Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 2 August 1877 — Page 4

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WM, C. BALL A WM. C. BALL

CO., Prop's. BPXNCKBF. BALI..

OFFICE. NO. 23 AND 25 SOUTH FIFTH.

ThelAILYOAKSTTE IS un./ istaed every afternoon exccpt Sunday, an. sold by the carriers at 30 per fortniet t. By mail ®8.00per year *4,00 for su months $2.00 for 8 months.

The WIBKLT GAZSTTK FS issued every Thursday, and contains all the best matter of the six daily issues. The WEEKLY GAZETTE is the largest paper printed in Terre Haute, and is sold for. One copy per year, 12, six months, $1* three months, 50c. All subscriptions must be pbid for in advance. No paper discontinued until all the arrearages are paid, unless at the option of the proprietor a failure to notify a jliscontinuance at the end of the year will be considered a new engagement. Address all letters.

WM. C.BALL A CO., ZETT5* Tsrrc Hftute* Ind.

THURSDAY, AUGUST 2, 1877.

A FIFTEFN per cent, reduction in the price of beef is in order.

BEN SPOONER is a muscular man and just now he appears to be going it on his muscle.

ARMSTRONG was right, "It is, by jingo, a mighty long lane that don't oiow some, body some breezes." ,,

WITHIN the past six months potatoes have declined about eighty per cent, in price and the end is not yet.

No ONE ever realized 'till now what music there was in the whistle of a locomotive and the ringing of the bell. It is the music of the present and loftier and more beautiful than Wagner's music the future.

THE hoodlum "chawed" his quid and thought there could be no law against hi6 taking anybodys property, because the cow, that chews her cud, is protected by the law in her depredations on everybody# property.

IT was a member 9S the legal fraternity who remarked that th« Pasha family in Turkey must be a mighty big and influential one, to absorbe, as he had noticed by the dispatches they had, all the important commands in the Turkish army.

NEW ORLEANS newspapers think Pennsylvania ought to be put under martial law and Pittsburg garrisoned with an army. They are peifectly willing to lend Pittsburg, Wells, Anderson, Cas6anave, Casey and Kellogg, to shpw them how soldiers can be made obnoxious.

THEODORE THOMAS is seriously meditating settlement in Chicago. Good for Theodore. In the great West he will be appreciated and admired' But he ought to learn that finest piece of music ever written entitled "Hell on the Wabash." If he wants a popular anthem for the neople in whose midst he proposes to settle, that is it.

As the GAZETTE of last Thuredayt predicted there would be, there is now a war going on in Europe between Russia and Turkey. Turkey has not yet struck her colors, but there is a prospect that she will do so soon. Our understanding of it is, that when the news of the strike on the B. & O. road was carried to Europe, then trouble began.

MEN may not take possession of other men's property, but it is the inalienable right of the highway cow to go where she pleases, destroy what she can and eat her fill on grounds not belonging to her owner. And yet this is America the land of the free and the home of the brave. And this town is Terre Haute, which sits upon htr six wards and from them rules a cow pasture. Can such things be and not make us angry? Not much. ,1

MR. NISBET, a machinist at the 1 Van. shops, one of the strikers and a prominent member of the committee has an article in to-days GAZETT® idiscusslng the strike and certain principles connected therewith. It will be found to be a clear exposition of the motives of the men in going into the strike and is altogether a very readable and interesting communication. We shall publish another one from him on the same subject in Saturdays GAZETTE.

IF you desire to hear pitiful tales that would wting tears from the eyes of a graven image get some one of the late $xcursionists to tell you how he ran out of money away from home: a blockaded excursionist waiting for a train no train from day to day, but every day his hunger greater and his money less. Oh it was pitiful, near a whole city fulj, trains there were none: at least none that were permitted to run. And then they haunted the lunch counters, and formed the ac quaintance of their uncles, and looked in jewelers windows to tell the time ot day which their hunger persuaded them was always the meal time that never came.

LAST night the moon was obscured several times. Something is wrong up there for sure and certain. Will the hoodlums let the world go'"to p^t" when they know how to prevent it and by 1 meeting in Corinthian Hall, late "Ken nedy's Kennel," can throw light on the subject and in a series of "resolootiags' can inform.the architect of creation how to boss the job? Can it be that the ob stinacy of our citizens in not dividing

their property with the hoodlums as desired has had the effect of enraging them to such an extent that they are determined to withold information? This is a serious matter.

