Evening Star Newspaper, January 13, 1883, Page 3

GOME NEW TOILETS—THE GRETCHEN—PARIS DINNER DRESSES—A POWDER PUFF, ETC. Lace (which is worn more than ever) and flowers are the two things which make demi- tollet dresses look elegant and refined. Flow- ers are put on in half-garlands and delicate clusters over both skirt and boaite. A Prerry Costeme for young ladies is called the Gretchen tuaic, made of terra-cotta cash- mere, with simple trimmings. It makes a unique house dress. The feature of the Gretchen tunic Js to have it caught high on the right side by velvet ribbons, trom suspendet. A young lady, with all the ideas of this costume carried out, ‘presents a quaint and characteristic appearane vENT ball dress is of yelvet brocade and satin of the same hue, over pat front of silver brocede. The design exhibited in be deseribed In mere words. i& reception dress made for a lady is ef ottoman silk, w rial Ince and wirie jet pa The front of the skirt is taid in p | morn and sf a pla sh edises the back draper: « < filled in with lace and ety the Powder Puff is a pretty, odd dress of white. The bodice is short waisted, with skirt full and gathered to it and made to look as much like the upper pa puit as 7 of sv puff dress ¢ Letrezs From Parts dresses are somethi eostame and the dressy nor too but flowers are sik with mounting of ligh or ivory. This fan is of n size: the immense fan being reserved for theater and ballroom. and stockins . if not exactly matched to it, at least with the dress. D Fie Gathers fashion and frou frou dresses, with many rust- are coming back Into ling flounces, athered and p are amon; the latest Pa a novelties intended for young ladies. These have groz grain or ot- toman silk skirts, made with ten gathered flounces on the front and sides, and oniy four below the drapery of the back; these fl . are cut into leaf points two or three inches deep, that are notched on the edges, ana give the effect of rove petals. especially when made of pale rose-tinted gros grain. The upper part of each flonnce is covered with white lace that is gathered in with the silk flounee, and ex- tends to the top of the notched leaf point. Tue doubie-breasted Prince Albert coats which ladies wear this winter follow the lines of the garment of the same nathe that gentlemen wear, and are extremely masculine in appear- ance, althouch they fit the ire more closely than coats that husbands and brothers don on seml-ceremonious oceasions. Ladies do not confiae themscives to black cloth. as does the sterner sex: dark green, bine, and even ofthe darker shades of terra-cotia are f and even searf-pin is worn dding much to ti in the constant striving after 1 out of the common, la- stake of wearing some- and on ed on theedzes, Hitte dies often ma’ thing undeco: A Very Haixpsome EVENING Dress is of pale biue ottoman. trimmed with embroidery in rib- bon and cheniile and Oriental lace. The toot of the dress, train and front, is edged with five narrow hered floune Above these, in front, is atablier of alternate flounces of lace and embre . with bands of embroidery fram- ing it. aixque is of satin, sharply pointed back and front, {ein shirred plastron In front. re neck almost filled In with lace and lace on either side of the plastron. Full pan- edged with lace and e:nbroidery are on the hips and lose themselves in the full soft satin drapery at the back. A jabot of lace Is on the Fight side of this drapery: on the left it 1s caught plainly to tl e skirt. Elvow sleeves, with fall frill of lace and ribbon bow. Beryl McCloskey an From the Chicago Tribune. “A sad Christmas indeed.” It was a pretty face, albeit stained with tears and weary with watching, that was raised from the snowy-white piliow that lay upon one end ot the fautenil a3 Beryl McCloskey spoke these words. And just then, as if to mock her repin- ing, a great gust of wind beat the big rain- drops against the window-panes more fiercely than ever. ard the bare, vlack limbs of the old oak that stood near the veranda of Brierton Villa swept through the air with a noise that was almost human in its mournfulness, As the girl sat there, the firelight just touch- ing the disordered masses of bronzed hair, and bringing into strong relief, with its fitful flashes. the pale, sad face and slender form, the French clock on the mantel struck eleven. Beryl knew by this that it was nearly five @'’clock. “I wonder if there is another girl In all the Wide, wide world as miserable as [ am?” she ex- claimed. who have every thing to make me happy—health, a