Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 8 June 1882 — Page 2

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Jjeam of your fife to see me in farllaatent, now that 'Old Nick' has decided oil leading a sedentary existence—a rery stupid decision on his part, by the way, so clover as life is." "lie is not strong, you see a little thing knocks him up, and he is too impressionable for a public career. But you are different. Well, don't go to Dublin—it's wretched form. I dare say when you come back you will be more Irish than the Irish." "I shouldn't wonder, and as I am determined, you would advise me to study the people, would you not?" "By all means, study them, if you are bent on this tiresome journey. It may do you good. You will at least be more ready to take my advice at another time." "What a dismal view you take of my trip! Perhaps, in spite of your forebodings, I shall enjoy myself down to the ground, and weep copiously on leaving Irish soil." "Perhaps. I hope you won't get into a mess there, and make me more unhappy than I am. We are uncomfortable enough without that. You know you are always doing something bizarre —something rash and uncommon!" "How nice!" says Geoffrey, with a careless smile. "Your 'faint praise' fails 'to damn!' Why, one is nothing nowadays if not eccentric. Well," moving towards the door, with the fox-ter-rier at his heels, "I shall start on Monday. That will get me down in time for the 12th. Shall I send you up any birds?" "Thanks, dear you are always good," murmured Lady Rodney, who has ever an eye to the main chance. "If there are any," say? Geoffrey, with a twinkle in hts eye. "If there are any," repeats she, unmoved.

CHAPTER N

It is early morn. "The first Tow breath of waking day stirs the wide air." On bush and tree and opening fiower the dew lioa heavily, like diamonds glistening hi the light of the round Ann. Thin clouds of pearly haze float slowly o'er the sky to .meet its a a 7

Envious ritreaks

Do lace

the

severing clouds in yonder east.

Geoffrey, with his gun upon his shoulder, trudges steadily onward, rejoicing in the frosliness of the morning air. His

good

dog is at his heels a boy—

procured from some neighboring cabin, and warranted not to. wear out, however long the journey to be undertaken or how many the miles to travel—carries his bag beside him. Game as yet is not exactly plentiful there is, indeed, a settled uncertainty as to whether one may or may not have a good day's sport. And yet this very uncertainty gives an additional excitement to the game. I

Here and there a pack is discovered', so unexpectedly as to be doubly welcome. And sometimes a friendly native will tell him of some qniet corner where "his honor" Will surely find some birds, "an' be able in the evenin' to show raison for his blazin.'" It is a somewhat wild life, but a pleasant one, and perhaps, on the whole, Mr. Rodney finds Ireland an agreeable take-in^ and the inhabitants of it by no means as eccentric or as blood-thirsty as he has been led to believe. He has read innumerable works on the Irish peasantry, calculated to raise laughter in the breasts of those who claim the Emerald Isle as their own—works written by people who have never seen Ireland, or, having seen it, thought it a pity to destroy the glamour time has thrown over it, and so reduce it to commonplaeeness.

He is, for instance, surprised, and indeed somewhat relieved, when lie discovers that the drivers of the jauntingcars that take him on his shooting expeditions are not all modern Joe Millers, and do not let off witty remarks, like bomb-shells, every two minutes.

He is perhaps disappointed in that every Irish cloak does not conceal a face beautiful as an hourl's. And he learns by degrees that only one in ten says "bedad," and that "och, murther!" is an expression almost extinct.

Altogether, things are very disappointing though perhaps there is comfort in the thought that no ond is waiting round a comer, or lying perdu in a dUtch, ready to smash the first comer with a blackthorn stick,

or

reduce him

to submission with a pike, irrespective of cause or reason. Bodney, with the boy at his side, is ^covering ground in a state of blissful •uncertainty. He may be a mile from home, or ten miles for all he knows, and theljoy seems none the wiser.

A"

"Where are we now?" says Geoffrey, stopping suddenly and facing the boy. "I dont know, sir." "But you said you knew the entire locality—couldnt be puzzled within a radius of thirty miles. How far are we from home?" "I drtn't know, sir. I never was abroad before, an' I'm dead bate now, .and the bag's like lead." "You're a nice boy, you are!" says Mr. Rodney. "Here, give me the bag! Perhaps you would like me to carry you too but I shant, so you needn't ask me. .Are you hungry?" "No," says the boy valiantly but he looks hungry, and Geoffrey's heart smites him, the more in that he is starving likewise. "Come a little farther," he says, gentry, Ringing the heavy bag across his own shoulders. "There must be afarm1 house somewhere."

