Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 20 December 1877 — Page 7

PUT YOURSELF IH HIS PLACI ,} c.iL I A Hovel #f Thrilling Interest About tl 6reat Strikes in England.

It was th« Gosshawk Life Insurance On a ceit lin afternoon anterior to the Hillsborough scenes .latt presented, the plumed clerks were all at the'south windows, looking at a funeral in the little church-yard, and passing some curious remarks for know that the deceased was insured in the Gosshawk for nine hundred pounds, and had paid but one premium.

The fact6, as far as known, were these Mr. Richard Martin, a Londoner by birth, but residing in Wales, went up to London to visit his brother. Towards the end of the visit the two Martins went up ie river in a boat, with three more friends, and dined at Richmond They rowed back in the cool of the even ing." At starting they were merely jovial but they stopped at nearly all the public houses by the water-side, and, by visible gradations, became jolly—uproarious—seng 6onga—caught crabs. At Vauxhall they got a friendly warning, and laughed at it: under Southwark bridge they ran against an abutment, and were upset in a moment: it was now dusk, and, according to their own ac count, they all lost sight of each other in the water. One swam ashore in Middle sex, another in Surrey, a thiro got to the chains of a barge, and wa9 taken up much exhausted, and Robert Martin laid hold of the buttress itself, and cried loudly for assistance. They asked anxiously after each other, but their anxiety appeared to subside in an hour or two, when they found there was nobody missing but Rickard Martin. Robert told the police it was all right, Dick could swim like cork. However, next morning he came with a sorrowful face to say his brother had not reappeared, and begged them to drag the liver. This was done, and a body found, which the survivors and Mrs, Richard Martin disowned.

The insurance office was informed, and looked into the matter and Mrs. Martin told their agent, with a flood of tears, she believed that her husband had taken that opportunity to desert her, and was not drowned at all. Of course this went to the office directly.

But a fortnight afterwards a body was found in the water down at Woolwich entangled in some rushes by the \yater side.

Notice was given to all the survivors. The friends of Robert Martin came and si id the clothes resembled those worn by Richard Martin but beyond that they could not be positive.!

IJut, when the wife came, she recognized the body at once. The brother agreed with her, but, on account of the bloa'ted and discolored condition of the face, asked to have the teeth examined: his poor brother, he said, had a front tooth oroken 9hort in two. This broken tooth was soon found also rt pencil-case, and a key, in the pocket of the deceased. These completed the identification.

Up to this moment the conduct of Richard Martin's relatives and friends had been singularly apathetic but now all was changed: they broke into loud lamentations, and he became the be6t of husbands, best of men: his lightest words were sacred. Robert Martin now remembered that 'poor Dick' had stood and looked into that* little church-yard and said, 'If ycu outlive ire, Bob, bury me in this spot fathtr lies here.' So Robert Martin went to the church-war-den for leave to do this last sad office. The church-warden refused, very properly, but the brother's entreaties, the widow's tear®, the tragedy itself, and other influences, extorted ojt last a reluctant consent, coupled with certain sanatory conditions.

The funeral was conducted unobtiu sively, and the grave dug out of sight of Gosshawk. But of course it could not long escape observation that is to say, it was seen by the clerks but the directors and manager were »ll seated round a great table up stairs absorbed in a vital question viz.. whethei or not the Gosphawk should imitate some other comoanies, and insure against fire as well as death. It was the third and last discussion the minority against this new operation was small, but obstinate and warm, and the majority so absorbed in bringing them to reason, that nobody went to the window until the vote had passed, and the Gosshawk was a Life and Fire InI suranc\ Then some of the ge.itlemen rose and stretched their legs, and detected the lugubrioul enormity. 'Hallo!' [cried Mr. Carden, and rang a bell.

Edwards, an old clerk, appeared, and, in I replv to Mr. Carden, told him it was one I of their losses being buried—Richard I Martin.

Mr. Garden said this was an insult to the office, and sent Edwards out to re

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raonstrate.1?, I Edwards s&oA^ reappeared with Robert Martin, who represented, with the ut most humility, that it wa9 the wish of the deceased, and they had buried him, as ordered, in three feet of charcoal. I 'What, is the ceremony performed?' 'Yes, sir, all but filling in the grave. Come and see the charcoal.'

