Semi-weekly Express, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 3 April 1896 — Page 5

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i' How well I remember it all. We were Sitting round the fire in the oak parlor of I the old Dower House at Cromer—mother. jlAunt Lettie and I. Dear Aunt Lettie! ihow beautiful she was still, despite her

»now-white hair and though she was thirty-eight, her complexion was as fresh ,Hud briEht as any young girl's. We were Lchatting ever the peace just proclaimed [the peace that ended the long war with

OFrance 'he war that lasted twenty years. I was at my mother's feet watching the .faces gather among "the glowing embers

they were ever the same face to me, the face of dear Jack Pendarves. Perhaps I ought, not to say he was my lover, though fme bad been sweethearts since we were [children but he had been away at the v/ara three years, and my mother would hear of no engagement, and would permit •me to do no moro than write and receive •en occasional letter. Still, I had broken 'E sixpence with Jack where we parted and, as I softly touched my half, which I always carried, I prayed that my love had lieen true to me. as I knew I had been to him. Yet I feared for had he not been everywhere, and surely he had seen many faces fairer than mine? I "I suppose," said my mother, "Major

Pendarves will bo corning home now. ,'M'en. Sir John and Lady Pendarves will be thankful. Come in, Martha, what is it?" "Please, ma'am, a letter from Sir John a man from the hall has just ridden over with it." "See that he has some refreshments bejre he goes, Martha, and give him this," taking some money from her reticule, "What i.-i H, Mary?" inquired my aunt cf my mother, who was reading the note through a second time. "No ill news, I trust." I "Oh, no read it yourself, Letitia," pass-

Jng the letter. "Of course, the child cannot go, she has I nothing to wear there is not even tl'no

WAS MY PARTNER IN THE DANCE."

to get her a dress from Norwich, still les6 from London, as you know I intended." "Cannot go where?" I ventured. "Is it anything about me?" "Yee. my dear. Sir John writes that the masquerade given to celebrate the return of

son is to take place a month earlier than was at first arranged—in fact, is fixed for to-day week, as Jack—Major Pendarves, 2 should say—is expected on that day." "Jack coming back on Wednesday! Oh, mother, cannot I go? I must go. I have ibeen so looking forward to it. And I have not 6een Jack, dear Jack, for three years. wonder if he has altered, if he has for* !gotten me. Oh, only seven days more, and he will bo here. *nd I shall see him again. lOh, mother, cannot I go?" "Well, child, I do not see how you can you have nothing that would do and, you •know, I could not get a dress from any-.-where nearer than Norwich, and I should not like you to go in anything—your first laall. too." "I should so like to go. mother cannot (we manage somehow?"

Aunt Letitia. who had been turning the 3etter over and over thoughtfully in her iwhite hands, while we Jalked, said: "Mary, there is that dress, you know, which was to have been my wedding gown. Jf Lettie likes, she may wear it. Hoops tnd powder would do for a masquerade Ihev were worn twenty years ago." "My dear Letitia," cried my mother, betraying her

surprise

alike in face and voice,

"•you surely cannot mean that?" "Yea, Mary it may as well be of some use at "last. Lettie is a good girl, are you not. my dear?" patting my head, "and I don't want her to be disappointed." must tell you something of my dear

aunt's life, that you may understand why my mother and I were touched to surprise. Twenty years before my aunt, then eighteen and the belle of Dawlish (some said of Devonshire), was engaged to he married to handsome Gilbert Treeillian. It was a splendid match in every way, for he was young, rich, amiable he was an orphan, untroubled with any undesirable relatives, and. moreover, he had an ample income arising from money in the Funds. Gilbert Tresilllan came to stay in Dawlish. where my grandfather then lived, at the Mill House, a charming old place some four miles from the town, surrounded by magnificent gardens, sloping terrace to the sea—gardens the admiration of the West Country. The day before the wedding he spent there, returning in !he evening to the Red Lion at Dawlish. My aunt walked with him about a mile through the gardens, where they parted until the morrow and from that moment Gilbert Treslllian was not 6een or heard of again. II- disappeared as completely from ir.ortr.l ken as though the earth had opened and swallowed him. Tha country was scoured, the shore beneath the cliff was searched—but not the slightest trace could be found. My poor aunt came near to die with brain fever and when she recovered her beautiful hair was as white as enow. My grandfather removed -from a place whose ever^ object brought back some tearful memory to his daughter, and when, soon after he diai, Aunt Lettie came to live with us in Cromer. Though only a little thing, I recall perfectly the day she came, for I thought I had never seen any one so sweet and yet so sad. None had ever heard Aunt Lettie laugh, none had ever seen fcer smile yet she was cheerful always and ready to help every one. All this happened twenty years ago, and though many had sought her band she was still true to the memory of Gilbert Tresilllan.

During the next few days I could think and talk of nothing save the coming masquerade and Jack's return.