COULD anybody have imagined two weeks ago that a moving train was^such amoving and beautiful sight?

Could anybody have fancied that a moving freight car would appear to his eyes more graceful than a swan?

Could anybody—but of course he couldn't and what's the use of asking.

THE subject of strikes in general, and our lpte one on the railroads in particular, w?s discussed on Sunday moruing by Rev. S. S. Martyn in the Congregational church. The sermon, which it was our purpose to have printed 011 Monday afternoon, appears to-day, having been crowded out of the issues of the two preceding days, by a rush of news, which, like green groceries and many perishable goods, will not keep, but mu. be used at once or be altogether lost.

Mr. Martyn discusses the questions involved from the theologic standpoint but in a very practical.way too, notwithstanding gentlemen of his cloth are usually supposed to be more interested in the future than in the present, and to have more stock with bigger dividends in the world to come than in this. The text he uses is the golden rule. and» though time has staled most other maxi/ns, this still is the most exact measurer of the minds of men, and safest guide and the surest test of right and wrong. In his applications of the rule, we are not sure that we can agree with him in every case, but it is at least interesting to note in what twisted shapes human actions often appear when this sure, sqtiare and, unerring compass is applied to them.

DON PIATT, the highly imaginative Washington correspondent of the Cincinnati Enquirer makes the following remarks, in a recent letter, on a mistake in the Navy and War Departn^ents. tie says: 1

Quite a number of amusing stories are told at the expense of the new administration, when so suddenly called upon for work by frantic Governors, the other day. Among them is this, concerning the new heads of the Navy and Army Departments: "Mr. Secretary," 6aid the chief clerk to the famous Jack Tar of the Wah-bash one morning, "do you appprove of this order from the Secretary of War, sending the marines to Baltimore?" "Why," responded the great enemy of the Pope, "let him senjJ them to the devil if he wants to' r« "But they can ribt move, unless" you give the order. "Why not?" ,,v

The poor Chief Clerk looked troubled. He thought his eminent chief was intoxicated or crazy. "Well," he stammered, "as they belong to your Department—" "Why, so they do. I never thought of that. Countermand the order—no, don't do that write me a letter to McCrary telling him to mind his own business. He wants to run both Departments,"does he! I'll teach him."

It seems that McCrary was equally astonished to find that the marines belonged to the navy., He had heard of horse-marines, and had got them somewhat mixed with the cavalry.

Again it is said that when Colonel Townsend, who is know to the army .is Miss Nanay, because he is so nice and pious, was called before the Cabinet to consult with as to the movement of the troops, the President opened by Asking what his opinion was. The P. M. P. (pink of military propriety), who ruus a Sunday-school," cleared hi* throat, and said that he thought all this wicked disorder came from a violation of the Sabbath. He was going on quite eloquently, when Thompson, of the Navy, interrupted by saying:

That's all bosh* the real cause is the damnable interference of the Pope. Read my book, sir read my book," he roared at poor Towsend, who fairly 6hook in his shoes, "and learn something before you express an opinic.n."

We are all quiet in Washington. The National Capital has been so long trained and disciplineu to look up to the Government that Satin himself would fail to create a disturbance, here of any sort. But, in the mean time, we would like to have our Delaware peaches.

THE woolen mill 6f Jeffers & Sheesly, is closed to-day in order to give the employees an opportunity to attend the funeral of Mrs. Lizzie Mc Warner whose death from burning by coal oil was reported in yesterdays paper. For six years previous to her marriage, some time ago, she worked steadily at the mill and her associate female employees were much' attached to her.

Dr. King's New Discovery.

For the speedy cure of Consumption! and all diseases that lead to it, such as stubborn Coughs, neglected Colds, Bronchitis, Asthma, pain in the side and chest, drv ^hacking cough, tickling in the throat, lloarsei.ess, Sore throat, and all chronic or lingering diseases of the throat and lungs, Dr, King's New Discovery has no equal and has established for itself a world wide reputation, A great many of our leading physicians recom mend and use it in their practice. The formula from which it is prepared is highly recommended by all medical journals. The clergy and the press have complimented it the most glowing terms. Go to your druggist and get a trial bottle free of cost, or a regular size for $1.00. For sale by

GROVES & LAWAY.

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Coil Id anybody have dreamed that the *t .curling smoke from a locomotive's* ?stack would look lovlier in his eyes than the clouds in 1he west at eventide when lit up with the glories of the setting sun? (Ten minutes for refreshments.)