Hang the charcoal!' 'Well,' said the humane but somewhat pompous director, 'if the ceremony has gone so tar—but, Mr. Martin? this must never recur, charcoal or no charcoal.'

Mr. Martin promised it never should: and was soon atter observed in the jchurch-yard urging expedition.

The suvl company sp.*eJily dispersed,

left nothing to offetid nor disgust Life and Fire Insurance, except anew ive, and a debt of nine hundred pounds I the heirs or assigns of Richard Mar-

ot very far from this church-yard a public-house and in that jublicie a small parlor up stair*, and in that lor a man, who watched the funeral with great interest, but not in a be«ng spirit for his eyes twinkled with in tensest merriment all the time, and jach fresh stage of the mournful bust-

CIIAPTER XXX. I he burst into peals of laughter. Ix that part of London called 'therer was any man so thoroughly, City'arc shady little streets, that look |»ed in the City before, at all events like pleasant retreats from the busy, —.

Mr

,hincs*

noisv world ret are strongholds of busi- llchard Martin 8 exccutor waited a ness. One ot these contained, and perhaps still contains, a public office full of secrets, some droll, some sad, some terrible. The building had a narrow, insignificant front but was of great depth, and its south side lighted by large hay windows all stone ayd plate-glass and these were open to the sun and air, thanks to a singular neighbor. Here, in the heart of the City was wedged a little rustic church, with its church-yard, whose bright-green grass lir«t startled, then soothed and refreshed the eye. in tnat wiiderness of stone— emerald se'. in granite. The grass flow up to the south w. II of the 'effioe those massive stone windows hung over th grave* the plumed clerks could not look out of window and doubt that nil man are mortal and the article the ollice sold was Imlnortnlity.

time, and then presented his claim Gosshawk. llis brother proved a it for £3 x), and the rest went by 3 his wife. The Gosshawk paid tloney, after the delay accorded bv

[to be continued.]

jk GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

recent issue b* H. O. Houghton &1 of Cambridge, Mass., proprietors Atlantic Monthly magazine, of a liffc crayon likeness ot Whittier, the bclourlvric poet*, will be welcomed inlsanils of American households, is writings are read and appreciaur readers will thank us for givsome particulars of the life and |er of this good man juit now his threc-scwre years and ten. ier has often been called the Burlf America. The same simplicity of liage, the almost exclusive use of cotnl Anglo-Saxon words, the descries of lowly life and the humblest scenl nature, the same whole-hearted and trous appeals to whatever is best in ltinity, pervade the writings of bothiorn in poverty and reare:! at the plouaandle, as was Burns without otherjeation than that obtained at the road-j school house anJ by an atten Iance ivo vears at an academy, but with Ifcier surroundings of home and societlan fell to the lot of his Scottish prototl with an unyielding, life-long adhere! to temperance in all things, sincerifend love of his kind, this good man, jlnow verging upon his threescore and ten, has made tor himself a placelhe hearts of his countrymen, and in fle of the best ot all Englishspeakinbuntries, like that which Burns has hel* a century past on the banks of Ayr I in bonnie Dundee. His love of Burnkiplanted early and growing with hisbwth, aud his first acquaintance withis writings, are pleasantly told in tntollowing account from his own pen

Burns

race, lllras the first poet 1 read, and he will bae last. On«* day one of our preacher8|me to stay all night, and noticing, intent up to thee, iiee likes, some poems by Robert Bui. I have a copy with me.' So he got tl book and began to read. It was the st I had heard of Bums, and my woler and delight over what I •heard are akresh still as if it were yesterday. I heard nothing up to that moment, it smed to me, that had any itjht to be clled poetry andl listened as long as the al man would read. I noticed he left the bosk on the table so I rose at gray dawn aext inoi ning, and read for myself. I w*6 hanging over the book when the friend came down, and then he told me he wis going farther to visit such and *uch meeting*, would be back at such a time, and, if I liked, would leave the book with me. Thee may be sure I gratefully accepted hi* offer. I read Burns every moment I had to spare and this was one great result to me of mv communion with him I found that the things out of which poems ca.ne were not, as I had always imagined, somewhere away off in a world and life lying outside the edge of our New Hampshire sky they were right here about my feet, and among the people I knew. The common things of our common life I found weie full of poetry. It was a new and a perfect revelation.'

in a flame, which has burned with everincreasing fervor, until the brow then clustering with raven locks has been silered with age.