pleasant home. loving Parents and every thing that money can pur- chase! And yet lam miserable; oh, so miser- Paasy Perkins. “You can aever be happy, my darling.” said Mrs. McCloskey, who had stepped quietly into the room through a portiere, “until you strive to make other lives brighter. other hearts glad. It ts only when we have brought sunshine into homes that have been bleak and dreary and desolate tor the want of it—only when we have seen eyes that were dimmed with tears spark- lng with laughter—that the true meaning of Iness comes to us, and it is a revelation in- = “You are right, mother,” said Beryl, the look of digcontent leaving her face even a3 shespoke, “and your words have tauzht me a lesson that I trust will not soon be forgotten"—and rising from the fauteuil she stepped to the dressing- ¢ase and bezan working the powder-puff. “Why, where are you going, my d:tilag?” asked Mrs. McCloskey, as Beryl began to ex- hibit unequivocal symptoms of getting dressed. “To-morrow you will know all,” was the re- ply, and after turning the hands of the French lock back seven hours, the mother returned to the boudoir. = = = In a little cottage which stood at_the foot of Huckleberry Hill lived the widow P-rkins and her only child, a daushter. Pansy Perkins, al- though born to struggle with poverty, was en- dowed witha beauty of face and figure such as Farely falls to the lot of any girl. Having been eighteen years old for three consecutive sum- mets, she was just budding into womanhood— crossing the boundary line, upon one side of which stands Youth, with cheeks and laughing eyes, and on the other Maturity, with all its mellowed charms and ripened graces, Bat as Pansy Perkins sat by the fireside beneath her mother’s humble roof this Christmas Eve tears of sorrow and disappointment were cours- ing down her pretty cheeks, and around the riant mouth that the buckwheat cakes knew so weil there was an expression of pain—a sad, can’t-find-mny-chewing-gum look, which told too plainly of a great grief that had settled on her Young soul. Preseatly there was a knock at the door, and answered it. The visitor was Beryl McCloskey, the heiress ot Brierton Villa. “Thave come to see you to-night, Pansy,” who is almost alone in the world Christmas must bring with it many thoughts and recollections that are far from pleasant.” “That is true,” replied Pansy. ego last Christmas [ broke my bustle.” know that, hich an almoner’s baz is | ede, | * coniec- she raid, “because it seemed to me that to'a “Two years li down while skating and “And 8,” sald Beryl. scarcely heeding the in- ferruption, “I resolved that one Christmas at Jeast should be to you a tint of happiness, and that Is why Ihave come here to-night. You , apart from my father’s fortune, I am BY THE AUTHOR OF “PRYT. FREY,” ETC. To any one coming direct from all the luxury and beauty of the old court above, naturally this little cottaze room looks small and poverty- stricken.yet there is a pathetic tendernessabout it, too, bora of a woman's hand—a touch of gentle reiinement that shows itself in the masses of old world flowers, carelessly and artistically pnt together, that adorn the one table and the | two brackets, filling all the tiny apart:nent with | their subtle perfume. The windows, opening to the ground, are | thrown wide open. Outside, the garden lies | panting in the sunshine. There is the sad low- ing as of many cows in the far distance. Allthe land lies quivering fi A faint uscless little breeze comes |: toe the room, ruffling the ave drawn closely to- to exclude ," “MRS. GEOF- seworthy de- rary, is look- He } dines, | rather v from town, whe Now it The host is at ble young man is It is therefore with a net f rapt glatice fall of ure, and a no sith « lief, that Mr. > step upon the gravel out quickly r. it is—'t must be—Monica. to the reseue! it Y inquiringly around. her clanee fails upon the strange young ters from expectation to extreme sar- not confusid or embarrassment of any kind, but simple, honest surprise, visitors the cottage being few and far between, and asa n rt, surprise that outdoes ; Fora full half ininute she go stands with the curtain held back in either hand, and then she advance he i. y snits wonderfully the sh above it with Its frame of hair, so like the coior of an unripe Her ‘eyes are blue as the heavens her iouth, a trifle large, perhaps, rious, and very sweet. One cannot “but believe Inu: possible to her; one cannot also but belie a seif-communion ad a solemn joy. let_me make you eorze Norwood,” says t brown nut. % ae “Come here, Monica, and known to your cousin, Gi her father, very proudly. The pride is all con- centrated in his dauzhter. In his soul he deems a king would be honored by such an introduc- tion. At this she comes closer and places a small, slim hand in her cousin’s. “Tshould have known, of course,” she says, as though following out a certain train of thought. ‘I heard you had come to the court.” “You must be good friends with him, Mon- ys Mr. Norwood nervously.