Butte the day never so weary or long. At length it ringeth to evensong. And so at length the eventful evening arrived. Aunt and mother dressed me in petticoat and train of loveliest white brocade, trimmed with filmy Honiton lace. Mother dropped many a ftirtlve tear, recalling the bride that was to hp.ve been, whose romance of love was cut nhort in such a mysterious fashion but aunt said never a word till I was dressed, and then, turning to my mother she exclaimed: "She looks better, Mary, than I should have done and after all, you see, it has not been utterly wasted. But you must let me powder your hair, Lettie, every one wore powder when 1 was young."

At last I was ready just ae the lumbering

old chariot drew up to the door. With noticing my start. "I was not killed on parting advice from my mother, and strict that awful night. I was captured by the injunctions not to damage my precious press gang" dress, I was started, Martha and all the maids being gathered in the hall to see me off. gaping in open-mouthed wonder at my unwonted splendor. I am an old, old woman now but when I close my eyes I perceive every detail, even to the minutest, of that night as if it were but yesterday. The drivo to the hall, the hedges and trees sparkling with frost in the brilliant moonlight the hammer, hammer of the horses' hoofs upon the iron-bound road. The first sight of the hall as we ever

drove up the avenue, all its windows illuminated the faint sound of the music came upon the still night then the entry into the brilliantly lighted rooms Sir John and Lady Pendarve's hearty welcomeall come back to me now. I suppose my entrance made a sensation. I was conscious of a DUZZ of admiration as I passed through the assembled guests. "Why, Lettie, my dear," exclaimed Lady Pendarves, "how beautiful you look. I declare your hoops and powder become you mightily. But come along, child, let me take you to Jack he has been asking for you ever since he came back." And, taking my hand in her Jeweled one, "Lettie, my dear, if you could

Just at this moment up came Jack (Major Pendarves he was now), looking handsome in his hussar uniform, yel Just the same merry, smiling Jack of old. He was my partner in the new dance, called the valse, just introduced from abroad—a dance that my mother did not }uite approve, as she considered it too familiar for young men and maidens but which I found very agreeable with Jack for a partner. "Well, Lettie, you have grown quite a woman now, and I suppose have quite forgotten your old sweetheart?" "Oh. Jack, how can ypu? I have my half here," touching my pocket "can yon say as much?" "Yes, dear, that I can. I have never parted with it it has been with me through evary battle—my talisman of safety and love."

What need to tell again the old story, ever sweet, that men will love to tell and women to hear as long as the -world endures suffice it that ere the dance had ended I had promised to be his wife. "Oh, Jack," I said, as we was leading me back to Lady Pendarves, "I felt almost wicked to accept you. You know I have not a penny and my dress," I added with a laugh, "is Aunt Lettle's." "I don't care If you haven't a penny. I have enough for both and I want you for yourself, and not for your money."

Lady Pendarves was delighted, and Sir John was kind and 60 it was settled that, with my mother's permission, we were to be married ere Jack rejoined his regiment." "And now," eaid Lady Pendarvea, "you must reallr £o an 4. dance with some of the

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other guests, and leave Lettie %0 J®1eI was sitting, oh. so happy, by Sir Jonn, !who was making all sorts of plans *?f future, when I saw a tall gentleman, dressed in foreign uniform,

making

way through the guests towardI thejecess where we were. I had noticed him several times before in the course of the evening regarding me most attentively.

As he was Evidently coming to apeak to us, I said: "Who is this gentleman, Sir John? "Oh, my dear, a Mr.—Mr.—. Tut, tut, I forget'his name for the moment a fnena of Jack's, who came over from France with him. and is staying a few days with "f-

By this time the gentleman had made nis way across the hall, and stood bowing be-

"May I have the honor of this dance? he inquired. I was going to reply "No for I to rest till Tack came back to me, when Sir John said, "Yea. Lettie, child do so, of course. I was obliged to say. With pldas-

My partner, who was certainly uncommonly handsome and tall, almost aei ban some and tall as Jack, only much older, »aa

'MERCIFUL HEAVEN, GILBERT!"

silent for the time, and then said suddenly: "Pray, pardon my curiosity, but are you a native' of this country? You are so like some one I knew years ago, the likeness is quite startling." "Oh, yes, I was born here in Cromer. "Ah,"' he replied, with a sigh, "I was foolish to think of such a thing of course it could not be." to himself, and then to me, 'I only returned to England a few weeks ago, and am trying to trace a Miss Treherne." "Why, that is my name," I answered, quite startled. "But the Miss Treherne I am searching for is almost'as old as I am, and you—you are not more than eighteen—besides, you say you were born in Cromer, and she was a native of Dawlish." "Why, you must mean dear Aunt Lettie, my father's sister," I said "we came from Dawlish here." "Is your aunt married?" asked my partner, breathlessly. "No." "Thar.k God!" I am sure I heard him mutter under his breath. "No," I said "Aunt had a terrible disappointment years ago her lover was killed—fell off the cliff, We think—the day before they were to have been married, and aunt has never cared for any one since." "Thank God!" my strange partner said this time aloud. "My child, I ought to explain, to introduce myself. I should have done so at first, but the likeness was so striking I thought, perhaps, you were her daughter. My name is Tresilllan. Gilbert Tresilllan—ah, I see you know,"