Of his mother—of French descent, ith the maiden name of Abigail Huzzey Whittier says, in the Friends' Review All that the sacred word mother means in its broadest, fullest significance our dear mother was to us: a friend, helper, counselor, companion, ever-loving, genand unselfish. She was spared to us in the seventy-eighth yefr, and passed away, after a sickness of about three weeks, in the full possession of faculties, exceeding, peace, and with an unshaken trust in the boundless mercy of our Lord. It was a beautiful and holy death bed. Perfect love Ifad cast out all fear.' Another member of the fanrilv writes: 'Perhaps I may be too partial to the memory of mother, though I confess, for my part, I only fear I do not sufficiently revere her tnemoiy she was really and truly a good mother to us. She had no moods, wa^ ever patient, affectionate, and firm. She so sympathized with misfortune and distress that she could not wait to investigate, and conse quently sometimes gave to those who were unworthy but, if that be a weakness, it is of the order that no one will be ashamed of before the Judge of all. I wish every one had more of it.'

Whittier himself was very sensitive and diffident. He sent his boyish effusions in a sly way to the nearest village newspaper, and blushed to his finger-tips when William Lloyd Garrison, who edited the paper, al\er a long and diligent search, found him out but the hour had come, and then and there, in an obscure farmhouse in East Haverhill, Massat^iusetts, these two men—then in their teens, now so famous and beloved—first struck hands, and for more than half a century have pursued) each in his own way, through evil report and good report, the path of conviction and rectitude, and yet live to reap a rich reward of appreciation and love.

In his extreme modesty, Whittier considers his literary attainm^ats rather ac-1

cidental and fortuitous. Indeed, as has happened to more than one of the men who have won the admiration of thiir fellows and achieved greatness, he was at first without honor in the eyes of his mates at school and on the farm, and their ridicule of his attempts at verse was so stinging that the passion for writing well-nigh died out of him, for very vexation and shame. His own judgment of his writings', after the mature consideration of fifty years, is thus expressed in a letter to a friend lately: 'I have not been able to place a very high estimate on my writing. I know too well their deficiencies. But I have given the public the best I hatl to give, and the measure of favor1.with which it has been received has been a constant surprise to me. This, at least, I can say truly, that I hare been actuated by a higher motive than literary success and it has been my desire that whatever influence my writing may exert should be found on the side of morality, freedom, and christian charity.'

Mr. Whittier has attempted other parts from time to time than that of poet, driven thereto by that bane of literary men, 'res angusta domi.' At eighteen the essayed school-keeping but the rough, harum scarum boys of the district were too much for him, and he resigned. For years thereafter he called himself an editor. but never attained more than moderate success in that apparently easiest of all professions. He ha9 represented Haverhill and Arpesbury occasionally in the Massachusetts legislature, but it is Relieved that he does not pride himself on his record as a legislator 01^ politician. He never was very poor, because his want* were small, and because, with the frugality and conscientiousness characteristic of Quakers everywhere, his outgoes never exceeded his income. It is related that years ago, when he was not as popular as he is now, he was walking one day on Cornhili when he met Muzzey, the publisher and bill-seller. After some conversation about poetry and one thing and another, Muzzey proposed to pay him $500 for the copyright of his productions, and a percentage on the sales. Mr. Whittier was vastly astonished. He thought bill and book making had combined to make the man crazy but Muzzev was in dead earnest, and at last Mr. ^Vhittier, with a reserved feeling of compassion for the demented publisher, consented to the arrangement. Muzzey brought out the hitherto ill-dress-ed and obscure children of the poets's brain, which he picked up here and there, in neat and attractive shape, The sales which immediately followed astonished nobody so much as the poet himself hut he gradually reconciled himself to them, and began to put money in his purse. He realized, however, no very great sum from his productions before the advent of Snow-Bound, which he considers a very indifferent bit of versiflcati n, its sudden popularity bein^ one of the greatest surprises of his lite. Mr. Charles H. Brainard. who made him a visit soon after its publication and tells the story, says: 'I found his house newly painted and improved, whereupon I said to him, 'It is evident that poetry has ceased to be a drug in thp market' The rext morning Mr. Whitter's answer came. It was in the winter, and a* the poet went up to the fire to warm his boots preparatory to putting them on, he said: 'Thee wilfhave to excuse me, for I must go down to the office of the collector.' Then, with a humorous gleam in his eye, he added. 'Since Snow-Bound was publishe.l, I have risen to.the dignity of an income tax.''