“ He is your you know—except Juila.” he is smiling now—* we shall be friends, of course!” Then more directly to the man who is still holding her hand, as though he has actually forgotten it is in his possession. As my father likes you, it follows that I shall like you too.” - Ah!" says George Norwood, with an an- swering smile that renders his face quite beaut ful. “ then Towe your father a debt of gratitude I shall not easily repay.” Mr. Norwood has been getting nearer and nearer to the door by fine degrees. Monica, without seeming to notice this, says gently : o back to your books, papa. I will take care of—of—m usin.” At this Mr. Norwood beats a thankful retreat, lea the two young p “Why did you hesitate just now suddeal: ” asks George She has seated herszif on a very an- cient soia, and is regarding him thoughtfully. “When 2” “Over my name.” “Because I didn’t quite know what to call yon. Your being sin does not prevent your being a perfect stranger—and a stranger, T suppose, ouzht to be called Mr. Norwood.” f you call me that I shail be unhappy for- says George Norwood. “Besides, you you know, because [ shall certainly never call you anything but Monica. “Oh! at that rate!” says she, smiling again. Presentiy, as he stands upon the hearth-rug, he Lifts his eyes and fastens them upon a por- trait that hangs above the chimneypiece “What a charming face!” he says. plexion—and eyes!” “Yes, it is lovely! It is my grandmother. Don’t you think the mouth and nose like pa- pa’s “The very image!” says George Norwood. He doesn’t think It a bit, but seeing she plainly ex- pects him to say it, lie does his duty like a man. “It isa perfect face! But the eyes—they are your own, surely. “Are they? Do you know never look at that picture without f¢ bitter!” She laughs as she says this in way that precludes the idea that acrimony of any sort could belong to her. “It was the only thing my grandfather left papa. He made a particular point of it in his will, that it should be given to him. When he had carefully cut him off to a shilling, he be- stowed upon him an oi!-painting; wasn't it mu- nificent? The eldest son's portion to be a mere portrait! while the sec nd and third son’s chil- dren should inherit aii!” Then, as remem- brance comes to her, she reddenas and grows for the first time confused. “I beg your par- don,” she says softly; “I had forgotten you were the child of the second son.” “Don't mind about that.” says Norwood. my eyes, too, it was a most iniquitous will “Papa was very glad to get this portrait of his mother,” says Monica hastily. ‘He adored her. She did all she knew to make grandfather destroy his tirst will, and leave everything, as was only right, to my father. She gained her point, too, but when she died. he forgot his promise and everything, and betrayed the dead, as you can see.” She makes a mourntul ges- ture toward the room that so painfully betrays their poverty. ‘What a ‘In “My father as the second son was badly treated, too,” says Norwood, anxious, he hardly knows why, to create a feeling of sympathy be- tween them. “Not so badly. By leaving the property to you and Julla, the daughter of his third son, on condition you marry each other, he provided for both the children of the younger sons. For me he did nothing. He never forgave papa’s marriage. You will marry Julia, ot course She is regarding him seriously, and he laughs a little and colors beneath her gaze. “I dare say,” he sayslightly. “It would seem a pity to throw away ten thousand a year; and if I refuse, she gets all, and I amin the cold. As 1 am heart-whole, { may as well think about it; that Is, if she will have the goodness to accept me.” “She will,” says Monica, with acertain mean- ing in hertone. “If she refused she would be left penniless too, it would all goto you,and she is fond of ——” she pauses. ‘I dare say you on very well together,” she continues hasti- ly. “And as you are heart-whole, as you gay, it really cannot much matter.” ‘What can’t matter: ‘Your marrying for money.” “And ff I was not quite free—if