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howling wilderness?* Whereat the^boy smiles and grins consumedly, as though charmed with his companion's metaphor. though in reality he understands it not at all.

As they draw still newer Geoffrey becomes awareihat the fann-yafd before him is rich with life. Cocks are crow-* ing, geese are cackling, and in the midst of all this life stands a girl with her back turned to the weary travelers. "Wait here," says Geoffrey to his squire, and, going forward, rests the bag upon a wall, and waits until the girl in question shall turn her head. When she does move he is still silent, for, behold, she has turned his head!

She is country bred, and clothed in country garments, yet her beauty is too great to be deniable. She is not "divinely tall," but rather of medium height, with an oval face, and eyes of "heaven's own blue." She is clad in a snowy gown of simple cotton, that sits loosely to her lissom figure yet fails to disguise the beauty of it. A white kerchief lies softly on her neck. She has pulled up her sleeves, so that her arms are bare—her soft, round, naked arms that in themselves are a perfect picture. She is standing with her head well thrown back, and her hands—full of corn—lifted high in the air, as she cries aloud, "Cooeel Cooee!" in a clear, musical voice.

Presently her cry is answered. A •.hick cloud of pigeons—brown and white and bronze and gray—come wheeling into sight from behind the old house, and tumble down upon her in a reckless fashion. They perch upon her head, her shoulders, her white soft arms, even her hands, and one, more adventurous tlian the rest, has even tried to find a slippery resting-place upon her bosom. "What greedy little things!" cries she aloud, with the merriest laugh in the world. "Sure, you can't eat more than enough, can you? an' do your best! Oh, Brownie," reproachfully, "what a selfish bird you are!"

Here Geoffrey comes forward quietly, and lifts his hat to her with all the air of a man who is doing homage to a princess. It has occurred to him that perhaps this peerless being in the cotton gown will feel some natural chagrin on being discovered by one of the opposite sex with ljer sleeves tucked up. But in this instance his. knowledge of human nature receives a severe shock.

Far from being disconcerted, this farm-yard goddess is uof pven ashamed (as indeed how could she be?) of her naked arms, and, coming up to him, rests them upon the upper rung of the entrance gate and surveys him calmly, if kindly.

What i(?an J/l? for yoi^?" shci asks, gently.'.-vv--, "*j! 11 •, "I think," says Geoffrey, slightly disconcerted by the sweet leisure of her gaze, "I have lost my way. I have been walking since sunrise, and I want you to tell me where I am." "You are at Mangle Farm," returns she. "That doesn't seem to help you much, does it?" "I confess it doesn't help me at all," he says. "Mangle Farm, I am sure, is the most attractive spot on earth, but it tells me nothing about latitude and longitude. Give me some further help." "Then tell me where you come from, and perhaps I may be able." She speaks softly, but quickly, as do all the Irish, and with a brogue musical but unmistakable. "I am staying at a shooting-lodge called Coolnagurtheen. Do yoa know where that is?" "Oh, of course," returns she, with a sudden accession of animation. "I have often seen it. That is where the young English gentleman is staying for the shooting." "Quite right. And I am the youftg English gentleman," says Geoffrey, lifting ids hat again by way of introduction. "Indeed, are you?" asks she, raising her pretty brows. I might have guessed it," she says, after a minute's survey of the tall gray-coated young man before her. "You are not like the others down here." "Am I not?" says he, lyipjbly,. ""Tell me my fault," "I will—when I find it," returns she, with an irrepressible glance, full of native but innocent coquetry, from her beautiful eyes.

At this moment one of the pigeons— a small, pretty thing, bronze-tinged— flies to her, and, resting on her shoulder, makes a tender cooing sound, mm! picks at her cheek reproachfully, as though imploring more corn!" "Would you bite me?" mu^nui^ she, fondly, as the bird flies off again alarmed at the presence of the tall stranger. "Every morning they torment me like this," she says, turning to Geoffrey, with a little pleasant, confidential nod. "He looked as if he wanted to eat you and I'm sure I dont wonder at it," says Geoffrey, making the addition to •his speech in a lower key. "And have you walked from Coolnagurtheen" this morning? Why, it is eight miles from this," says she, taking no notice of his last speech. "You could have had no breakfast." "Not yet but I suppose there must be a village near here, and an inn, and I want you to direct me how to get to it.