In 1840, thirty-seven years ago, Whittier gave up newspaper writing and other public work, and retired trom public observation, almost entirely, to a plain white, old-fashioned house, which his limited means enabled him to purchase, on the outskirts of Amesbury, a manufacturing village in northeastern Massachusetts. Here he has lived ever since, devoting himself entirely to literature, having f£r his only companion until 1864 —when she died—his last surviving sister, E.izabeth Hi» studv is a cosy room ot medium dimensions a cheery, open fire-place, with the old-fashioned brass andirons, is a prominent feature of it,— indeed, all the poets seem to look upon stoves as intolerable innovations and pledged enemies to poesy near a win dow is his writing table, which is usually strewn with manuscripts and writing materials, very rarely including books of reference of any kind there are a few chairs, some simple pictures of antislavery acquaintances on the walls, with here and tnere a photograph of some literary or personal friend. His book-cases are roomy and well filled, and fhe number of autograph books sent him bv authors is very large.

Whittier's father was of a tall, gigantic, long-lived race, able to cope witn bears or indians, both were not infrequentencountered on the banks of the Merrimac, where our poet was born, and where most of his life has been spent a non-resident by principle and in practice, as—except in the case of wild beasts —are all Quakers a good, well-meaning, useful man in his day and generation. He, however, could not see in his boy anything more than he himself was, or more than were his ancestors before him, promising ploughman but the boy's mother, with keener insight, recognized the divine spark, and happily encouraged'ceives a poetical idea before has it reand ministered to it' until it broke forth duced to writing. He writes only when

Usually it is not long after he con-

the mood seizes him, and then he writes as if fiered with in«piraiion, losing all consciousness of time and things, going oat of himself as it were, and becoming part and parcel of the subject. His first draft suffers little subsequent alteration, and the various editions of his works represent little or no time spent in revision. A thought seizes him: he does not mature it by slow processes and art infinite number"of inciJental thought! and mental finishing toaches he delibcriely beats himself at his plain little writing table, and at once puts it upon paper. May be it is a poem of four or five stanzas he will write: he does not strain after his ideas or expressions they tranquilly come to him as fast as he needs tiicin, and he writes them down. He may scratch a half line here and there, and begin again may substitute one woid for another that does not mean enough but there is 110 struggle, no nervous fidgeting abo.it with the legs no biting the top of his pen handle in mental agony no waiting for th'e sluggish current of than^ht to bear along on its surface the right idea.

In stature Mr. Whittier is like his ancestors, rail,—measuring 6ix feet or more, —of slender build, but straight as an arrow a fine-looking, oldish man, with high forehead, a fine facc, a quiet smile, dark, piercing eyes, and hair once black, but now thinned and gray. He d'esses in a suit of black cut in Quaker fashion, and his speech is characterized to a slight extent, by the peculiarities of the people whose form ot service and cteed he prefers to any other although, it is well understood 'the latter is hardly broad enough 10 cover all his opinions and convictions. He walks about the country in the neighborhood of his home considerably, is pleasant and companionable with his neighbors, but never drives in a carriage, and cannot be coaxed or compelled to attend a gathering of litterateurs or ex-antislavery people, a lyceum lecture, or anv secular assembly whatever. He occasionally,—not often,—visits Boston, and usually spends there a portion ot the Winter at the nouse of his friend, ExGovernor William Cfaflin he has never

been abroad, and Washington, which he visited on one occasion, is this extreme limit of his journeving in this countiy.