my heart owned another tie—how then?” asks he, with an anxiety to know her opinion that astonishes even himeelf. “Then it would be disgraceful of you, and contemptible,” returned she seriously. but with- out haste. Perhaps she thinks she has spoken too severely, because presently she smiles up at him very softly and kindly. And then, after a Uttle bit, he says good-bye to her, and goes out into the gleaming sunshine, and all’ the way up to the grand old Court (that may. or may not, be his as his will dictates), and carries into it,not the face of the cousin who reigns there, aad whom it is expedient he should marry, but a soit vision glad with eyes that shine like sap- phires, and sunburnt hair, anda smile grave and ayeet and full of heavenly tenderness. * Itisa month later. Thirty days—as cruelly short as days will ever be where happiness Telzns supreme—haye taken to themselves wings and flown away. It is now high noon; already the day to wane. The god of light grows weary; “’ Nature halts.” The streamletsare running wea- rily, as though fatigued with the exertions of the fay, now almost past. me i es! earth’s siesta—even the flags in his deep and dull monotony. All the morning Fich In my own right, and you must not refuse | George Norwood has tolled assiduously after my gift, which you will find in this little | his cousin at the Court; has followed from green- Always be kind to your mother, | houses to conservatories, from conservatories to to make her lite it orchards, the woman he has been taught he ‘ lear must marry, if he wishes to k Be peeece fellowship with the world to whlen haa 80 sweetly as she | long known. Now, when evening is de- scending he has escaped from his duty, and has flung himself with deepest, intensest tellef at the feet of the woman he ought not to marry, with whom indeed marriage will mean social He met her half an hour ago in this little shadowy valley, where the dying sunbeams are playing at hiae and seek among the branches of the trees, and where a tiny rivulet fs lisping and stammering as it runs lazily oyer its pebbles. Monica, having thrown aside her huge white hat. Is sitting on n little mound, with her back against a beech tree. She has taken her kneea into her embrace, and just now is looking at her cousin from under heavily lashed lids, that seem barely able to support themselves, solang- uorous is the hour, and so contented her spirit. Her companion ‘can scarcely be sald to be looking as free from care as she is; there Isa slight suspicion of weariness in his eyes, his manner is somewhat tinged with a depression very foreign to it, which as a rule is ot the de- bonnaire order. “Anything the matter with you?” asks Monica at last. “Yes, any amount of things.” “Weil. 9 on—say thei all over—it will do 8 she, sympathetically. 1s—at least, not for many rea- It wouid bore you; it wouldn't cure my "with a half laugh, “my Kind difficult to put into worries are of speech.” “That means they are nothing but fancies.” “Does it?” Then leaning back and placing his is behind his head, he turns eyes slowly hers. * I had never come down here,” he sa: Vit!” cries she . Has Julia proved unkind? or is it kind—. Won't she mary you? Or will she?” Mr. Norwood, grufily. Tuli Then why are you sorry you came to Court?” Norwood at this reza der,” he says, in a curi really don’t kno complished coquette!” “Don't know her large e ing at hin as awakes within his breast the dee contempt. How even one short moment. sie says Ina little disniiled toue, “requires, I believe, practice. There is nobody down here except the rector and Sir John Frere.” “sir Jobu Fre: “oy ds her fixedly. “I won- tone, “whether you om asks Monica, opening fullest, and took. To be a coquette,” He is toothless and seventy-five. The rector is hairless and sixty-one!” With this she very p upon him. “Thank . Norwood de- voutly. an rd both these old men—in spite of their abb: spite of the fact that he has never seen m. “I your pardon very humbly,” he 's, alter a pause full of eloquence. say ‘No reply “Monica—speak to me.” “Twi tl not,” says Monica, giving herself the ct ut you are speaking, declares he, “I'm awfully sorry I said that, because it was as absurd as it was unpardonable.” “As you acknowledge it to be unpardonable, you cai't well look for my forgiveness.” I do,” exclaims he boldly. at once [am not a coquette.” ly yoware not. You are an ang— You are all you ought to be. You are—” “That will do.” says Miss Monica, with a mis- chievous glance: “you will overdo it, if you go on any