Could anybody have thought that the pish, pish, of escaping steam, and the whir of revolving wheels would sound dearer to his ears than the music of sweet lutes? (If "anybody" knows what sweet lutes are.)

7

THE TERRE HAUTE WEEKLY GAZETTE

LAURA'S LOVE.

Ut

A CHARMING TALE.

Behold a purple-shadowed and still aotumnal day. The air is full of the shaken glory of red and yellow falling leaves the birds chirp plaintively in the hedges in the'silent orchards here and there a rose-red apple nestles in the short, crisp grass, while a bee sucks at its decaying heart.

In the fragiant coolness of a dim, oldfashioned room, in a dim, old-fashioned house, beyond the busy life of the to*n built on the sea, two people are waiting. The windows on one side overlook the river while, on the other side, the sea to which the river flows lies like a statchand serene lake to-day, fed by the waters of sweet running life.

These two people, who are both young and of opposite sex, are reading from a book of ol4 Italian sonnets. Or, rather, the girl is reading he diJ but look at the pages to please her. Her bright golden head is bent above the mystic page her lovely blue eyes follow the inspired lines: but her companion's eyes are fixedxon her. It is evident that in the dawning rapture of that fair, down-drooping face he finds a tenderer sentiment, a theme for song more rapturous than poet ever sung. "fifteen years!'' The )ouug girl shuts her book on a sudden, and turns with a look half-grave, half-playful to her companion, "Ah! that was a lover! Old, forsaken, sad, and still faithful! Can uu tell me, Jack, why we have no lovers like Petrarch nowadays? What man, in ihese modern times, would lerntu.bei woman fifteen years after parting from her?" "What are you saying? Pctrarch! Laura's Petrarch?" and Mr. Jack Chester lifts himself from his careless attitude to answer, *'Are you sure, Miss Laura, that Petrarch was a lover such as ladies love or was he only a sentimental, pas»ienless verse-writer, with a greater lining for the fame his sonnets brought hirn than for his mistress's smile?"

A lovely tinge spreaps itself over Laura's face. "Don't be malicious, Jack! Of course he wa6 a perfect lover faithful, tender true. \Vhy are there none like him now? Do you know of one, Jack—a single one? If you. do, point him out to me." "Shall I? Do you put me to the test? You havejust been reading here that Petrarch waited fifteen years for a smile from Laura. What if I tell jou that Lauras are too ready to give their smiles now when Petrarch comes?" returns r. Jack Chester, with awaking fire kindling in his handsome dark eyes as lie speaks.

Laura Rochester hastily turns a washer face, and, turning so, she hides the faint rose-color that, whether she will 01 no, answers to the call ot thoee passionate eyes in her tender cheek. "May be!—may be!" she sighs. "May be that you are right, Jack. If Laura does not call, then Petrarch will not answer. Heigho! My name is Laura, too." She claso6 her little hands above her golden hair, and sits looking dreamily out over the sea* "My name is Laura, and I have been waiting nineteen sweet short years for Petrarch. But he has not come he has not yet come.'' "Has he not? Are you sure?" Jack Chester turns, leaning breathlessly toward her, and fixing his dark eyes, so full of some 'present passion, upon her changing face. "Are you sure of that, Laura?" "It he has, I da not recognize him,"she returns with a forced, uneasy laugh. "I shall know him when he comes," she finishes, gravely ''be sure of that

His kissing, like Orlando's, will be as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread," quotes Jack, impatiently rising. "Petrarch's Laura! Who was she, forsooth? Bah! it makes me sick to think of her. A woman without passion, or intellect, or soul. Too narrow of mind to estimate at its true worth the love which, as they vaunt, he proffered her, too selfish to respond to it as a woman of grander intellect would have responded. I tell you I despise her, and all like her." "Jack! Jack!" interrupts Laura amid voice, as Laura stretches out a deprecating hand to this aroused lion, who is pacing up and down his cage in some. desperate anger.