Speaking of Whittier, a recent writer has remarked 'Distinguished as will be his place in the annals of literature, justly famed as he is lor his exquisite and soul-stirring poetry, to us, Whittier, in his own pure, sweet, beautiful life, is far grander than in hi* writings, llis life is his b- .c poem. The man is far nobler than the poet,' and Mr. Charles H. BrainarJ tru'v says, 'Mr. Whittier's life has been more beautiful and true than any. poem that ever flowed from his inspired pen, and fully justifies the warm eulogium contained in the ciosing lines of a beautiful tribute to his life and character from the pen ot his dsvo'.ud friend, the

'But not thy strains with courage rite, vfi Nor holiest hymns, shall ranV above Th» rhythmic beauty o: thy life,

Itself a canticle of love.' f4'**1'.-

Six years ago, at tjie age of sixty-four, Whittier wrote the following poem, which appeared in the October number of the Atlantic Monthly of 1871, which it will be timely to read again in view of his 70th birthdav this December.

MY BIRTHDAY. gr-.f3i8i S

Benea the moonlight and tha snow 91* Lies de id* my latest year /„f The winter winds are wailing low .'

Its dirg«-s in

m-ear.

2

*i

I grieve not with tiie moaning wind As if a loss befell 1*^9 'f? Before me, even as behind,

God is, and all is well

f.J&t

His light shines on me trom abave, 4 His low voice speaks within,— 'j The patience of immortal love

Outyvearying mortal sin.

Not mindlcsss of the glowiftg yeafe, ,v Of care and loss and pain, My eye? are wet with thankful tears

For blessings, which remuin.

?t'

'h-jiT 'fit1#

If din: the gold of life has gown, 1 ^1 I will not count it dross, Not turn from treasures still my own

To siah for lack and loss.

The years no charm from Nauirepftake As 6weet he. voices call, I As beautiful her mornings break

As fair her evenings fall. /j$

Love watches o'er my quiet way, ,i( Kind voices speak my name, And lips that find it hard to praise^ ^5

A re a as to am

How sofilv ebb the tiJes of will! How fields, once lost or wr.n, Now lie beneath me green and still

Beneath a level sea!

How hushed the hiss of party hate, The clamor of the throng! How old, harsh voices of debate \.'' f*

Flow into rythmic song,

Methinks the spirit's temper grows Too soft in this still air, Somewhat the restful heart foregoes

Of needed watch and prayer,

The bark by tempest vainly tossed May founder in the calm, And he who braved the polai1 frost

Faint by the isle of balm.

Better than self-indulgent years The outflung heart of youth Than pleasant songs in idle ears

The tumult of the truth.

1

,T

Rest for the weary hands is good. And love for heart* that pine* But let the manly habitude

Of upright souls be mine. 1

Let winds that blow from heaven refresh Dear Lord, the languid air: I y? And let the weakness of the flesh s-y 1-r

Thy strength of spirit share.

And, if the eye must fail of light, ,5. t*a The ear forget to hear, Make clearer still the spirit's siglit.

More fine the inward ear!

Be near in mine hours of need To soothe, or cheer, or warn, And down these Klopee of sunset lead,

As up the hills of tnorn

GAZETTELETS.

In the name of temperance why should so fine a 6teak to be called a porter-house. Never ask a fat man what he carries that bass drum under his vest for. It may make him mad.

In the sweet and solemn Iarigauge of the poet, bank after bank depart who hath not lost a bank?

A few years ago, in Boston, thousands went to hear spiritualistic lectures now audiences do not number a hundred. n.

The lady who gets a new bonnet off with the old love and on with the new,' observes the New York Herald duck.

Archdeacon Denisop, the eminent ritualist, says that the Archoishop of Canterbury is the craftiest man he ^ever knew.

A cave has been discovered near Wytheville, Va., which is said to rival the mamoth Cave of Kentucky in extent and beauty.

It is a wonder of the day—and yet a 5 fact o'er true— That heav batiks are washed awayby two n.ucli'fdllins due,'

The farmers and sheep raisers of Cecil County, Maryland, have past resolutions declaring that all dogs running at large be considered at the mercy of the community. father, if a whip he lack,

Whence'er his youngsters boisteros grow, Should give a dose of ipecac,

And then remark, 'I tolu so,' Punch in its most artistic and most humorous moods represents a lady calling on an artist or a musician torith a necessary maid discreetly and quietly knitting in the packground.