"Yes, yes," I said, "go on." "I made a desperate fight for liberty, but what was one against so many? I was socn knocked insensible, and when I recovered consciousness I was on shipboard, bound for the Mediterranean. The next day a gale sprang up, our vessel was separated from the rest, and we were captured, after a smart engagement, by the enemy. I was landed, wounded and a

iron-bound prison'er, and have remained a prisoner Ince. I tried to communicate with

England, but was discovered, and in consequence was transferred to anpther prison, this time in Switzerland, and only the entry of the allies into Paris gave mo my freedom. I came to England, hurried to Dawlish to find that Miss Treherne had left years ago. and that no one knew her whereabouts. I returned to London to settle matters with my agents, and instruct them to continue the search, and then accepted the invitation of Major Pendarves. whom I had met in Paris, to spend a 6hort time with him. And you think Letitia—Miss Treherne, I mean—has not forgotten me!' "No, I am sure," I said "quite sure. Oh, I am so glad. You don't know Aunt Lettie." Noticing an amused smile on his face, "Oh, I had forgotten. Well, she Is just the sweetest, dearest woman in the world, and I am so glad it is just like a story. Now take me back to Sir John and tell him."

Jack and Sir John, Mr. Treslllian and I were soon so deep in explanations and congratulations that I am afraid for a time the other guests had to look after themselves. It was arranged that Jack and Mr. Trisllllan should accompany me home that very night. "Lettie, my child," said Lady Pendarvea, with a merry twinkle in her eye, as I was leaving, "unless I am very, much mistaken, we shall be having two Miss Trehernes married, Instead of one."

How happy I was that night! I kept touching my half of the broken ixpence in its blue silk bag in my pocket it had indeed brought me luck. However, the happiest day must end, and so I suppose must a merry evening. Jack and I and Mr. Tresillian were soon rolling over the frost bound roads toward home, I with my hand in Jack's, supremely happy, and Mr. Tresillian telling us his experiences as a prisoner in France. Poor fellow, how I pitied him! At last we arrived at the Dower House, and it was agree 3 that I should go in first and breit the \ews to my mother and aunt. j»Io*b-*r mV into the hall to meet me. "Well, my child, have you --d yourself? But there, I need ?JOt you—you look radiant." "Oh, mother, dear"—laying my hand on her shoulder—"I am so happy. Jock has aBkpd me, and you ransom we are to ha

married at Christmas." For answer my mother kissed m*1. "And, mother, Jack is here, and some one else, whom you and aunt, too, will be glad to see—an old friend." "An old friend but,rmy dear child, why don't you bring them in?"

Jack, dear," I cried "come in, both of yQU. Oh, mother, dearest," I said, half laughing and half crying, "he was not killed he did not die." "Wag not killed what, do you mean?" replied my mother, turning round as Jack,

Mother soon rejoined us, and together In he firelight we talked over our plans, Jack saying I must go to London and be presented at court on my marriage. There Is little else to tell. As Lady Pendarves had said. Uiere were two Miss Trehernes married together, and though Jack would never agree with me I always said Aunt Lettie looked the better of the two.—Black and White.

"GOTHAM GOSSIP.

Scarcely a hat but has a bandeau of greater or less width, to give the air of jauntiness so much desired. Sometimes this is made of twisted velvet, sometimes of lace, with a knot to droop on the hair, and often of flowerB.

Lace is a feature of much of the new millinery. Never pure white lace, but the soft tints in gray and brown, looking so much like rare old heirlooms. Black lace is less in evidence. Feathers are but little used at present. Probably they are held in reserve for the later summer headgear, by way of change. The only way in which feathers are used is in the form of feather borders, to be used on the edges of the hat brim.

Floral garnitures are very much in evidence on all the hats: They are perfect gardens of bloom, all alive with color. The flowers aio so genuinely natural looking it seems odd to think they are really artl ficial. But such they are. Paste gems are used to a large extent, and are very clever imitations. Emeralds, rubies, pearls, tur quoise and rhinestones abound in all sorts of shapes, and afford a splendid finish to millinery.

A mcst chic hat of white Neapolitan, tossed up at the back, has for its trimming a full scarf of yellow lace, drawn toward the back, and 'there fastened in a big bow, with 'ends to ^trail over the hair. A big bunch, of deep pink roses lies flatly on the brim toward the' front, and another smaller bunch- is under the brim on the rose velvet bandeau, tilting the hat a little at one side. Ribbon ties and scarfs of lace are seen on many of the daintiest hats. Their wearing is optional, but they are really an addition, and usually very be coming, especially the broad, fluffy strings. Broad ties will be a feature of the coming aumer hats when m^de of shirred mull, as so many are to be, mull in pale colors as well as white.