Jack breaks into a cruel laugh as he goes on. Yes, your name is Laura, too, and vou are like her. You, too, wear a green dress. You have the same sort of wavy pale gold hair that the other Lau ra had, and the same maddening mocking way of casting down your eyes, when it suits you. You are waiting for your Petrarch well, I will bring him to you. He is here ready-made to your hand, and has been filling the woods and valleys with his sighing these many days,"

Has he?" responded Laura. vho is evidently used to Jack's raging moods, and so pays little attention to them nevertheless, she is a little uneasy this evening—consciously so. "Why have you not told me before? Who is he? What is his name?" "Have I not told you his n&h-.e Is Petrarch? Though to the world without he is ingloriously known as Claude Montrose. He is a painter as well as a poet, and as poor as a church-mouse. You would like him to come here you would like him to sing himself into favor."

Jack is leaning against the casement, and looking out with gloomy eyes upon the sea-beat beach, around which the water washes lazily. He does not see the tender blush that rises and deepens and makes Laura's face so like a rose in June as he mentions that name with his careless scorn. "Claude Montrose! Claude Montrose!" 'I—I—meet him sometimes," she says, in semi-bravery.

What right has Jack to take her to task? Jack wheels swiftly around. "O! do you? And where, pray r" "In the woods. He often walks there he comes to the Ravine, sketching." "And he has written you a poem? O, yes, ot course he has!" Jack cries, hitting the truth at once. "A sweec sonnet a catalogue of charms sucK as he has, doubtless, written to fifty other damsels in the course of his life. What are poets good for if they can't write verses for every pretty face that chances to flash across their way?" "And what if he has, pray? cries Miss Laura, her pink nostrils beginrfing to quiver with wrath. "If he chooses to write me a poem, and if I choose to ac-

have you to make objections or sarcastic remarks? "None—none whatever," groans Jack. "He has a right, if ou choose to give it to him, and 1 am a fool—a fool! I ask your pardon for my rude speeches."

Laura does not Answer There is silence for a moment. Silence which is broken in an unexpected way, "What is the trouble?" demands a clear voice close by, as a lady, entering by fie glass doors, advances toward thg angry couple. "What nonsense is that I hear you both talking?"

She looks from one to the other in- again," he murmurs, with sweet flattery isiiiv^lv. Rut T.nnrfl crlflH th^ in- Thjav fnor^thpr quisitively. But Laura, glad of the in terruption, glad to get away, springs up and sweeps a agnificent curtsej to Jack, who is looking at her with halfangrv, half-adoring eyes. "It's no nonsense at all, Anna. ,'Tackwon't believe in Petrarch. Fare yoifwell, fair gentleman."

With another swimming curtsey to him Laura disappears. They hear her a moment after playing some old soft, sad music in another room. Jack listens to it pathetically, the eager anger dying out of his face. "You foolUh young man,'' says Miss Rochester, scornfully "How many times have I warned you of your temper? Whv will you not be wi e?" "Wise!" Jack awakes from his, dream. His face grows fierce and stern, "It would be wise of me to forget her. I'm tired, for my part. She takes me up and fiings me down at her pleasure. I give it up. Let him win her who can."

Anna Rochester smiles ly"And why can't you win her, you impatient man? Don't you know that it's not anv one of you, but a sentiment, that she is in love with? You are big and strong, and full of fiery life, with plenty of money but you have no poetry within you. Just because that's what she is lull of, poetry, she is taken with this artist, who writes a few stanzas to her, and sighs and talks of his aspiration and his poverty. You must bear with the mood, Jack: it will come all right in time."

Jack made no answer. He was listening to the music. Miss Rochester thought him indifferent, and proceeded to pay hi.n out. "I saw her on the bridge from my balcony window yesterday she was talking with Claude Montrose. She will go again to-day. and he will chance to meet her—of course."

Jack turns pale as he listens. Well, God bless her! whoever wins her. She is worthy of any man's love. God bless her, I say, even though I lose her."

And pulling his hat over his brows, he walked dejectedly away through the open windows. "Ah well, too! Will it not be kind.

That rest from life, from pleasure and trom pain That rest from bliss we know not when we find, That rest from Love which ne'er the end can gain? Hark, how the tone swells, that'erewhile did wane? Look up, Love! ah, cling close and never move How can I have enough of life and love?" Miss Rochester looked after him, knitting her brows. She was Laura's eldest sister and protector, and she loved her very much, and wished for her happiness —only she wanted her to be happy in her own way. And that way would be to marry Jack. JackwAs good and rich, and everything that was elegible and not until this Claude Montrose appeared —who was a Scotchman, but had been reared abroad by his Italian mother in all the poetry of Italy—did Miss Rochester doubt bui that all would go well. To suffer Laura to drift into an engagement with this beggarly artist, who earned his bread by his pencil, would indeed be a cruel mistake.