A three-armed child has been borned in Michigan. He is supposed to be a near relative of the young man whom Mr.Gough knew who had three hands— his right, his left and and also a little behind hand.

It is believed by the Chinese that the inventor of ink is charged with keeping an account of the manner in which all ink is used here below, and that for every abuse of it he record* a black mark againit the offender. 1|

Among the inventions to which the present war in the east has given birth, a present preparation of tea and sugar for camp use. It is put up in boxes, and a spoonful of the mixture sufficient to make a cup of tea.

THE EDICT OF FATE-

The library in Mr. Trevelyans ele— gain country residence was one of the pleasatest apartments imaginable, and on that bright^summer morning seemed the embodiment of coolness, shade, and fragrance—trom the dark green carpet that coyered the floor like a sheet of emerald velvet, the lighter green silk curtains and damask furniture, to the gleaming marble statuettees, the white and gold calfbound volnmes in rows of shelves from floor to ceiling.

Outside the sun shone and the birds were holding a perfect carnival of song in the warm, fragrant air.

Everything seemed so pure, 60'peaceful, strangely at variance with Mr. Trevelyan's angry, clouded face as, he stood, straight and haughty, with one hand on the green cloth of" the central table, and his eves looking down on Raymond Santelle's face—a face perfect in its bold, manly outlines. "It is the most outragous breach of gentlemanly honor I ever had the misfortune to know, and I am the more astonished. Mr. Santelle, that I had always, previously, held you to be a suitable man to occupy the position of tutor to my sons. But this total disiegard of every law of etiquette, honor, deccncy if I may be allowed bo strong an expression—this open-face, presumptuous attempt at flirtation with a guest ot Mrs. Trevelvar.'h, is —is offensively disgusting to me."

The young man's eyes blazed as he listened patiently to the quiet, intence insult, and you could see how tremendous was the force with which he kept himsell in check—ycu saw it so plainly by the tenseness of every muscle in his lithe, handsome frame, by the compression ot his lips under his droopin® amber must ache, and in the intense, frightfully calm tones of his voice as he answered, with his blue eyes never flinching from the cold, gray Ones opposite him. "You have made a most unwarrantable assertion, sir, which for Miss Veldt's sake I regret—which tor my own I care as little as I regard the tfuthiulness of it,

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as

1

Mr. Trevelyan interrupted him by a sudden blow of his fist on the table Yon dare tell me—you, a hired teacher in this house, that I am a liar—that Miss" Santelle did not make the smallest attempt to interrupt the tide of passion, but there was something in his eyes that made the gentleman pause suddenly, and then Santelle went on, quietly as before, with that unnatural quiet that precedes terrible tempest. '"There is nr occasion to introduce the lady's name again I simply say I have never paid her any attention beyond what is due to a lady from a gentleman: that I should pay an empress of the blood royal if the occasion required it, or any other woman. You have seen fit to misconstrue, and from the moment you branded me as unfit for the position of tutor to young sons, however false the accusation was, vou ceased to be my employer. Mr. Trevelyan, there is no need to prolong this intertfew.'

He bowed with the cold, polished ease of a society-usage man, and went leisure ly from the library to his room, with that same compression of his handsome lips, but with the fire in his blue eyes giving place to a bitter, dreary woe. 'To think she istbe first woman I ever met who could quicken my pulse by a glance of her brighl, beautiful eyes—and I am insulted because I dare converse with her—I, a tutor on a salary, she a •darling of fate and fortune!'