I :im giving you a great deal of trouble," remorsefully, "hut my boy knows nothing." "The village is two miles farther on. I think you ha'd better come in and breakfast hgre. Unclp will be very glad to see yon," she says, hospitably. "And you must be tired."

He hesitated. Ho i» tired, and hungry, too there is no denying it. Even as he hesitates, a girl coming out to the door-steps puts her hand over het eyes

There is. In the distance, imbedded in trees, lies ah extensive farmstead, and shouts pleasantly from war to net larger and more home-like than any 1*®. -1

1

has yet seen. Miss Mona, come to the tay will be "Now,then, cheer up, Paddy!" he says «old, an' the rashers all. spoiled, an* the tto Umbos: "yonder lies an oasis in our masther's callin' for re."

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THE TERRE HAUTE WEEKLY GAZETTfL

"Come, hurry^i' says Mona, turning to Geoffrey, with a light laugh that seems to spring ^rom her very heart. "Wouldyou havl the 'tay' get cold while yon areTniaJanffup your mind? I at least toust go.f -. **Then, thalgk you, and I shall go with yoa, if you wffl allow me," say a Geoffrey, hurriedly, as he sees her disappearing. "^flell your boy to go to the kitchen," says Mona, thoughtfully, and, Paddy being disposed of, she and Geoffrey go on to the ho*se* f. .VAOmf "I have no card but my name is Geoffrey Rodney," says the young man, turning to his companion. "And mine is Mona Scully," returns she, with the smile that seems part of her lips, and which already has engraven itself on Mr. Rodney's heart. "Now, I suppose, we know each other." They walk up two steps, and enter a small hall, and then he follows her into a room opening off it, in which breakfast lies prepared.

An old man, rugged but kindly-fea-tured, rises on his entrance, and gazes at him expectantly. Mona, going up to him, rests her hand upon his arm, and, indicating Geoffrey by a gesture, says, in a low tone: "He has lost his way.' He is tired, and I have asked him in to have some breakfast. He is the English gentleman who is living at Coolnagurtheen." "You're kindly welcome, sir," says the old man, bowing with the slow and heavy movement that belongs to the aged. There is dignity and warmth, however, in the salute, and Geoffrey accepts with pleasure the toil-worn hand his host presents to him a moment later. The breakfast is good, and, though composed of only country fare, is delicious to the young man, who has been walking since dawn, and whose appetite just now would have astonished those dwelling in crowded towns and living only on their excitements

Mona pours out the tea—which is excellent—and puts in the cream —which is a thing to dream of—with a liberal hand. She smiles at Geoffrey across the sugar-bowl, and chatters to him over the big bowl of flowers that lies in the centre of the table.

His host going to the window When breakfast is at an end, Geoffrey follows him and both look out upon the little garden before them that is so carefully and lovingly tended. "It is ^1 her doing," says the old man —"Mona's, I mean. She loves those flowers more than anything on earth, I think. Her mother was the same but she wasn't half the lass that Mona is. Never a mornin' in the cowld Winter but she goes out there to see if the frost hasn't killed some of$ 'em the night before." ... "There is hardly any taste so charming or so engrossing as that for flowers," says Geoffrey. "My mother and cousin do a great deal of that sort of thing when at home." "Ay, it looks pretty and gives the child something to do." There is a regretful ring in his tone that induces Geoffrey to ask tlie next question. "Does she—does Miss Scully find country life unsatisfying? Has she not lived here always?" "I^aw, no. sir," says the old man, with a loiul and hearty laugh. "I think if ye could sec the counthry girls round here, an' compare 'em with my Mona, you'd see that for yerself. She's as fine as the queen to them. Her mother, yoi* see, Was the parson's daughter dqwn here tip top she was, and purty as fairy, but mighty delicate looked as if a March wind would blow her into* heaven. Dan—he was a brother of mine, an' a solicitor Dublin. You've been there, belike?" "Yes, I stopped there for two or three days on my way down here. Well, and yoiir brother?" lie cannot to himself explain the interest he feels in this story. "Dan? He was a fine man, surely six feet in his stockirr', he was, au' eyes like a woman's. He come down here an' met her, an' she- married him.— Nothing would stop her, though the parson was fit to be tied about it. An' of course he was no match for her— father bein' only a bricklayer when he began life—but still 1 will say Dan was a fine man, an' one to think about an'' no two ways in him, an' that soft about the heart. He worshipped the ground she walked on anr four years after theif marriage she told me herself she* never had an ache in her heart since' she married him. That was fine telling sir, wasn't it? Four years, mind ye.-*-Why, when Mary was alive (my wife sir,) we had a shindy twioe a week, regiaf as clock-work. We wouldn't have known ourselves without it but, however, that's haytlier here noT there,'" says' Mr. Scully, pulling himself up short. "An' I asl yer pardon, sir, far pushing private matters on ye Bke this." 7 '7. "But you havo,interested me," says Geoffrey, seating himself on the broad sill of the window, as though preparing for along dissertation on matters still unknown. "Pray tell me how your brother and his lovely wife—who evidently was as wise and true as she was lovely—-got on."