A fetching g. wn of plum colored broad cloth Is well worth describing. The skirt is immensely wide and full of plaits and flutes. It has a lining of crisp moss green silk finished by a lot of dust ruffles at the foot. The jacket bodice is made to fit perfectly tight, and is covered smoothly with coarse web lace in a soft gray tint. Ripples of lace set out atop of ripples of moss green velvet, and a narrow belt of green velvet finishes it at the belt.

There are big revers of lace and a drooping blouse vest of lace, caught down at the sides by big jeweled buttons. A flaring collar of green velvet finishes the throat. The sleeves are of plum color in wrinkled mousquetaire style, very much pointed at the waist and edged with a deep frill of lace.

Every cne is full of the delights of the newness of everything at Easter time. The freshness of the spring air, the newly blossomed flowers, the bidding trees, and last but not least, the new hats and gowns. There is no use in denying It, every genuine woman's heart is open to the influences of pretty new clothes. Togged* out in her dainty Easter finery, the whole world seems a much brighter place to her than it did when wearing her old gown and passe hat.

She is full of the delights of being well gowned, and full of the anticipations of lovely things to be worn all suriimer. It is hard to know Just where to begin to tell about all the fascinating new things shown for Easter wear. To begin with hats, that all important item of the Easter* costume. Never before were there so m$ny exceedingly lovely designs, such, delicacy and airiness. Tha otra^s are a bewilderment of daintiness in all the shades of yellow,' hanging from the palest cream to the deepest burnt tint.

There are two varieties of straw very much in favor, one with a satin-smooth surface, In which can hardly be seen an indentation. The other is in great loose bunches of loops an inch long, caught into clusters. In black and dark-colored straws there area number of weaves, many of them quite open work and extremely pretty. With a colored facing of silk or velvet the effect is very fetching.

As is ajways the case early in the season, small hata obtain very generally toques, turbana and rolling brimmed shapes of many different sorts are in vogue. Later on we shall have the much beloved and always picturesque "picture" hat, but for the present we must be content with the email chapeau. A smart little turban of 6tem green ftraw Is tossed up at both sides with clusters of violets and knots of yellow lace falling in soft ends on the hair. A bandeau of violet velvet tilts the hat at one side, and is run through a number of emerald 6et rings.

On a flat brimmed hat of yellow Tuscan straw in coarse weave about the crown are set fold upon fold'of white satin, made over a thick cord, to give the round effect now so popular. Along the brim Is strewn a delicate wreath of dainty pink roses and leaves, with ends trailing over the brim at the back. At one side stands erect a tall pom pom of yellow lace sprinkled with rhinestones.

A charmingly dainty toque made of stiffened white lace is decorated with clusters of violets, with long twisted stems. Smooth facings o1 velvet are very much worn, and In brilliant colors, too.. Blush rose is particularly becoming to many faces, and is lovely when used as a facing for a hat of white or yellow straw, with trimmings of roses and lace. A chic hat of black braid in turban effect, with a rather, broad, rolling' brim, had an odd trimming of alternate folds of yellow and violet satin. Bunches of yel low tinted cowslips repose at the sides.

Dick Tait—My wife comes down to the office every day. She got so jealous of that pretty typewriter I had that I had to discharge her and get a male stenographer.

Towne—Well, everything is all right now.

TERBE HAUTE EXPRESS.^ ^?vr? V«'*V- ..

'32' -I7?'

Springtime and flowers. They are blooming in abundance on the new spring .hats as well as in the gardens. Velvet and silk flowers on hats, though for naturalness one can scarcely tell the difference between them and the garden posies. Great velvet roses. In the most beautiful of gorgeous shades, huge chrysanthemums in velvet also, big enough to fill all one side of the hat, are wonderfully swagger.

A charming little hat I must tell_ you about is perfectly flat as to brim, with a low, oval crown, made of twisted yellow Tuscan straw. About the fancy edge is set a narrow piping of white satin, with an upstanding frill of straw lace as a finish. At. each aide are hugh chrysanthemums of brilliant yellow, shading to rose pink.

Folds of satin trim the crown where the big flowers do not cover, and a twisted bandeau of rose pink velvet tilts the hat up at one side. Flowers are lavished upon the hats by the dozen even the biggest of roses are used in this way.

A chic little Easter hat has a rather high oval crown of course black straw, with a narrow rolling brim, faced with rosy violet velvet, laid on very smoothly. A wreath of velvet morning glories, in all their variety of colors,' spreads around the hat, and Is bunched into heaps at the sides. Two tall, spiky, wings of black stand bolt upright at one side.