Down in the library where Santelle had left him, Mr. Trevalyan paced t) and fro. 'The insolent, independent puppy, with his face like god's and his manner the manner of a prince! It is time he took his conge from Trevalyan Park when he bids fair to be a fromidable rival to my son Rupert in Ida Veldt's favor. I am not blind I am not a fool I have seen the girl's magnificent eyes look at hiin with alight in them I'd willingly give a check for a thousand to see in them when she laughs with my boy,'

And, just within one of the deep, dusk recesses of the library, hidden by flowing silken drapery, as fair a girl as ever lived, with lutrou- dark eyes all aglow, a"hd cheeks as a pink as a morning glory, stood quiet and breathless until Mr. Trevalyan had left the room. 'fhe grand,glorious fellow! Why he's a very prince in disguise! I wonder—I wonder if—oh, dear, of coursc it is «nly chivalrous courtesey Mr. Santelle feels, and I won't be a fool if he has got the mcst heavenly tmile and the handsomest eyes I ever saw, but I'll see him again before he leaves, and

But Ida Veldt did not see him again before he left Trevalyan Park, for Mr. Santelle did not remain over one train and when Ida returned from her gallop over the breezy country roads with her cheeks glowing, her hair wind-blown over her face, like a mist of spun gold, and her bronze, dark eyes eloquent with the strange, half sweet half-sad thoughts she could i.ot understand, Raymond Santelle was separated from her,by fate and the rail road, so many miles that ever to meet again seemed of even less likely probabilty than the finding of a needle in a haystack

'But, Raymond, there is no use in your being so obstinate about it! You haye fever, and your eyes are as glassy as a cat's in a dark cellar—aren't they Mrs. Santelle*'

Harry Livingston reached out to take Raymond Santelle's hand to fell the throbbing, irregular pulse. 'Don't be a fool, Harry! I tell you I am not sick—at-least, beyond-a trifling cold—although I won't be responsible for an attack ot brain fever if you and Aunt Amy don,t quit coddling,me.' 'You see just how it is, Mr. Livingston,

I can't do anything with him. He's been just that contrary ever since he came hoine the other night with a chill, and I coaxecl him to take hot lemonade,'

The little bright eyed old lady looked anxouslv from her boy's flushed face to Livingston's half-earnest,half-mi»chevous one. 'He always wa» headstrong, you know. Don't you remember how disagreeably mulish he was when he came home from Trevelyan Park a couple of years ago, and refused to go into scA^iety at all, even when he had come into the snug little legacy his grandmother left htm?'

Santelle turned frowningly to Livingston. 'If you knew how it anncyed me to hear you talk'

Harry arose promptly, laughing. 'All right, IH call again when yon are in better humur, Ray. Mrs. Santelle, you promised to show meyoui pelargoniums, I think?'

The conservatory door had barely closed on their heels when Livingston's levit/ vanished.

Mrs. Santelle, Ray a much sicker

man than you have any idea of! Cant you see the terrible state of irritation he hw come to? Crossness and Raymond are not possible, as you know, and if yoa will take my advice and send for a doctor you may save him a sickness, perhaps lm life. Send for Dr. Tremine or Dr. Winter, and tell whichever one takes (Ik case what you and 1 have so often imagined—that Ray has some trouble on on his mind,'

LiltJe Mrs. Santelle was in acond itiaa of almost helpless alarm after Mr. Livingston had gone.

It had never occured to her that Ray was threatened with anything worse than an iafluenza, and Harry Livingstoh was actually hinting at the brain trouble!

She flew back tp Ray's dainty little sitting-room—things had changed 0 with Ray since he had^ come in for five thousand a year—determined lo tell him a doctor must be bent for to ask him who he wanted.

She wenlin in nervous alarm, to find him lying, white aVid still, on the lounge. In the panic that emergencies always are sure to be create in nervous,loving people, Mrs. Santelle breathlessly ordered her one servant- maid for her physician. 'Run—run to Dr. Winter's Annie, as fast as you can, and tell him Mr. Santelle is dying- If he's not in go for Tremi.ie— Hoar—anybody—only some one, must come at once! flurry, Annie!'

And faithful, zealous Annie tore Wildly round to find Dr. Winters out, Dr. Tremine out, and Dr.

Hoar out.

'What be I goin' to do about it, and him a layin' as white as the piller, and the missus crazy? I doi't khow. Maam, can yon tell mc where their'll be another doctor?'

It was a sweet, thoughtful face Annie had seen, and stopped to question the owner of—a daintly dressed lady, with the darkest,saddest eyes Annie had ever seen.