Down in the fragrant recesses of the river's ravine evening's cool wings are slowly fanning the light away. Dusky shadows wrap themselves about the stalwart trunks of trees, though the sunshine still lingers on their red and yellow tops. Sometimes the wind coquetishly blows apart the clustering leaves, and shows patches of blue sky.

The river -here goes raveing along, snatching at the alder roots and blue-flag flowers. On the bridge that spans it a gentleman leans with folded «arms, and with the air of one who waits the advent of some loitering comrade. Suddenly his face flushes and brightens gladly. He is a tall, slender, good-looking young man, not half strong as Jack Chester, but with a most refined face. Walking quickly to the path, he meets a lady who comes shyly forward. "How long you have kept me, Laura," he says, with sweet chidmsr. as he takes her hands. "I thought you were not coming at all." "DidyOu?" she answers, faintly, looking up at him with eyes that have th. soft gloom of beautiful purple pansies. "Perhaps I ought not to have come after all," she finishes shyly.

In answer, he lifts the little white hands he is holding to his lips then he points back, with a smile, along the narrow, rocky path by which she came to him. It is all strewn with fallen, dead leaves. "See!" he says. "Do you know what they make me think of?

The kisses of her feet Along the earth a dying path have made.' Dear dead leaves! How bright they are. How like the French woman who put rouge on her, cheeks to meet Death as a beauty should."

Claud Montrose draws Laura's hand In his arm, and so leads her back to the bridge. "May I tell you," he begins, eagerly, "lhat after you left me here vesterday, I thought of vou,.,and nothing but you, all night long.*'

Laura's face grows to be* tnore like a summer rose. "Did you?" she murmured again. ,1= •And then I pictured you just as you wei"e in my mind. Here is where you stood, under the leaves, a thing of beauty to be preserved lorever. See! I give it you."

He puts a little sketch in water-colors into her hand. It is a pretty bit: a girl in an Autumn day, standing on a green bank. Red and yellow leaves drift on the short, crisp grass at her feet. She holds a bunch of them dropping from her hands, and they lie along the hem of her green dress, glowing like rubies. Behind her, a priest, with a pale, sad lace, looks out of a doorway, from the shadow of which she just escapes. It is pretty, but sombre. "Do you recognize it?" Montrose asks, eagerly. "Yes that is my face, and that is you

cept it, what is that to you? What righV in the shadow. But why have you made

itsosad? The sunshine is all gathered Anna. I should hate him if he had," she about roe, and you are in the daik." adds, with a burst of tears. '"Is that not fitting?" the poet answers, gently. "Is it not fitting that you should have "the sunlight, and 1 the shadow?'* "But I do not like if so," Laura pr^ftests, gravely, and with a blush. should like better to give you part of my sunshine, rather than that all the darkness should fall on you."

A look of dreamy pleasure illuminated the poet'6 face. "If I were by your side, in the light darkness would not tLre come near me

They stand together looking, looking over the rail into the river's raveing tor rent, as it sweeps along, snatching and snarling. "This is where you s'ood yesterday,' says Montrose. "The sun streamed through the branches lighting up your hair the leaves drifted down and lay upon your dress. I .-emember it as would a picture in church. See what I have written."

Laura reads the lines at the bottom of the sketch. They are tinged with a sub tie flattery that thrills her through and through. Then a remembrance ot Jack Chester'6 malicious words come back to her, bringing a sting through the sweetness of the lines. How many times had the poet written like this—to others?"

They are very sweet," she says, with a sudden

coldneBS and gravity,

Montrose's lace, as he listens, flush fiery red. A flame of angry light leaps from his ey.:s. He snatehes ilie*j aper from Laura's hrinu, tcari it across und across, and then flings it out into the riv er. "Is that what you think, Miss Laura? Is that all }ou care for it? Let it perish then. Go!"

Laura is silent a moment through sheer amazement. Then she springs forward and grasps his arm. Too late! The river has got her treasure. She will never see it more on ana on it floats, and the waves bear it out of sight to the waiting sea. She turns her passionate, beautiful face upon Montrose. Great tears rise brimming over her eyes, and drop on her hot flushed cheeli s. "Why did you do that?" she cries, "Youhad no right it was mine you gave it to me! How dare you destroy it?"