"She went to live in Anthrim with her mother's sister. Later she got to Dublin, to her aunt there—another of the parson's daughters, who married the Provost in Thrinty^ a proud sort he was, mi' awful tirosome "with his Greeks an'his Romans, an' not the height of yer thumb," says Mr. Scully, with ineffable contempt. I went to Dublin one day about cattle, and called to see me niece an' she took to me. bless her, an' I brought her down here with me for change of air, for her cheeks were whiter than a fleece of wool, an' she has staid ever since. Dear soul! I hope she'll stay forever. She is welcome." "She must be a great comfort to you," says Geoffrey, from his heart. "She is that. More than I can say.— An' keeps things together, too. She is clever like her father, an' he was on the fair way to make a fortune. Ay, I always say it, law is the thing that pays in Ireland. A good sound fight sets them up. But I'm keeping you, sir, an' your gun is waitin' for ye. If you haven't had enough of me company by this time," with another jolly laugh, "I'll take ye down to afield hard by, an1 ....... ye where I saw a tine young covey yesternight." "I—I should like to say good-bye to .Miss Mona, aud thank her for all her goodness to me. before going," says the young man, rising somewhat slowly. a'Nay, you can say all that on your way back, an' get a half-sliot into the bargain," says old Scully, heartily.— "You'll hardly beat the potheen I can give ye." He winks knowingly, pats Rodney on the shoulder, and leads the way out of the house. Yet I think Geoffrey would willingly have bartered potheen, partridge, and a good deal more, for just one last glance at Mona's beautiful face before parting. Cheered, however, by the prospect that he may see her before night falls, he follows the farmer into the open air.

cnAPTKR HI.

It is ten days later. The air is growing brisker, the fiowers bear no new buds. More leaves are falling on the woodland paths, and the trees are throwing out their last bright autumn tints of red and brown and richest orange, that tell all too plainly of the death that lies before them.

It is mid-day, and Geoffrey, gun in hand, is idly stalking through the sloping wood that rises behind Mangle Farm. The shooting he has had Since his arrival in Ireland, though desultory —perhaps because of it—has proved delightful in his sight. Here coveys come upon one unawares, rising out of fields when least expected, and therefore when discovered possess all the novelty of a gigantic surprise. Now and then he receives kindly warning of birds seen "over-night" in some particular corner, and an offer to escort him to the scene of action without beat of drum. 7*As for instance, in the morning his man assails him with the news that Mickey Brian or Dinny Collins (he has grown quite familiar with the gentry round) "is without and would like to spake wid him. Need I remark that he has wisely hired his own particular attendant from among the gay aftd X^iye youths of Bantry? «ruW am

Whereupon he goes "without," which means to his own hall-door that always stands wide open, and there acknowledges the presence of Mickey or Dinny, as the case may be, with a gracious nod. Mickey instantly removes his 6aubeen and tells "his honor" (regardless of the fact that his honor can tell this for himself) that "it is a gran' fine day," which as a rule is the first thing an Irish person will always say on greeting you, as though full of thankfulness to the powers above, in that sweet weather has been given.

Ill-luck has attended his efforts today, or else his thoughts have been wandering in the land where love holds sway, because he is empty handed. The bonnie brown bird has escaped him, and no gift is near to lay ait Mona's shrine.