She smiled biightly. 'Can I be of any use? If you are serch of a physician, and can find none you are tooking for, you can take me, I know something of medicine,'

Annie's eyes were a si^ht to behold. Always big, greenish bLie, and bulging they grew bijfijer, more greenish blue, and more bulging. 'You, miss The likes of you be able, to cure him!'

The lady had stepped into her phaetdte beside a spruce-looking boy. 'Shall I go, or not?'

Annie gave her a disparingTodk. 'It's a man sick, miss—you'd not cane, nor be afraid—up at Eglantine place,,

A silver laugh from the charming littte rosebud mouth as she gave the boy the order—Eglantine place. 'Neithef afiv.id nor ashamed. what I can do for young master,'

I'll

ponies

She nodded pleasantly, and the and phaeton dashed of!. And so it was ordered by the pbwers that be that when this charming, beautifnl lady saw Raymond Santelle raving ia delirium, and made such a common sense diagnosis of the case, and gave such practical advice to be followed until Mrs. Santelle's physician should arrive to take charge, in the glow of enthusiatm Mrs. Santelle begged her to call and ceethe sick man occasionally.

With very unwarranted, uncalled-for blushes the lady agreed to do so' and as day after day her phaeton—'Ide' she said she was—stood for an hour at the door of No —Eglantine place. Mrs. Santelle and she were fighting hand-to-hand fight with Azrael for Raymond's sake, until one day Aunt Amy caught the girl im her arms and kissed her ardently. 'To think you have saved him under God's goodneits! Miss Ide, can I ever tliank you enough? If you only knew how I love ou—&ad so will my bar when he know how much he owes youf

Consciousness had returned to the sick man, and Amy told him as soon as she dared, of Ide—her sweet, tender bkill,ber Jevotion. her brave, relentless war with llis illness her patience, her pity, until Rawnond, with a smile on his pale handsome face, asked why Ide had not bccai to see him since his convalescence.

Amy told him Ide had assured her that Iter presence might disturb the patient at the first, but ihat she would see him 'befoie long.

After the first rally Raymond went oai toward health and strength with rapid strides, until even Ide,with glowingcheel# and strangely-lighted e^es, declared her intention ot seeing him again, and one lovely afternoon Mrs. Santelle showed her into the danty invalid chamber little thinking the accomplishment Of aa unwritten romance had come, little thinking

Well,Raymond reached out hi- hand and the girl took it, with a strange shyness very unusual in rer ordinary manner. 'I am so glad to see you looking oetter, Mr. Santeile,' 'Ide! Mis* Veldt,! Is it possible? Oh, can it be irue? Miss Veld", wo ycia know in my delirium. I constant/ thought you were with mt? And yoa were—you were!' 1 She smiled, than frow.ied dernurele% with her pietty fingers on his wrini. 'I cannot permit you to became excited, Mr. Santelle. Ye?, I, Ida Veldl who abbreviated my n.ime 011 the impulse of the moment, when.l saw wins my patient was, because I——^'

His face wa» lighted up with per feet joy. 'Because what, Miss Veldt?' She flushed tike a wild rose. *1—I positively forbid any more earnvernation,'

There was a spleading look in her eyes as she looked into his. He closed both of his bands over one of hers* 'And I,as your lover,forbid you fo rtfine to answer any question I ask! Ida—Ida, was it because you loved me? Tell me it was, my darling?'

And wc presun.e she did, since newer were patient and physician on such affectionately intimate terms as wete Miss Veldt and Raymond Santelle after that, in the halcyon days when they two agreed that upon the story of their lives had beea written, from time immemorial, the won! 'Kismet,'

Bcrtrand de Selignac de la Motfie Fenelon, great uncle of the author of Telemachus, had been, while Ambassador to England, a special favorite of the Qrteen Elizabeth and soon after the massacre of St. Bartholomew, Catahrine ff Medici and Charles IX wishing him to write a plauiable letter to the British Qneen urging extenuating circumstances for the massacre but they mistook their man, who told the King that, by attempting to paliate this dreadful deed, he shonld become an accomplice of it, and his Majesty had better address himself to one of those who advised it. The King showed signs of anger, but the Couoc added that, although a King could, of course, crush a gentleman, he could not deprive him of his honor.