | Roderick, quietly. But as he advanced | to the fire there was an expression | in his face which his wife had never ! seen before. She flung hersell before him in an agony of tears. | | “You shall not. It is mine, mine, | | whether the world likes it or not. We | { will never give in; we will try and try ; again. Don’t you remember Bruce and | the spider?” ' “A good simile; because in the mean- | time I might lie in this horrid cave and | starve. Thank you, my dear. No, II had rather go out, take my sword in | hand, and die fighting!” | He laughed loudly, and then he, too, ! burst into tears. ' Without any words, Silence laid her husband’s head on her shoulder, sooth- l ing him less like a wife than a mother, |or rather a combination of both. The f

worshiped ideal, the “queen” of boy- | x.nvru w...““‘“ not D(‘,l‘ oCt, . P—ing hard to be “as Zood as she could . | both for love’s sake and for the sake | of that Love Divine which is at the | root of all. And so she was gradually \. becoming what a man so sorely needs | his wife to be—comfort, solace, | strength; his fellow-laborer as well ‘ as his counselor; neither superior noer | inferior to himself, only different. § And in this character she made the | wisest suggestion that could have been | made, and which the day before he had | absolutely scouted—that they should go | away for a few days; accept the latest | 1 of the many invitations of good Mrs. -} Grierson, and visit her—not at Richer- , + den, but at the coast. ‘1 “vou know she said ail the RicherL ana saanta sl hiave left by now,” add-

T N STty ST L M e e, G e ed Silence, hesitating. «rhat means we need not fear meet- ‘? ing any of our relations or friends- \ we tabooed folk,” answered Roderick, | bitterly. Nevertheless, in his prvsmn"‘; condition, the very thought of change | had a certain relief in it. “She is 8 | dear soul—ecld Mrs. Grierson. I told { you yoil would like her, and you did.” i “yery much.” | “Suppose, then, we were to strain a peint and go.” Silence did not tell him that straining a point was, as regarded money mat‘tm's, more difficult than he knew; but she did somehow manage it, and they l\wvnt. Not, however, until after many consultations, the luckless DIS. had

S T T R S SR DA O R=R e e again gone forth on its quest for a pub- ! lisher; this time almost without hope, l but simply in the carrying out of that | “dogged determination” which Roder- l ick declared he now for the first time recognized in his wife. “If 1 had had it,” he said, wistfully, { as they sat together on the deck of ®one of those river steamboats, where all the disagreements of ~ overcrowd{ing and holiday-making cannot neu- | tradize the pleasure of sea and moun- { tain and loch. “If I had had it, how | much more I might have done!” | “You ‘never know you have got it till you try.” “My dear heart!” In the sanctity of very private life Roderick sumotimos! called his wife “my Leart,” or “my soul”—which was a great deal nearer the truth than many an idle pet-name. “Gh. this is delicious,” said he, as he ’ drank in the salt air and amused himsoll’/wfi',lx Silence’s delight in a beauty | | which she declared made Scotland | ) “better than Switzerland,” the broad ' estuary running up into long hill-encir-cled lochs, where porpoises tumbled and white gulls wheeled screaming: overhead, and the lights and the shas dows came and went, producing “es sects” such as are seen nowhen ~but in this rainy, sunshiny land; country which beyound-all others sce to be a country with a soul, especiai on its coast. And Silence, who, though brought up among mountains, N 3 never seen the sea excent when she crossied it at Calais, watched all these wonders with perfectly childish de® light i “How happy you are,” said Rudpr-.l

ick, looking at her. ;, “Why not, when we two are together —always together?” ’ Roderick smiled, not in gratified vanity—he had very little of that; but recognizing—as in seltish passion men never can recognize—the sweetness o being able to make ancther human being perfectly happy. Mrs. Grierson’s welcome was a treat to get. She was of those old people whom all young people love—sympa thetic, unexacting, expending what ever she could, and especially upon anyone that needed it, the warmth of her childless, motherless heart, Nap row she might be in her opinionS— | least some of the new generation, ev Roderick himself, had thought so; b in her acts she was wide as charity i self. And her house was one of thoes —not too many in this world—wherg guests feel entirvely “at home.” 1 The young folks were left almos§ entirely to themselves, sitting out of the lovely shore or eclimbing the heights—the same where Roderick his a year ago sat and dreamed of the th unseen and ineredible She--as he tol her once when she sat beside hin They wandered about, perfectly c¢o tent, till dusk, when they eame in, a submitted placidiy to the sweet § verites of late dinner. Mrs. Grierse belonged to one of the “oid” Richgs den famities, and cherishid the refigsy . lity vainly imitated bys e 13X8