The golden rays of the July eun were beating down mercilessly upon the. dusty

followed up by Mr. Tresfman, came up the, pavement of the little hamlet of but hall. My mother put out both hands to take the oppressive heat was somewhat Relieved

Ja'ck's, and then, catching sight of Mr. Tresillian's face, exclaimed: "Merciful heaven, Gilbert!" "Yes, Man-. It 's I not,4ead, as you see ind Lettie?'' "Is waiting still, Gilbert. Oh, Major Pen"'arves, 1 am so glad. L'ettle has told me. \ad now, child, go into the parlor and break he news to your aunt. No, perhaps I had better. Gilbert, come when I call." Jack ind I went over by the fire, and in a few minutes mother's voice called out, "Gilbert, CJ'lbert, come quick!"

by the balmy breath of air stirring the leaves of the old chestnut trees which lined the principal thoroughfare fanning them with a delicioiisly cool breeze, and enabling the portly nest of the inn of the Blue Lion to take his after-dinner nap in comfort.

But he was fated "to suffer an unlookedfor interruption, for Just as the big town bell struck the hour of 2 the letter carrier made his appearance, holding a letter In hi6 outstretched hand, which he delivered to mine host's wife, uttering the words: "From America." Mother and daughter shook their heads incredulously. Mine ho6t rubbed his sleepy eyes. "Is It really from America?" he queried. "Who could have written to us from that far away country? Go, some of you, and find my glasses!"

The surprise was now general. It was In the days when ^everybody was talking about California. For two years previous to the occurrences here narrated people from all part* of Europe had emigrated to the gold mines In the far West, where—so ran the story—gold was actually laying about everywhere and to be had for the picking up.

At last the spectacles were found, and the old man read in a loud voice, while all present held their breath in suspense:

Dear Cousins "Well, I declare," he interrupted himself, "this letter Is from Cousin Berner, who emigrated thirty years ago!"

Cousin Berner was Immensely wealthy. Like all emigrants, he had to work very hard at first, and had learned. the lesson which stern necessity teaches all newcomers in that country. He had been a street sweeper, a boctblack, a lamplighter— In fact, he had been compelled to do almost anything and everything to earn a scant livelihood. Finally he, had succeeded in saving a few dollars and started a small store. Fortune had favored him and he amassed a vast "fortune, which he intended to leave to his only son. It was now his dearest wish to see this son happily married, and having accidentally gathered from some Germans who had arrived in San Francisco that his cousin had a daughter, he had decided to send his boy on a visit toM hoping the young people would like each other. His boy Charles was diligent and industrious, and he saw no reason why his— the writer's—plans should not be carried out.

The old man cast radiant looks about him. "A marriage of the two youngsters? Well, I should think so! Could there be greater luck In store for our Marie? Just to think of it, my son-in-law an American! Won't the neighbors be jealous! But where is Marie? I do not see her?" "I daresay ahe busy in the garden," responded his wife, hesitatingly. "Call her at once!"

Marie, a beautiful, vivacious girl, soon made her appearance. She slowly perused the contents of the letter. "Well, girl, what do you think of this piece of good fortune?" the father queried, after she had finished. "Would you like your rich cousin from America for your husband?" "Why not?" she replied, in thoughtful and measured tones, "provided I like him."

Charles Berner, of San Francisco, and Henry Decker, of Hamburg, two young men who had become acquainted the day previous, upon leaving the Thames, stood on the deck of the Hamburg packet. The former was relating the object of his trip, adding frankly that he would have much preferred remaining in California, having as yet no desire to marry, but had been

"THE SHOCK WAS TOO MUCH FOR THE POOR GIRL." urged by his father to bring home a European wife. "And here I am," he concluded, "en route for a little out-of-the-way place called M—— to have a look at my prospective bride."

"This is «. 6trange coincidence," said Decker, "I al3o have to go to shortly." ••To Are you looking for a wire?" "No, indeed," smilingly. My father has an Interest in some neighboring mines, and business alone takes me there. Likely We may mest at the home of the future Mrs. "Hardly, as I intend remaining some weeks in Hamburg and Berlin. To tell the truth, I am not very anxious to make my cousin's acquaintance."

Charles Berner made the most of his stay In the beautiful Hanse town on the Elbe, and then proceeded to Berlin. One day, while promenading Unter den Linden, he picked up a pocketbook lying before him on the sidewalk. It was made of tortoiseshell, with silver filigree work and mother-of-pearl fastenings, no doubt the property of some woman. Entering a cafe he examined his find. Besides some money it contained a note, which he opened. It was a letter signed "Clara," and addressed to her dear Amalie, asking to excuse the delay In her reply on. account of the change of residence of the writer's parents to No. 124 street, first floor, and also telling the news that her father Intended her to marry the son of his old friend, the merchant Decker of Hamburg, a charming young fellow, rejoicing in the sweet name of Henry. ..