further. any more. morning. “Lounging after Sulla.” “Happy wan! I do so love that old Court, and I suppose she took you through the gar- dens. If only my grandfather had behaved properly, aud left it to papa! Instead of which here we are. playing second where we should first.” “Well, It’s nearly as bad for me,” says the oung man moodily: “I was brought up in the lief that, as your father was not in it, I was to be the heir, And sce now where I am.” “You will be all right when you marry Julia,” says Monica with the ndliest encourazement. But this encouragement falls through. “Oh! [dare s 3 Mr. Norwood ungrate- fully. and ‘h Increasing gloom. ut you can’t be badly off. You must have money how, tov,” says his cousin with a swift glance at his clothes, which are irreproachable. “Not enough to keep nie decently. My mother left me £700 a year.’ “Seven hundred a year!” says Miss Norwood verely. I think no you an could possibly require more than that. You ha’ to think of—no other expenses dapatiter to dress and keep.” Tell me what you were doing all the says George Norwood apologetically. 1 won't be twenty-six until next inonth.” “I was thinking of papa—if he had £700 a jow happy we should both be.” —you would instantly want more.” “Lam sure not. That would give him all he requires—‘‘a house full of books and a garden of flowers.” She makes her quotation with a sweet wistful smile that goes to his heart. “And you—what would it give you?” he asks earnestly. “Me! Oh, I should be happy enough in his happiness,” replies sie lightly. “The garden of flowers,” you see, would be as much mine as hia. ‘Now,’ she says with a little irrepressible h “he hasn't even enough money to buy some of the books in whieh his soul deilghts.” “What are they: he eagerly, too eagerly! She raises her soft eyes to his; there is gratitude in them, but stern resolve toa “No, no,” she says “Remember what you said @ moment since- ur income Is not sufficient for yourself. You shall not waste it upon us.” “I don’t think it is quite a civil thing to re. member every word @ fellow says,” returns George reproachfally. “Well, we won't go into that,” replies she quickly.’ Then as though some hidden force compels her to return to the subject, she says, “Tell me how you get on with Juli: “Very well,” impatiently. “She will look all that is satisfactory at the head of one’s table. There fs consolation, no doubt. in that thought as,” bitterly, “I suppose I must marry her.” “Oh, why say must?” gently, and with a glance at him from under her long lashes. “It is not a hardship, surely?” “Perhaps I shouldn't have thought it so a month ago.” “She is young, handsome; that is all one re- quires, is it not?” “Not quite! There is something else, I think —many other things; but above and beyond all, the essential grace that makes life—that is, mar- ried life—sweet; I mean s . “She hardly knows you yet,” says Monica, deep but suppressed pity in lier eyes. “By and by it may be different.” Knowledge of Julia makes her confess to her secret soul that small hope for him lies ita nearer acquaintance with the cousin he needs inust marry. “1p six months more it must all be settled,” says the young man restlessly. “Julia up to that time has everything. It will then depend upon me whether she will still have everything or only half.” “You are sure she will accept you ?” “Tam afraid—I mean,” coloring hotly at his mistake, ‘I think she will do me the honor to be my wife.” “You think rightly. She will not resign the property. Only yesterday she told me she could not live without it. In six months, then, she oe Pie have everything, and—you into the in” Almost as these last words escape her she repents them, and growing pale to her very lips, turns her head astde and becomes painfully anxious about an insignificant tear that a strag- gling briar has created in her gown. “I am not so sure of that,” says Norwood un- steadily. ‘Monica look at me. Nay, you must,” trying to compel her to return his gaze, which had grown impassioned. He has taken one of her hands in his, and is trying to draw her nearer to him. “Release my hand,” she says in a low tone, yet with so much authority that he at once obeys her. ‘There is a strange flash in her beauti- ful eyes that warns him to darenothing farther, and yet makes his pulses throb madly. What a strange proud glance it is; and yet what grief, what anguish {t contains. “Lam tired,” says the girl wearily, “I will go home—yes, you may come with me; but for the future”—she pauses and resolutely, but with evident difficulty, forces herself to look at him —‘for the tuture you must promise me never again to forget—’ “I promise ie faithfully,” interrupts he quickly, “I shall never forget.’ She sighs. Presently, turning to her almost as they Teach the cottage, he says, ‘Are you going to the ball at the Grange to-morrow even- iD “No.” “But you told me you were asked.” “So I ‘as. I am not going, nevertheless.” There {is terrible disappointment in ou must know,” she gently, ecause T have not got ‘3 gown good “it is. enough.” “That dress you wore at the Court last evening—" “Is a fossil—almost an heirloom. The whole county knows ‘i t one sit by heart by this time. No! in. forbids my exhibiting myeelt in it uae "you asked your father—” Tshould have oneat once—at the expense of his even duller than usual for 9 month after- . He would give me ev: he sessed, would probably sell some er is rent pt whether’ you are an’ac- | And now don’t let us ‘quarrel ; I. 1 conld hardly haye that, you know,” | I mean, their names?” asks | two. Do you think I should eajqy those two hours, knowing that? What purgatory they would mean.” \ ’ “They would, indeed!” he says reverently, gazing at her fair, lovirg face with u admiration, He does her full justice. and un- derstands perfectly the loyal affection that could find no happiness ina pieasyfe secured at the expense of a beloved object. Then he wonders why Julia, who has more njoney at her com mand than she quite knows what to do with, has had no thought for the poor little couein in the cottage; and then I am atraid he.thinks bitter thoughts of the woman he ought to marry. i ‘®ou must come to see me the day after the ball and tell me all about it,’ she says lightly. “Second-hand to hear of it will be better than nothing.” “Yes, [ will come,” he says, absently—but it 1s plain his thoughts are foaming, and that he is thinking of something far removed from the soft evening scene that surrounds him. . * * * . * The morrow passes; the day dies, Night comes on apace and covers everything. At the Grange the tiddles_are sounding, bright forms are moving to and fro; the air is heavy with the breath of dying flowers. It is 11 o'clock, and the ball ts well begun; the music grows sweeter, fainter; fans are waving gently. Down in the cottage a girl fs standing in a white gown at one of the open windows, and is gazing eagerly and with sad straining eyes at certain lights that two miles away can be seen i distinctly through the still haze of the summer night. Yes, he is there, of course; and happy and re- gardless of everything but the moment. It is most natural, is it not? What is there else for him to think of? She herself, how dearly she would like to be there too! She glances at her gown and tells herself that almost she might | have gone—and then she shrinks within herself, and refuses to confess even to her own heart that it would have been agony to her to have appeared badly dressed before—before—oh! many people! She sighs impatiently, and the tears gather in her eyes, and blot out the lights shining gay! 8o far away; they blot out, too, a dark figu that. advancing rapidly through the few shrubs, enters th® secoud open window and, crossing the room, is at her side before she has time to | recognize him. It is George Norwood, of conrse—a little flushed from his run, and with his hair slizhtly rumed, and with the gladdest light possible in his handsome eyes. Monica, moving backward. involuntarily the curtain with ene hand and stares at | him almost afiirightedly. Her attitude reminds him of that happy moment when first he saw her, Before he lias time to speak she recovers hereelf and says with a poor attempt at cold- ness: What has brought you here?” “You know.” replies he calmly; “an over- | powering desire to see you—to hear your voice again. Your face was in evory corner smiling at me—your yoice was clearer than the band, and called me incessantly. 