yYeanx tiche R “But you s . g i d Roderick to LiEFR el W have been a Richerden lady all yaie [ days, so well you play your part.” ’ { "1 don't play it at all, dear. I rea g; i«-:njn;\’ myself—l enjoy everything v_‘ { with you. How terrible it must bk, | with a sudden shiver—*l hardly Kngy s | which would be most terrible, havlve | to part from one's husband, or p;n-u{“l | conscious that one was not SOIT¥ v, ! part. Now, yon and I are not le\\'m;_ | ‘good,” my Roderick. Sometimes 4¢ i vex one another—l don't beiieve ad l { in your Dunmow flitch of bacon! Wy n:l ; we have not been married six mongfge | { and I am sure we have quarreled uut i least twelve times.” gve { *“Not quarreled, only differed,” § m-‘ { swered he, laughing. *“And I supgl i< | { all people do differ, and yet 11)\'t;;'f my another to the end. You love me S 8 1 | “Yes"—with a sudden gravityls \‘(\i cause 1 respect you, I think lh'v‘(sn; | one only thing which could ki inks | love—if 1 ceased to respect Vi "t { should do my duty still, hut. all . i would go dead out, like a fireg led ! { one traniples on it. And then If sme | |no power on carth could ever K hin:; i up again.” Shvas | { “God forbid!” Roderick said, i vor | by a kind of sad sternness whichs im;_,f [ into the gentle face. But it CigEE,in- | [ gocd, after all, to feel that therd&lis ! It!mt in his wife which would ny | | suffer any man to make her eitherfy: 1.1 ] a plaything or a slave. The next Q.- ,\'n'i | ute she had slipped her hand into e | , “Don’t let us talk such nousens re | | Roderick; you will always love ni™%si- |

hold me fast. I ean bear anythif Jes long as you hold me fast.” %,’" f acs ITe dTT nota-fast; and. (LroUh Jhim | trinls than she guesed. ToRiE fnor--13« »atlre Ihe ("\!H‘nu..- e P' meeting Nicherdaen ‘H‘l‘\_’lm o Frierquaintances who miznt speak \ had or her of painful things—became that feet bugbear. And though Mrs. Meq to <on. with her usual delicate t win- - 4 1o i nilorat: 3 £ managed to .“1 him und¢ x”t.u.u e into his own family bad all returigg, ... town—that 18, H.!l"l\{”l'ilt‘ll4:'1““"11\" s ey ter, still he (-.z'\::_":;t himself 100KIDE ¢ every carriage that passedalong fest e haantiftnl cengide road. every S beautiful asi¢ ‘l ad, « *l.\‘. 11111“1!' that stopped at the now half-dé guay. with a TH".".'HI".A. :'.n‘xu'l:\'m_ , onls should see some familiar face; I . . ‘ Blizing—- | still, but welcome no more. | : . : Jre and Suppoge he did meet them-—BB et b S &ko that said “them” without individugs EAIEY ATV

what should he do? Woeuld nd 3 vy 32 instinet triumph over 1'1';:::01#?, as if he could not ignore them, ‘Q"' And | flesh and blood, look and pass o, hegal i they wvere comimon strangé :gghts, { once, Silence, who after a i g'tb{ll by |to divine his unspoken o tender | brought him face to face-wit : | 2 sudden question, put with #nted to | anxiety, but very ;':n'nz-xtly.- \\'Ora,- to } “Roderick, 1 have oftenigg I ask—what should you do if ! mean; E meet your mother?” ;ruth he '; «If we were to meet her, e apart, | for we are never apart.” In § should | took care they never should pnseless | lest somebody or somethings _chance to wound her, the de