As he reaches the broad stream that divides him from tho land he would reach, lie pauses and tries to think of any decent excuse that may enable him to walk with a bold front up to the cottage door. But no such excuse presents itself. Memory proves false. It refuses to assist himi. He is almost in despair.

He tries to persuade himself that there is nothing strange or uncommon in calling upon Wednesday to inquire with anxious solicitude about the health of a young woman whom he had seen happy and robust on Tuesday. But the trial is not successful, and he is almost on the point of flinging up the argument and jgoing home again, when his eye lights upon a fernr small bat rare, and very beautiful, that, growing on a high rock far above im, overhangs the stream.

It is a fern for which Mona has long been wishing. Ohl happy thought! She has expressed for it the keenest admiration. Oh! blissful remembrance! Shft has not one-like it in all her collection. Oh! certainly full of rapture!

Now will he seize this blessed opportunity, and, laden with the spoils of war, approach her dwelling (already she is "she,") and triumphantly, albeit humbly, lay the fern at her feet, and so perchance gain the right to bask for a few minutes in the sunshine of her presence.

Mr. Rodney's face being of that rare kind that is as tender as it is manly, and by right of its 'beauty demands confidence, the old man (who dearly loves his own voice) is encouraged to proceed. "They didn't get on for long," he says, mournfully—and what voice is so full of melancholy as the Irish voice when it sinks into sadness? "When the little one—Mona^-was barely Ave years old, they went to'ground Mount Jerome got them. Fever it was and it carried 'em both off just while ye'dhave time to,look round ye* Poor souls, they want to the blessed land together. Perhaps the Holy Virgin knew they would have got on badly without each other __ anywhere climbing the slimy rock that holds Hie "And the child—Miss Mona?" asks desi^ed treasare, it can be gained, bttt nJZLtr with a lazv desire to keetf his boots dnr. Geoffrey, .•*

A branch of a tree overspreading the water catches his attention. It is not strong, but it sujggests itself as a means to the desired end. It is indeed slim to a fault, and unsatisfactory to an alarming degree, but it must do, and Geoffrey springs himself up to it, tries it first, and then standing boldly upon it, leans over towards the spot where the fern can be seen. ..

It is rather beyond his reach, but he is determined not to be outdone. Of course, by stepping into the waiter, and

'ItiiSl

he clings to his present position, regardless of the fact that bruised flesh (if nothing worse) would probably be the result of his dhr|ng.

He has stooped over very much indeed. His hand is on the fern he has safely, carefully extracted it, roots and all (one would think I was speaking of a tooth! but this is by the way), from its native home, when cr-r-k goes something the branch on which he rests betrays him, and smashing hurls him head downwards into the swift but shallow stream below.

A very charming vision clad in Oxford shirting, and with a great white hat tied beneath her rounded chin with blue ribbons—something in the style of a Sir Joshua Reynolds—emerges from among the low-lying firs at this moment Having watched the (seemingly) light catastrophe from afar, and being apparently amused by it, she now gives way.to unmistakable mirth and laughs aloud. When Mona laughs, she does it with all her heart, the correct method of suppressing all emotion, be it of joy or sorrow—regarding it as a recreation permitted only to the vulgar—being as yet unlearned by her. Therefore her expression of merriment rings gayly and unchecked through the old wood.

But presently, seeing the author of her mirth does not rise from his watery resting-place, her smile fades, a little frightened look creeps into her eyes, and, hastening forward, she reaches the bank of the stream and gazes into it. Rodney is lying face downwards in the water, his head having come with some force against the sharp edge of a stone against which it is now resting.

Mona turns deadly pale, and then instinctively loosening the strings of her hat flings it from her. A touch of determination settles upon her lips, so prone to laughter at other times. Sitting on the bank, she draws off her shoes and stockings, and with the help of an alder that droops to the river's brim, lowers herself into the water.

The stream, though insignificant, is swift. Placing her strong young arms, that are rounded and fair a3 those of any court diune, beneath Rodney, she lifts him, and, by a supreme effort, and by right of her fresh youth and perfect health, draws him and herself to land.