Here was a poser for our young Callforaian—for no doubt this paragon and hla acquaintance on board the packet were one and the tame. Suddenly an idea struck him. He would return the pocketbook In person.

Getting Into a drosehke. he soon found himself In the B. Strasse. Arriving-at No. 124, he read above the bell for the first floor the name L. Foster. He knew now the young woman's name and resolutely rang the beiL Stating the nature of his errand to the servant who admitted him, he soon found himself In the presence of the object of his visit, whose beauty and majestic bearing made such an Impression upon him that he remained riveted to the spot, gazing at her and forgetting the tosmelity of introducing himself forgot all but the vision before him. After an awkward paus« of few moments, the girl (her face turning crimson under his admiring glances) said In a somewhat displeased tone: "Will you kindly inform me of the nature of this call?"

The young man-apologized for his seeming rudeness and handed her the socket-

is it not? Dick Tait—No saw I am Jealous myself, book, which she at once recognized as w»-

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longSng to her friend Amalie. Explaining all, the two were soon engrossed in an animated conversation, though she did not at first seem disposed to overlook his indiscretion of reading the contents of the letter to her friend. Eut the young man pleaded so earnest and looked so crestfallen that she smilingly held out her hand, which Charles gratefully grasped and carried to his lips, perhaps, a trifle too impulsively, for she quickly withdrew it.

To tell the truth. Miss Clara seemed to like the young foreigner, and before he left she had en passant mentioned the fact that she and her friend Amalie would meet that evening at the Court Theater, which would give her a chance to return the pocketbook to its owner. More than that, Charles, by a few adroitly put questions, knew the exact location of the seats to be occupied by the party.

Of course, he ^vas there—a good deal too early, too. The doors had hardly been opened, and he was for quite a while alone in the vast auditorium, whillng away the slowly creeping time by a study of the curtain, tho chandelier, the carvings on boxes and galleries, and by inspecting everything within the reach of his eyes. When the two young women arrived, after Wn.-giny sorely tried Charlie's patience, they—or at least Clara found to her surprise the young fellow seated In the stall next to hers, and introduced hini to her companion as "Mr. Berner. of San Francisco, who had found the pocketbook.

The phlegm which usually characterized everv movement of the worthy landlord of the Blue'Lion at had all at once disappeared. Since the receipt of the letter from America he knew no rest. The best r«om was put in readiness for the expected guest he inspected the house from top to bottom, he scolded the servants incessantly, and never before had his good J**'® known him to be such a tyrant and so hard to please. More than that, he would go to the parson and school teacher, ana malce tbem point out to him the map of America, and tell him all about California, and in the evening he would impart this knowledge to his guests in the tap room, showing, for the hundredth time, the letter, and talkinET about the rich young relative from the far West.

His daughter Marie took things much more quietly. She was raised, as all German girls are. especially in the quaint, oldfashioned places of the interior. She vas a home body, thoroughly domestic by habit and inclination, and besides the usual elementary training, her parents had sent her to a boarding school for glrl3, a neighboring academy. In short, her pious and busy mother had spared no pains to form her character, and to make her a God-fearing, obedient child. She possessed that depth of feeling, coupled with a love of nature, and serene, unruffled temper, which is the traditional attribute of a true Teutonic maiden, and, therefore, the brilliant future In store for her had but little attractions for her unmercenary disposition. She did not bother her bead much about Charles coming. Time enough to consider the matter after his arrival. If she liked him, she would be his wife: if not, she was firmly resolved not to marry him, riches or no riches. In duo time, she said to herself, she would flnd one who loved her, and whom she loved In return.

One day in the latter part of August a carriage and pair were seen to approach the sleepy little town of Its sole occupant was Henry Decker, who alighted some distance from the place, near the mines, which to inspect ha had come all the way from Hamburg.

Tired and out of ports he wended his way along the dusty highway and entered the town. Reaching the market place he was spied by the portly host of the Blue Lion, whp leaned against the threshold in anything but good humor, on account of the protracted delay in the arrival of his long expected nephew.

He looked hard at the stranger. Nobody he knew in this neighborhood was so fashionably dressed. A thought shot through his brain. The approaching man was his young relative, Charles Berner, dim America, and no other! No one but arrAmerican looked like this. Quickly summoning wife and daughter, and running down the steps as fast as his portliness would admit, he embraced and kissed the stranger repeatedly, exclaiming: "At lost! At last! We have been expecting you for tho longest time. How is your lather? Well, I hopel But come inside and ref t, .uook, here are my wife and daughter. The older of the two is my wife, your—well, of course, your aunt. And now, kiss all around, es near relatives should.