l ¢ re whom every day he felt more i ) dto cherish, and concerning whom B ndignation continually higher rose. ‘ WS tragedy in a teapot” may be, but igfe the less a tragedy that was alyvs coming between them and the SIR; and worse here, after a little, Willen the first pleasantness of the G@inge Lad worn off —worse certainly sihn at Blackhall. By and by, he spoke off zoing back to Blackhall, but gooq s. Grierson entreated they woulq dtay on a little longer. 3 “It would do your wife good, and me f," she said. “Remember I have no I e ughter, and she no mother.” sThat is true, poor child!” And he doolzed sadiy across to where, in Sweet i nconscious peace, Silence sat, making Wwith her deft fingers a cap for the old fady. “Why call her ‘poor? DPardon me,. y dear Roderick, but may I adh one uestion—has yow= mother ever scen your wife?” g “No.” E J “She ought to seé her. Do you not g think so?” 8 “‘What do vou mean, Mrs. Grierson? But, exer-¢ me, this is a subject upon whir™ We had better not speak.” g 1 agree with you, anq should never have spoken,” said tna old lady neypRUSLY, “waore it not almost my duty to PPt You that Mrs. Jardine is at I'afrfield, close by, come unexpectedly on a three days’ visit. She may not come to see me, and she may. If she does—--" k. “We will leave immediately,” said ['-*Rodorick. rising. “Indeed, my dear Mrs. Grierson, it is muelh better so. We should grieve to cause ¥You a mo- | ment’'s inconvenience.” ‘

, “My dear,” laying her hand on his rm, and looking at him wity Swee Im eyes that were so near the othe; Svorld as to have half forgotten the sorWs of this, “ my dear, I knew You as nas you were born. Forgive sn ol roman who never had g child; Dbut hothers are mothers—don’t you think hat instead of going away, you should mther stay, on the chance of seeing our mother?"” T “See my mother? what, she— But, Indeed, I cannot talk over these things, which, I suppose, you know all aboul. Everybody does know everybody else's affairs in Richerden.” ~xe3 1 know.” “Then it is kind not to have spoken to me before. Let us continue that wholoesome silence. Let me take my wife and go.” “Suppose your wife and I were to settle that question. She is the dearLest little woman in the world, 1 only wish I had her for my daughter. Women understand women Lest,” shoe added Wwiith a gentle smile. “I think, my dear )oy, you had better walk away.” Roderick did not walk away, but he uffered Mrs. Grierson to go over and peak to his wife. Finally, the ice nee broken, they were able to t:\lk< ver these painful things all three together. The younger ones poured out thelir grief and wrath: at least Roder’!ck did; Silence said nothing. The old- l er woman listened patiently and teneY T O I I T TI T OIS T

HUC, IOT there are two sides to _(‘\’t‘!‘)' D Ject, and those are the wisest peoage’t¥ W——-—-—-—i - Deep as her sympathy was, seventy views things a little different from twenty-seven. The warm, motherly heart could not clioose but put itself in the mother's place—-the mother who had so wholly lost, or persuaded herself she had lost, her beloved and only SOOI, “l have known Mrs. Jardine ever since her marriage,” Mrs. Grierson ex- ! plained to Silence. “She is a woman of strong prejudices, strong p:msiuns,' but generous and kindly; doing wrong things sometimes, as we all do, but doing them with the best intentions, which not all of us do. But I beg your “husband’s pardon for criticizing his mother, who is so totally opposite to his wife that, on the principle that exbtremes meet, 1 should not wonder if, when you do weet, you were to like one ancther amazingly.” ‘ Roderick made no answer; but| whether he believed it er not, the idea certainly seemed to comfort him. He listened with patience that surprised himself to a further homily and many gentle arguments; ending with one which youth is slow to understand, that life is too short for anything but love and peace. Yieldingz, at last, to her earnest entreaty, and to tiie mute appeal of his wife's eyes, Roderick consented that Mrs. Grierson should write a brief Jmi? to his mother, mentioning formal- ! Iy what guests she had in her house, and how happy she would be to see Mrs. Jardine, “were it convenient and agreeable.” The next six hours, spent within | doors—they shrunk from the chances Los the rost without—were not very | happy hours to any of the trio. |1 It was nearly night—a red, stormy sunset fading over the sea, the “white horses” rising, a gale beginning to bloty and dash the waves wildly acainst the rocks under the drawing--1'6.)1\.1 windows. Roderick and Silence had been watching the twilight shadows upon the mountains, beyond which lay Blackhall and home. “] almost wish we were at home,” she whispered; and he had put his arms tenderly round her, when suddenly Mrs. Grierson entered with a letter in her hand. “Read that, my dears. It is, I own, | pather surprizing.” ‘ It was—from a mother. *“Mrs. Jardine's compliments to Mrs. Grierson, { and she does not intend going out to- " day; but if Mr. Roderick Jardine has | anything to say to her he may come, | provided he comes alone, at ten o’clock | to-morrow.” ' Tlese brief lines were passed round, ti and then the three regarded one another, doubtful who should speak first, ) | and still more doubtful what to say. ) At last Roderick, pressing his hostess’ hand, bade her not to be troubled, . | She had done her best. “But you see, | dear Mrs. Grierson, that T was right. .| We had better g 0 home.” | “And not go and see your mother?” s| “Certainly not witheut my wife.