In a minute or two the whole affair proves itself a very small tiling indeed, with little that can be tended .tragical about it. Geoffrey comes slowly back to life, and in the coming breathes her name. Once again he is trying to reach the distant fern once again it eludes his grasp. He has it no, he hasn't yes, he has it. Then at last he wakes to the fact that he has indeed got it in earnest, and that the blood is flowing from a slight, wound in the back of his head, which is being stanched by tender lingers, and that he himself is lying in Mona's arms.

He sighs, and looks straight into the lovely frightened eyes bending over him. Then the color comes with a sodden rush back into his cheeks as he tells himself she will look upon him is nothing less than a "poor creature" to lose consciousness and behave like a silly girl for so slight a cause. And something he feels. Above and beond everything is a sense of utter )piness. such as he has never known ore, a thrill of rapture that has in it something of peace, and that eoines from the touch of the little brown- hand that rests so lightly on his head. "Do not stir. Your head is badly cutr an'it bleeds still," says Mona, with a shudder. "I can't stop it. Cto, what shall I do?" "Who got me out of the water?" asks he, lazily, pretending (hypocrite that he is) to be still overcome with weakness. "And when did you come?" "Just now," returns she, with some hesitation, and a rich accession of coloring, that renders her even prettier than she was a moment since. Because "From every blush that

yoi na

kindles in

her

any one

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ssfli®®fs

StflllSIt®

V.

mMiiis

olMeks,

Ten thousand little loves and graces spring." Her confusion, however, and the fact that 110 one else is near, betrays the secret she fain would hide. "Was it you," asks he, raising himself on his elbow to regard her earnestly, though very loth to quit the spot where late ne has been tenant. "You?

oh,

Mona!" "Yes, it was I," she says. shouldn't I? Is it to see you drown, would? I—I didn't want you to find it out but,"—quickly—'"I would do the same for

'And why

at

any

time. You

know that." "I am sure you wouldj" says Geoffrey, who has risen to his feet and has taken her hand. "Nevertheless, though, as you say, I am but one in the crowd, and, or course, nothing to you, 1 am very glad you did it for me."

With a little touch of willfaftDess, pride, she withdraws her hand. I dare say," she says, carelessly, purposely mistaking his meaning "it must have been cold lying there." "There are things that chill one more than water," returns he, slightly offended by her tone. "You are all wet. Do go home and change your clothes," says Mona, who is stifl sitting on the grass with her gown spread carefully around her. "Or perhaps"—reluctantly—"it will be better for you to go to the farm, where Bridget will look after you." "Thank you so I shall, if yoa will come with me." "Don't mind me," says Miss Scully, hastily. "I shall follow you by and by." "By and by will suit me down to the ground," declares he, easily. "The day is fortunately warm damp clothes are an advantage rather than otherwise."

Silence1. Mona taps the mound beside her with impatient fingers, her mind being evidently great with thought.

I really wish,"she says, "you would do what I say. farm, and—stay there." "Well, come with me, and 111 stay till you turn me out." "I can't," faintly. "Why not?" in a surprised tone. "Because—I prefer sUying here." "Oh! if you mean by that you to get rid of me. you might have said so long ago, without all this hinting." says Mr. Rodney, huffily., preparing to beat an indignant retreat. "I didn't mean that, and I never ily "and tf

hint" exclaims M01 you insist on the slain to you what I

.'f

to Keep seciev, juu "You are hurt!" interrupts he, with* passionate remorse. "I see it ail now. Stepping into that hateful stream to save me, vou injured yourself severely. You are in pam—you suffer whilst I

"I am in no pain," says Mona, crimson with shame and mortification. "You mistake everything. I have not even a* scratch on me ana—I have no shoes orv stockings on me either, if you must know all!" .She turns from him wrathfully and Geoffrey, disgusted with himself, steps back and makes no reply. "There, do go away!" says this wood-' land goddess. "I am sick of you and your stupidity." "I am sure I don*t wonder," saya Geoffrey, very humbly. "I beg your pardon a thousand times and—goodbye. Miss Mona."

She turns involuntarily, through the innate courtesy that belongs to her race, to return his parting salutation, and. looking at him, sees a tiny spot of blood trickling down his forehead from the wound received awhile since.