Decker tried hard to unwind himself from the old man's tight embrace, which almost deprived him of his breath, but in vain. No chance to explain that there was a mistake. At last all he could utter was: "If you think, if you believe, sir. that I" "What the dickens!" the old man interrupted. "Of course believe, nay, I even insist that you all kiss and become better acquainted. Such's our fashion among relatives, and, no doubt, among Americans also. And, my dear boy, what do you mean by sirring me. I am your uncle, that settles it!"

Again the "dear bor" tried to open his lips, but this time they were sealed by his aunt's lips, who impressed a sounding smack on his. Not content with this pe formance, the old lady shoved him toward her daughter, whose cheeks were aflame up to her ears in the expectation of a kiss from her supposed kinsman and future husband.

The young fellow looked upon the picture of so much innocence and loveliness •before him. He reflected a moment and then—blame who may—he took Marie in his arms and hugged and kissed her repeatedly.

Henry Decker was not slow to notice that this was a case of mistaken identity. He was impressed with a sense of the ridiculous situation, and the dear little girl was so unspeakably^ pretty and Innocent that he concluded since he was "in it,"

let things take their own course

and to await developments. He talked about America, he told the most Improbable tales about California, and profiting from the confidences reposed in him by Charles Berner on board the steamship, he told a tolerably straight story respecting his alleged family affairs in San Francisco.

He saw the impression he had made on the heart of the unsuspecting Marie, who never took her eyes off his face while he spoke, and his conscience smote him. He was filled with remorse for his deceit, but, alas, it was now too late. He resolved to disclose the whole thing on the following morning.

A kind fate favored the discharge of this onerous task. Toward evening the old "uncle" made the proposition that the young people should take a walk in the surrounding gardens, in order to, as he indulgingly. expressed It, give them a chance to become "better friends."

Henry did not let this unlooked for opportunity escape him. He told her all— he asked her pardon for the deception, and he called her as witness how little chance her father had given him for a* explanation.

The shock was tdb much for the poor girl she grew pale, and a tremor shook her whole frame. She stood dumfounded, and like one dazed—she could not at all comprehend the meaning of what she took to be a cruel Joke. She pressed her hand to her heart, and sobbed pitifully.

But. now, convinced from the depth of her sorrow, that the dear girl really loved him, it was not a very difficult matter for Henry to pacify her by telling her unhesitatingly the entire story of hia meeting with her American COILS in, what the same had 6ald regarding his feeling toward her? that he was not at all in a hurry to go tc and so forth. In short, when they wended their way homeward, Marie had not only bashfully pardoned the "cruel deception," but had bashfully confessed that since she had been so weak as to give her heart away at first sight to so "cruel a deceiver," she would loave It In his keeping, if only to teach her truant and wayward cousin a lesson.

Henry Decker had a vnry. unpleasant ordeal to face on the morrow. He stayed in his room up to a late hour, he tarried over his breakfast, he tr^ed to keep off the dreaded moment as long as possible. At last he summoned up courage, and with a deep drawn sigh, began: "Mr. Molier, I have something to communicate." "Hm," thought the old man, "now for the proposal," and aloud Be added: "Dear boy, why don't you call me "uncle,' I should prefer It." "Permit me, I cannot do tiuti.r, have DO right to do that."-

JSu*.

The old man cset a look cf surprise oa him. "American manners," he soliloquised. "Mr. Molier," Henry again said fe llng!». "when yesterday I entered your house 1 had not the remotest Idea that the mosi Important moment of mv lire was so nms at hand. I came as a total stranger to you. and you received me. not as such, but aa if I were the future husband, tho accepted lover, of your loTe'y daughter." "Which you are, Charlie. Why do yoo make so many unnecessary words? I d«not understand your newfangled way of going about it. All I know is that it is my and my wife's dearest wish that you should have her." "But, dear sir, ycu give me no chance to explain." "Or was mistaken after all? Do you not care for our daughter? Is there In all America a girl like our sweet Marie?"

On the contrary, dear sir, ail I desire 1* to be considered worthy of such a prize "By th'mder! Charlie, have you taVea leave of your senses? Are all Americans affected tn alike manner when propping? Have I not told you plainly that we So not object? And"—turning to his daughter— "Marie, do you care enough for thtz yo^ng man, who has so confoundcd many objeotions to make against you. to marry him?" "Indeed I do. father, with all my heart,** the maiden replied, frankly. "There! that ends the matter. N'o mcr* nonsense now. Such matters ought to be settled quickly. Oh, I know wba: I am talking about! Never would I have bolleved that a practical American could be such U. circumlocutlonist! Quick, BOW, tfce betrothal kiss, and here is our blessing to boot. One, two, thr

He was just going to say "three" when tho door slowly turned on Its hinges and a 6trangcr entered, who stopped for a coment on the threshold, and then broke out into pleased laughter. "You here, friend Decker?" he exclaimed. "I thought you had inspected your mines long ago and were safely back at Hanburg!" Then, turning to mine host, he extended his hands. "Here I am at last, dear uncle." he said. "I know I tarried long on the way. but I had a very important matter to settle la Berlin and could not possibly gat away earlier. Everything Is in tip top condition at home in San Francisco, and father and mother both send their bc«t regards." "Sir, who are TOJ?" gruffly asked the landlord of the Blue Lion. "Who am I? What an odd question to ask of me! Why, to be sure. I am Char lea Berner, very much at your service, and the son of your Cousin Berner, of San Francisco!"