e S SR b e5 S AT 1 2 _—-—-_'————“_—___. rDear,” turning to ner affectionately, | “we did not have it in our Swiss mar- | riage service, though, I believe, it is in ! the English one; but there is a text— | ‘What God hath joined togother let 1o man put asunder.” I do not mean to | be put asunder from my wife—not even by my mother.” | He spoke smilingly, caressing her the while, but Silence burst into tears. “And it is I that have been the cause of this—l, who— Does slie know, Roderick, that my mother is dead? | And would any one whose mother is | dead wish to keep a son away from hisy | living mother? Go to her with or with- | | out me—cnly go!” 1 Roderick thought differently. o, ) him it appeared the most arrant cowardice; desertion of the wife he haq deliberately chosen: acknowledgment of an error he had never committed. Besides, 1t was a weaXk truckling to the stronger side—the wealthier sideo, “lor (you muay not know it, Mrs. Grierson, theugh it seems to me that everybody does get to know everything, especially at Richerden) my mother's money is all in pher own hands; and I—we—are ag poor as chureh mice.” . Mrs. Grierson smiled, “Money is a good thing and a bad thing, but not | half such an ilmportant thing as some folks imagine. It need not hinder a ‘| man from going to smee his own | mother.” | Roderick winceg slightly. “Then yon think my pride wrong ¥’ “Not pride for her,” with a tender glanee at Silence. “But as for yourself —a man satistied of his own real motives should be indifferent to any im-

puted ones. That is not his concern at ey | “You are right—l admit it. Still, as | 0 Ry wife——-" § But Silence flung herself, in one or | her rare outbursts of emotion, on her | knees beside her husband. Go, I be- | seech you, go! She is alive—yon ecan | hear her speak—you can make her un- ! derstand you love her, Oh, Roderick, | you don’t know what it is to eall when | there is none to answer—to weep when | there is none to comfort you. Go, go! You have no idea what it is to feel that ! one's mother is dead!” i He Kissed and comforted her into | calimness; but something struck and | startled him, something which, under | all her sweet cheerfulness, he had | never found out before—that mystery | of being “acquainted with grief.” Ile i himself had known vexation, annoy- | ance, disappointment—but sorrow, | 4 heart sorrow he had never known. She | ; had. Young as she was, he feit from | | that hour that in many things his wife | l was both older and wiser than he., I - “I will do exactly as you wish,” he sald. “Mrs, Grierson, will you write ; to my mother, and say I shall be swith | 1 her at the appointed howr? But, re- | miember it is wholly and solely because | my wife desires it.” { So he went. When he came back, | | which was almost immediately, he sat 4 down beside Silence, and kissed her | without a word. i : ——Well_my love. 1 havs gone as von | ! YWISHEI SSO Vhis 1o s T