He is silent' the moment's fierce anger spent, he teels a little ashamed ot his spleen. Laura bends over the rail, and her tears drip down and fall into the cool, fresh current below. "Why did you? why did you? You had no right it was cruel, cruei!" "I will paint another for you, did not think yeu cared so much for it," he says, humbiy. "But that will not be this one. You cannot restore this one that you have destroyed—you never can "I will paint it over again I will make it as like as I can," he pleads "indeed I will."

The twilight deepens as *'thev linger there, and they turn away. Nfontrose stays to look after her as she walks across the lawn upon bidding him good even ing. Miss Rochester tells her, chiding ly, it is too late she must not stay out after sunset again

Time creeps slowly on'after that. One by one the days slip by. one by one the leaves of Autumn falls and makes a part of that which has been, but will never be again. Laura is much alone. Her admirer* do not trouble her even Jack does not, theever faithful. Aud Claude Montrose, where is he? She is beginning to feel neglected and solitary, when one afternoon a servant brings a message to her room. A gentleman was waiting to see her, and Miss Rochester had gone out

It is Jack, of coursf, and Laura hurries down. She sings as she goes 6he wears a wavy, light green dress the pale gold hair is pushed from her forehead a soft blush is on her cheeks. The visitor is standing within the shadow o! the curtain in the dim room as she enters but it is Jack of course. And she likes Jack, in spite of his crotchets.

One morn 1 missed hint," she begins, with'a pretty graciousness, as she comes forward with outstre'ehed hands. Then she stops, as he turns around and shows her Claude Montrose's pale, poet face. It is not Mr. Chevter. "Will you pardon me for calling?" he says, a little humbly. "I wanted to see you so much after this long absence." "Pardon you!" Laura stops, with her hands pressed upon her bosom. "See what I have brought you." He takes a picture from its hiding-place behind the curtain and holds it towards her. "I have been doing it all these days for you."

It is the old picture, the bne he destroyed that night, but enlarged, elaborated made more beautiful a thousand fold.

Laura clasps her hands together in ecstatic gratitude. "O, how beautiful how beautiful!" "Will you accept it?" Montrose asks, eagerly. Then, holding the hand she stretches out to him, the young poetpainter goes on with feverish impetuosity. "Will you let me give all to you, with this? Art—life—love—everything! Will you henceforth be my inspiration, as you have been in tl is? Will you, Laura?" His voice is melody itself ais he says this.

Ah! what need to give" Laura's answer? Petrarch has come. ,And so poor Jack loses his prize. "Why do you always wear a green dres6?" he asks, as, hours later, they still eit hand in hand together. "I—I—wanted to-be like Petrarch's Laura," she falters, with a shame rising in her cheeks.

He breaks out, at this, into lover-like acclamation. "My darling! my darling!" he cries, as he folds her hands in his with a laugh that is half a so^. "Were I Pea he fame

Laura, and I would hold no sweet as that of winning you." And he takes his first kiss from* her lips before tearing himself away just escaping the meeting with Miss Rochester, who had been making a long afternoon of visits.

When Miss Rochester sees the picture hanging in Laura's room, she irowns with irritated surprise and disappointment but she chose to treat it mockingly. "How many times. do you suppose he has painted other faces a* fair and silly as yours?" she says, with cruel emphasis, 'How many other maidens hag he written verses to, before you?" "Not one." Laura retorts, bravely. "Not one. Prove that he has if you can.

But Anna Rochester, Jack's suuncht friend and supporter, sets herself to see il she cannot find proofs of Petrarch's" possible indiscretions. And she suc^eedl, helped by a curious coincidence.

One day she erfters her sister's room with a packet in her hand. She unfolds it, revealing some letteis and a picture, which she lays in Laura's lap. •'You have asked me to find proofs," she begins, coming to the point at once, "There they are. Judge for joucself." "Stop!" crit« Laura, starting up, as pale as death, "What do vou mean? What are they?" 'I tell you to look and judge tor yourself. There are the letters and poems that Claude Montrose wrote, there is the face he paiiited before ever he saw vou. You threw away Jack Chester's love—Jack's, who hai always ki.own: you and loved you—ar.cl you took this man on trust the first summer you saw him. Behold how worthy he is!" "I don't believe it!" cries poor Laura,

rI

"very musi

cal! I suppose you write so many of them, now to this fair face, now to that one, that they come very easily. It is always much the same thing over again,

is

it not?"

don't believe it!" The wind bnrsts open the casement and blows in a whole drift of leaves, that flutter across the floor an) settle on her green dress. She always wears a green dress now, like Petrarch's Laura, and her picture is there, on the wall. "I don't understand ^this," she gasps, as she scans the letters, and her face has turned whiter than death. Who is she, Anna? How did you get thesie? How id you find it all out?"