The dazeC old man leaned heavily upon a chair, looking bewildered from one to the other his lips opened ho gasped for breath he tried to

say

nnt

-V^

something, but could

utter no sound. Ho sank fainting into (i# next chair.

Three months have passed since the events narrated above, and our fair readers have undoubtedly guessed how it all ended. The "genuine" Charles Berner had been detained by very important matters in Berlin—that is. by Miss Clara Foster. But being an obedient son, he took the Journey to his relatives, in spitei of the fact 'hat 's cousin Marie could be nothing t» him now that he and Clara had fou*u. each other.

Bursting suddenly in upon them at the very moment when his uncle "commanded" his friend Decker and Marie to embrace and give the "betrothal kiss." he had understood the situation at once, and was not loath to help his "double" out of his dilemma by explaining all to his uncle and aunt, which he did the more gladly as his choice had been made ere he had met hi6 cousin

MThe

old people are perfectly satisfied with their son-in-law. and Mr. Molier tells his neighbors and guests often of the smart trick played on him by Henry Decker, invariably adding: "He is all we could desire, but it is a pity all the same, that he Is not an American."—From thb German.

The proper length for the skirt is now conceded to be about to the top of tha boots no shorter, and for hall riding even longer. Th? fullness is all in the back, but there is so much goring over the hips and width below that the outlines of the figure are becomingly hidden. On the correct cut of the skirt depends the beauty of the costume, which may be made of a cheap material, if only it hangs well. There ara two ways this season of arranging the dullness of the skirt at the back. One has it all beneath the folded-over plaits which meet at tie back the other has two boxplaits, double, like many of the walking costumes, says a writer in Harpers Bazar." The latter fashion looks rather better off the wheel, but the former looks best when riding, for the folds hang mors §^FLCGf ully*

The most becoming style for the waist to the Norfolk jacket, but this season the filledin Eton jacket is more popular. The Norfolk jacket has the plaits sewed down (and cut away undernea'i) and there is none of the ugly bulkinecs which formerly condemned that garment for stout women. It should be made to ome quite below the walst-llne, and with full-skirt effect.

At the neck it is cut open just enough to show the necktie—the four-in-Land, fashionable once again- and has small flat revers. Tho sleeves.of a correct bicycle costume are much smaller than f-r other gowns, and are Invariably of the lc?-of-mutton shape.

When the Eton jacket is worn, it must be very carefully fitted, and the front have turned-back revers, which are broad at the shoulders and taper in at the waist A full silk front is part of this costume, and is worn with a narrow turned-down collar, supposed to be the came as boys wear with their Eton suits. While the Norfolk jacket can be made becoming alike to thin or stout women, the Eton Jacket is never becoming to a woman with short waist and broad hips. Large hips may, according to classic lines, be very handsome thev certainly do

tend to graceful effect when riding a

wheel

and the costume that will modlly

them is the best for women in general. The bicycle skirt should not have any facing on tho inside. The desired weight and finish can be given by a broad leatne. band or rows of machine-stitching,

UUI,

aEd

trough a broad hem or facing turned up on the outside.

DO YOU WE All GOAT'S FLEECE?

Here Is a flood of information about alpaca and mohair, which will be worn mol% than ever as crepon declines in favor. It to supplied by one who knows all aboJt it.

HMohair

Is the fleece of the Angora goat,

grown In the Orient and at the Cape, and the most lustrous, animal fiber know Its natural state It Is white,

aDd^c°n^

quently be dyed to any color. Alpaca Is the fleece of the animal of that name also ol the goat family (llama is a near rc^ttoa), and Is grown In South America. In its natural state !t is black.brown with a very small proportion of white, con

generally black. Whenever ttOTefore ro see a luster drees which is

SeciSyyiMtUhn peculiar sparkle which

piece of lump sugar. what finer and softer thanjnoh^r mos ly used for coat linings, but it is also nu into dreee good,. In it,

D^"nl. Hair.gH,

168111

wocl,

»'I want .proposals"-—- .c» paused. The new woman with the glancing in surprise at the sta.tnancea of the men about her. "I want proposals" jv-jj

At-first ^*7 ZV realears, but now heir ww«t rears wmo

I said before, gentlemen. I

PrThe'

assembled men arose

unanimously broke down tho "For bids for the construction of ml *e» house," she continued.

But all about her w«fl the grave—stlllnMe ^broken save ^th^P^ ter of many feet awUMJi dying away distance.

"5""

WHAT SHE WANTED.