Whatdideheeuysn G : : v i ‘] \} e lad neither of us nn opsortuni- | den, and lect at S thic mosepsdags Cis- 3 1 “Without any lecter or messages” ll t - “Without one single word. And now, my wife, that page is turned over. i ] I.et us close the book and Dbegin ‘ll again. Is it not best, Mrs. Grierson?”’ | | The old lady hesitated. There were | tears in her kindly eyes. \ “It shall be Dbest,” said Roderick, | firmly. *“Come, my darling, Ilef us | | thank our dear friend here for all her | goodness to us. Let us pack up our | boxes and return to Blackhall” i To Reoderick, as perhaps tw most | men, anything was easier than a thing % uncertain. He recovered in spirits | sooner than Silence, who was greatly ! distressed, could at all have expected. | Perhaps, like many of us, having resolved to do a painful thing, he was ‘ not sorry when fate stepped in to pre- | vent his doing it. And he listened pa- { tiently to Mrs. Grierson’s arguments | agzainst rashly judging what might | 1 have been pure accident or unavoida- § \ ble necessity. '% ‘We shall see” he said. ‘ln the! ‘ meantime, need we say any more. My i wife and I have an equal dislike to ‘t:\ll;ing it over. Let us all forget it, % and spend a happy last day together.” ! It was happy, and the next day, too. { Mrs. Grierson, who, while consenting | to their departure, had sorely regrets ted it, had accompanied him 2 part of { the way on their journey, and made {it as easy as she esuld. Her farewell | words, too, were given with unmis- | takable, earnest affection. “Roderick, i take care of your wife.” e did take eare of her, with &n instinet new, but strangely sweet. Most men have passion in them; many have 'la kindly good-nature, and a sort of | ever-craving affectionateness which ; ! passesfor love; bat very few have that | tenderness —that generous devotion of | the strong to the weak, the helpful to | the helpless, which constitutes the | highest manliness, and which is best ' i described by the scripture phrase, *I ,lwus an husband unto them.” Rod- : I erick had it. ; Lovely as the day was—one of those l rare late autumn days which in Ll.&‘wutlaml make earth look like para- ! dise—and beautiful as was the scenery | ! through which they passed, Silence | was so tired with her journey that for the last few miles she lay with her | head on Roderick’s shoulder, scarcely = speaking a word, and only rousing her- " | gels when she saw, glimmering like : i stars in the distance, the windew | of Blackhall. l “Ah!” she sighed, *“that must e ' | home.” ; l «smast or west, home is best.” " | ‘flome is home, be it ever so homiely,” ”’ - | said Roderick, as he lifted her in-doors, , I and sat her in the large arm-chair by , I the blazingfire, seeing nothing, heeding | nothing, except the little pale face which to him was so infinitely dear. ' l Not until tea was over and her ; Iv,:hecrful smile had fully returred, did