1 have come!” He sinks into a chair with all tne air of a man who intends to make it his resting-place for the remainder of the evening. “Where is Julia?” asks she, reproof in her voice. unmistakable gladness in her great gleaming eyes. She has gota heavy spray of scarlet geranium in the bosom of her white gown. It rises and falls nervously, as she stands before him, trying vainly to be stern and angry. “I don’t know—I don’t care. Dancing, I suppose.” “Go back to her. Go back to her at once “T won't,” says Mr. Norwood. “ But I desire you,” exclaims she with a little stamp of her foot. “Of course, if you tarn me ont, I shall have to go,” says George Norwood, without showing e faintest symptom of an intention to depart: “but I certainly shan’t go to Julia—lI’ve had enough of Julia. Monica’s breath comes a little quickly; she lifts her hand to her soft rounded throat. “You ought to be with the woman you mean. to marry,” she says slowly. *Lentirely agree with you,” says Norwood | with the utmost vivacity. “But that wouldn’t drive me back totheGrange. dshailnevermarry Juli I won't have you here. You don't know what you’ are saying,” says | Moniea, shrinking still rarther from him. | “I do. Quite well. J ouzht to have sald it | before, but_to-night I have made up my mind. If you refuse me I shall never marry any | woman—never! My darling, don’t shrink from me; say you love me; say it—Monica, say it.” No—no. You must be mad.” says the girl, | as, white us death, with both hands she keeps y from her. ‘It is £10,000 a year. i not do this thing. In the morning you will think —” |. “As I do now, | thought yesterday j during the past week—that I love you better ” interrupts he. “And as I luere.” The pressure of the hands that repulse him ts not so strong now. Emboldened by this sign of coming weakness, he goes on with renewed spirit : “We shall be poor, you know; but you eald once you thought £700'a year quite enough to | live on. You can't go back of that now. — You said also that it would be a disgraceful! and con- temptible act on the part of any man to marry ; one woman when he loved another. You can’t get out of that elther, and 1 am not going to look either disgraceful or contemptible in the only eyes I worship.” The hands have grown quite reasonable now, and indeed have slipped from his chest to his shoulders. “Monica, I am yours whether you like it or not. You must try and make the best of me,” he says very humbly. ‘My beloved I ean only promise to be a good husband to you till death us do part!” “Do not talk or death, she whispers trem- nlonaly: “No? Shall we not pray that we may die the same day, and be buried in the same grave? But, living or dying, my own darling, every thought of my heart will be yours,” The hands have slipped a Ittle higher up, and now with a faint but heavy sizh that is almost a sob, ehe twines them round his neck and lays | her sott cheek against his. (You wust imagine a good many asterisks here, and then we go on. “How was Julia looking?” asks she presently. They are now sitting close together—very close, | Indeed—upon the patriarchal sofa that certainly has seen better days. But it it were satin and down they cou!d not be more contented with it. “Very handsome,” replies he with the most satistactory indifference. ‘Icily regular, splen- didly null” sort of business. No soul, and too much flesh, My angel, yon have saved me. To think that only for you I might have married her; should, to a moral certainty, you know, as I didn’t know what love meant then.” At this Juncture there is no mistaking he knows what love means now. “It you should ever be sorry about this,” Monica nervously. “Nonsense, eneltogs you know you are miles too good for me. T hone you will never be | sorry, that’s all;—Monica”—wistfully, “are you certain, positive, that you really love me?” “Iam as sure of it, as that we are sitting here,” says Miss Norwood solemnly. A further demonstration that they now really know what love means! “Do you know, I’m awfully hungry,” says George pares without the smallest shame, or recollection that people in novels never says anything when filled with the tender passion. ou? Do youknow so am |, but I didn’t confeages she naively. Tam afral Mare 3 quite like to say it,” “The servants are in bed, but there is eo ucken in the sooner we learn how to lay a Cle sad pete peel ves the better.” “T don’ leve there is any sherry,” says ‘Miss Norwood, blushing ‘generously; “but, there is”—with considerable hesitation—"“beer.” ‘If there is one thing on earth I love it is deer, ot George Norwood. ‘There now,” murmurs she reproachfally. baa Just this moment you told me you loved only me. j “" And 80 I do, you and you only,” declares he fertently. ee More asterisks! “The key of the beer is always kept behind this picture,” says Monica, pointing to the oil- painting of her grandmother he had admired on the first day of his arrival. “‘That’s @ good thing to know,” returns he, hing. ‘etRWell take tt down for me now; it will bee lesson. You will know exactly where to go for ¥ She laugh, £00, aa she says this, and drawi jar ). a8 she wing him up to the chitneypiccep points