No matter how I found it out! 1 got these letters, which he wrote to her, and ihe poems and the picture. The dates are there—only a year ago. You see her name is Rosacea. Most likely it was really Rose, but he calls hei Rosacea, for he is a poet!"

And with this last cruel thrust Anna leaves the room. Does she tell the whole truth in this matter—the truth and nothing but the truth—or is there a reverse side to the story which Laura does not hear? Who shall know?

Hours after this, Laura Rochester folds up the letters and the proofs, creeps down the stairs like a hunted Creature wounded to the death, and enters the room where sits her sister and Mr. Chester. They start at seeing her, she looks so like a ghost so wan and shadowy in her green fiowing dress. Laura feels as though that package of proofs had killed her. She holds them out to her sister. "Take them, Anna," she says, catching up a sob. I have read thenf, and they have—have hurl me. "Perhaps," she breaks out into a dry sobbing, "perhaps it is as well that you gave them to me— but, Ol I car.'t think so. You might have let me be happy a little longer,"

She turns to leave the room, and then, stops, hearing a footstep wkhout. The hall door is open, and Laura turns to it.:

Yes! it is Claude! He sees her aad comes quickly forward. "Laura, my Laura!" he cries reaching" out his hands.

But Laur* draws back. "Stop!" she says, in a ringing, imparative tone- "How do you presume to cal) me by that name? You!"

O, the pitiless, weary scorn in her voice and manner as she says this! Fpr ehe deems him to be wickedly base and false. Montrose stands still, struck mute by the change in her. She springs back into the sitting room, takes tne portrait from Anna's lap, returns, and holds it out to him. "Here!" she cries, "take this and go' back to her. At least never dare to come, here or to speak to me again."

He takes the picture, looks at it, and then at Laura, and then to the faces of the two silent witnesses of the ecepe, who are standing surprised at the open glass doors of the window. "Who has done this?" he cries out, indignantly, "What plot is this against me? Laura, do you believe this? Is this your love for in er Is this your faith in me?"

Laura—Petrarch's Laura—turns from him with a little moan, goes to the window, and holds out her shaking hands to Mr. Chester. "Take me away, Jack! Jack take me awayl" ehe burst out, sobbing, and clinging to his fingers. "You have been faithful to me. You will always care for me."

And Jack, with a little pang of tribulation perhaps for the other's woe. folds her hands in his.

Montrose starts forward. He tries to speak, but his liDsare dry—a mists gathers before his eyes "Laura! Laura! Libra!"

This is his cry, but she will not hear him. ••Faithful until death, my darling 1" whispers Jack, as he draw* tier in, closes the window, and goes from it.

Miss Rochester comes into the hall, 6huts the door in Petrarch's face, leaving him without in what seemed to him like the cold black night. "She has destroyed every hope I had in the world!" he cries, in his despair. "And yet I cannot hate her as I ought."

But Jack is happy. Jack is happy. Laura also. For some years have gone OB since that miserable time, and Laura makes a good wife. If she had not found the love for which she declared sogayly in the old days of song and ro.Tiancej at least she has lound a brave and chivalrous soul to serve her, and she is wise enough to value it at its real worth.

And it is well far John Chester that, being so happy, he makes the most of his time, for that "time is fated to be but short. There comes day, wtfen baby Jack is three years old, that lever smites the strong father down, and eats its way into the central forces of life. Laura with a pale face, frits by her husband's side and holds his hands as he stands trembling by that opeii door, that will soon shut upon him —when he will have passed out of her sight forever.

Jack looks at hpir wistfully with dim, dying eyes. 1 ''You have been a good wife!" he so sighs—"a good wife to me, Laura—my "Laura!"'

Yes, she has been a good and affectionate wite to him. But they must sky to each other the the last farewell now. Death enters.

So Laura is alone again.^ She goesi about the house, pale and* still, in her long black dress heavily weighed with crape. People say what a pretty young widow Mrs. Chester is, and so rich! But *hc misses Jack. He was not Petrarch but he was preeminently good and kind and tender.

The time slips by weeks—months— more than a year. Laura is listless rather discontented but lor Tack the younger, she would have no object left life. I

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