“‘ lhe notice, among tha small heap of | Papers Iying waiting for him, the fatal i+ well-known beok-packet—the MS. returned. He tried to cover it over, and not let his wife see it, but her eye was too quick. Vain, too, was the innocent geception of his protest that he “fully | expected this,” and “did not care.” ; “But I ecare,” said Silence, mourn- { fuliy. And then the poor Young things | sat down face to face with their bit- | ter disappointinent, and tried to bear l it as well as they could. ‘ (To be continued.) e L e ‘ O'd Antocrat, \ \l\;ll:)lh‘m;\“}{mg, the tirst Covernor ot | * 20, Wa . a residest of Fath for lover Lity yo r . must have been a |vy al dictator in t.wn affuirs. There | ¥a4s "no n.nsen e abcut him, asd no | tole ation of nonserse. ' \ At c(ne time a lLeeting was held to { arrange ior a ce}ebrution of Independ- ' euce Lay, and General king pre .ided. | The custr: ar; ros lutio-g vwe.e prei pated 1y . udge Ames, who was a man t Ol wl.e attainment: ard who hal |tei-ed upon th: oceesion as an Cppor- { tonity to air his ractorical gifts. He | bad written & long and fowery pre{amble to his resolutions, woich had | keen great'y admored I h's friends: i but he h_d i ardly comple el rcading i tee first scctenct" b fors Ithe meeting : ; Wht:ll. Cencral yin; exclaived, in higt deeisive wiy. Tsever wind the preamble, Judc®® | ro-er mitd tho pream Je Ity always | about the same tciiz, yoa kacw. Give i1 us ihe re:olu ivns ” { Cne morrin:, when ikLe stage d'ove "up to his door and his wi s vps about |t ester it, the Ce: eral d serered insily tie ve.icle a Fronchman and Lis | dog. | _"Driver,” ho thunlerad, “take this | dog on:.” | The frigatened for: izier learel | from the .tage, taking his dog with i him, | 1 have seen the I ing of Fnzland | and the Kinz of France,” hs mait ared, { “but this ! ing of Butn is the big_est kking I eversaw.” Althcu:h he was friendly ‘o the . eause of tem xrince, Le uever cave up ' the use of wize, and zlwa,s had it on hisown tab.e. Yet so ab olute was he in his w; of thinking that he hzd no patience w.th the “trimmers” who waver between two :ides of a Gues--1.0 A ceriain julge was one day dining wi.h hir, and ic used wine ¢n the ground that he was a nember of a temperacrca tocic-ty. Melens weres b urkt in at dessert. and the Go -eral tre are!l Lis with wine. Tre guest did the :ame. A shert time after, & physician was dininz with tte (en- - cral :nlle, teo, refused wine. “Wont y u !ave a-poon, Dcetor®” asked Ccie al h ng bluty, “Judge Flank was dininz with e recentty, ard he wouldn't drink my wine, but he ate it with a spoon.”—Youth s Compan on. “h: Wom n «f Ushant. In character the headdres: is more Htal an than Breton. The coif is smail and s uare-shaped, with a wide flap hanging down :ehiad, and it is whiie when the wearer considers herseli drassed and not in mourning, Eright cotors; - cthiefly—scarct -und bla~—ure—oitan introd ‘ccd at tte :ride of the head, espzecizlly in tha cass of children. lut the strcng sinzularity of the c iffure is the manner in waich mfiwwm*’m“‘“”‘“ The first impreszion the w men make i: that they are re:cvering from a fever and a cropping. l,.he‘.l' hair is generally lank and wiry. like a horze’s mane, and very dark. [t is rare to :ree it rea'ly gray, even on the head of a very old wo.an. The short and thick locks are ofiten without a silver thread, althcugh the face of the wearer may be as furroweld a: a blcex of se a-worin gravite. Bab; giils, young women, ;L)d old wcmen ’nav‘-e their ];e;ldvs dressel in esactly the same ‘-Vil_}; After her swaddiing wrays, the child is given the style of coif and other clothing that she will ke:;ztzn'o_ug'k} li‘e; conse uently, asshe t «ddles about in front of the cct'age door, she.is cns of the ca lest of litile figures. P in full d ess the gown 1s Always black, b t a brilliantly colored handkerchief, in which :carlet predominates, is so w.rn underneath as to show ‘; little cown the front of the bodice. .tA\ small shawl, cenerally biue er red b s { chitdren and young | in the cace ot child 1 | girls, ccmpletes the costurre.—Temyle | Bar, dhe R e i ¥For Hospitals. At a late mzeting of the Royal Societv of England, aa appliance C”'l.bf‘fl thermbzen was exhibited. It s . | quilted cushi n, wiih size Wit a}lranged inside by which it cofuu} l)g heated to anv desired temperature by e tricity. Tt seems to have bzen :::-_lb wih success in the hospitals, ‘.’.",7-_-:'(,' i 17:11‘!\' Sit ‘9‘~”s;};}9 to kc‘jp.up 43 ('_ t« mrerature of patien's during sr. loneed operations wita hemcrrhage :‘.'.ET;M-'-.:'V .\l;‘\.‘;) cumbersoine appilances as blank ts und ves els cf hot water. i The Siouch Hat in Dixq | €l uch hat; are numerous in . % UT ' all communities south of Masorio,, Dixon’s line, and conservative a Scutherner: still demand the best fén in such hats. A really good broad- | brim felt hat such as a fa tidious Southerrer wears wi!l co-t almost as much a: a respsetible high slk hat, bat wiii last longer, because it never coes cut of fashicn. Mz. M. S. PEMBREY firds by experiment that nerease of temperature around a warm-blcoded animal les ens its output of carbon d'oxide to a remarkable degree, and diminution of | temperature increasesit. The reverse is tru= of e¢old-b'ocded a imals. Up to the twen‘y-frst day a dcvclnp_‘.ng.cmck reacts like a cold-blooded animal and ;“’:,v that like a warm-blooded. Goose .-‘,xixv;)!< i'i;,'.'-. A o-ose with remarkable 1:1:1?:;2':1'31 : tinct has been found near Berry, in i1,),,f,‘1.;',,h1; County Kentueky. Her f»‘;::w{ was recently «lrmv.'zxcd.‘flml an old scw with a litter of twelive pigs 1 about the same time. The old :;:,",tzutz' ocose has aJ«;'p{«.d the little crphan pigs, and persists in her atten- ' ticn toward them. The family is doing well e e Pon't Belicve 17, - ‘ The National Tcothrick A\s.-:uciiltlon | claims_an output of fifty-two carloads i of toothpic ks annually.