On the instant all is forgotten—chan, shame, shoes and stockings, everything! Springing to her little naked feet, she goes U) him, and, raising her hand, presses her handkerchief against the ugly stain. "It lias broken out again," she says, nervously. "I am sure—I am certainit is a worse wound than you imagine. Ah! do go home, and get it dressed." "But I shouldn't like any one to touch, it elcept you," says Mr. Bodney, truth-, fully. "Even now. as your fingers press it, I feel relief." "Do you?" asks Mona, earnestly. «. "Honestly, I do." "Then just turn your back for one moment," says Mona, simply, "and. when my shoes and stockings are on I'll

Son't

home with you an' bathe it. Now, look round, for your life!" "Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing?" quotes Mr. Rodney, and Mona, having got into her shoes, she tells him he is at liberty to follow her across the rustic bridge lower down that leads from the wood into Mangle Farm. "You have spoiled your gown on my

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account," says Geoffrey, surveying her remorsefully "and such a pretty gown,, too. I donrt think I ever saw you look-^i ing sweeter than you look to-day., An% now your dress is ruined, and it is alL my fault." "How dare you find a defect in my

t?

appearance?" says Mona, with her old,, gay laugh. "You compel me to re tali-v, ate. Just look at yourself. Did you' ever see such a regular pickle as you gre?"

In truth he is. So yrheh he has ac-j*l knOwIedged the fact, they both laugh with thenappy enjoyment of youth, at* their own discomfiture, and go back toM the cottage good mends once more. On3' the middle of the rnstic bridge beforet mentioned lie stops her, to say unex-^' pectedly: i-if-"Do you know by what name I shalll always call you in my thoughts?" U'

To whrch she answers, "No. How should I? But tell me." 'Bonnie Lesley the poet says of her what I think of you." A "And what do you think of me?" She, has grown a little pale, but her eyeshaver not left his. "Tb see her is to love her,

Ij And love bat her forever: 11, Vbr nature made her what she U, And ne'er made ato anlther," quotes Geoffrey, in a low tone, that has something in it almost startling, so full is it of deep 1 isthi

and earnest feeling.

Mona is the first to recover herself. "That is a pretty verse," she says, quietly. "But I do not know the poem. I should like to read it."

Her tone, gentle but dignified, steadies him. "1 have the book that contains it at,: Coolnagurtheen," he says, somewhat* subdued. "Shall I bring it to you?" "Yes. You may bring it to me—to-** morrow," returns she, with the faintest hesitation, which but enhances the, value of the permission, whereon hist heart once more knows uope and coutent.

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[The remaining chapters of this romftnte will be found in phe Saturdsy issues of the GAZETTE. Back numbers can be obtained at this office.] V1*-

f- 60D BLESS THE WOMEN. The best interests of humanity depend on the good health of our women folks. Women's best friend for relieving the painful weaknesses with which so many lire afflioted, and as a general family medicine for warding off bilious attacks and curing stomach, liver and kidney complaints, is Brown's Iron Bitters. It contains just such lifegiving properties as are needed in female diseases, and is superior to all other preparations as a true medicinal tonic, for giving health, strength and vigor to every part of the body. If you are weak, nervous and debilitated, or suffer frotn dyspepsia, Brown's Iron Bitters will surel| Cure you.

Guijcx&BBRBY, COOK & BKU* Wholesale dealers.

Mr. West, the British minister at Washington, intends shortly to present the city of Philadelphia a portrait of his ancestor, Lord De La Ware, for whom the state of Delaware was named.

Dom Pedro, the nice, white-haired old man, whose face and figure became so familiar during the Centennial, is the subject oi some rery naughty stories in the Brazilian papers of recent date.

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JUDGE MEN BY TH(IR WORKS-" A man is judged in this life by his works, and in this connection it may not be inopportune to add, that Dr. Swayae has accomplished more good through the medium of his Ointment for fkin diseases. than has the entire school of physicians combined. "It's an ill wiod that blows nobody good." What the pbvsicians I have lost Dr. Bwayne has' gained1^,"

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There are times in every one's life .when energy fails and a miserable feeling comes over them, mistaken few laziness, Danger lu.ks in these symptoms, mt they arise from diseased organs. Parker's .. Ginger Tonie wiil restore perfect activity to the stomach, liver and kidneys, parity the Mood, and renew your lease ot health and comfort.—[Advocate. ft-tru

Cabtkb's Little Liver Pills must not be confounded with common Csthaitic or Purgative Pills, as they are entirely un like them in every respect. will prove their superiority. v,t" istrt *1 ,* -r?!- tM »j n*r&

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