to where the key hangs behind the ‘as it fatality, or was it awkwardness? wk) As be pata up his hand he touches leg and the that supports it snapping 4 morning, and every morning | than my very life—to say nothing of filthy | “Now,” she says gayly, putting it behing her back, ‘‘what do say it is—a legacy or a hi edeetecer mere padding to keep the Leones ps ns, “Mere padding,” guesses “A faite gift desiares she. Then t stoop over the lamp, and examine it cautiously. When Norwood has opened it, and read two or three lines of the writing it contains, he ut- tera an ejaculation, and turns to Monica with eyes bright with excitement. “What was the date of our grandfather's will?” he asked eagerly. “I mean, how long before his death was it written and signed?” “Three years,” says Monica, gazing at him in wonderment. “And this is dated six months before his death,” says he, with something in his tone that resembles awe. “This is another and a li will, Monica, and it bequeaths all to your’ hots . * . . * It was quite true. I suppose the old man when feeling sickness come on him—that first attack of paralysis that suggested to him the ossibility of death—had repented him of the trayal of his*promise to the wite, dead and gone for seven long years, but green still in his memory, To leave all to the son of her heart— the first, and therefore the dearest babe that had lain upon her bosom—was her prayer. And the father, though estranged from this son for many reasons too numerous to mention here, had succumbed as a husband should to the love of his youth, and had sworn to her that justice should be done. Yet, it was gall to him, the doing of it. Gladly would he have got out of the promise given to the dying woman, but even though the grave closed upon her, she had a hold over him, born. of memories when spring was glad with flowers, and the sun shone, and all was youth and love. And yet the gall rose to the top; and after a bit, so Btrong was it that he looked about him for a way to fulfil his promise to the dead and yet work his own desire. He would make a new wiil—so far she was obeyed, poor soul!— leaving all to the eldest son, whom he so deeply detested, and it should be given Into his own hands, but in such wise that he should be none the better by it. His mother’s portrait was made the inedium. Behind it. in between the wooden back and the ture, the old man in secret hid the will that 1 him,and in the first document that suited his pride he inserted a codicil leaving portrait, concealed will and all to his eidest son. Yet Fate is strong, and Time brings all things to nertection. Julia, when matters were made clear to her, took it all very badly. Having a very good in come of her own, and an implacable temper, she refused to be comforted, and went abroad to Egypt, or Tangiers, or somewhere, and may ae be married to a swarthy prince for all 1 now. Pretty Monica has married her lover, and when last I saw her, was teaching her little son to “Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross” on his grandfather's knee.— Temple Bar. BS The Lime-Kiln Club. From the Detroit Free Press. “Each day as I look ober my paper,” said the old man as the lights were turned up, “I see a case of embezzlement, wholesale robbery or breach of trust, or misuse of odder people's money. One day it am de cashier of a bank, and the nex’ day It am acity or county treas- urer; de nex’ it am some confidenshal clerk or a bank president, or the treasurer of some corpo- ration! It is an era of stealin’ an embezzlin’ and fraud. No man who hes money in the hands of a friend or employe feels safe. No man who depends upon another man kuows what a day may bring forth. “What brung ’bout dis state of affairs? Who profits by it? Who aids de offenders to es- cape?” There was silence throughout the hall as the president paused and looked up and down. nuel Shin was about to rise up and explain that he hadn’t made a dollar out of it yet, and n’t expect to, when Pickles Smith hit him with the big end of a potato and Brother Gard- ner continued: “I arraign de bar of de kentry an’ charge de lawygrs, big an’ little, wid bein’ de direct cause of dis reizn of knavery. Three men outer five only until dar am a chance to make in’ dishonest. One man outer three ishonest on all oc uns whar dar am JOHNNY'S FUN. He Dremed a Pavement in Slush, and Steed Up for a Week. ‘From the Boston Post, A Charlestown boy, who doesn't eee any fan in chopping the Ice off the sidewalk every time a thaw and a freeze come along, read about a scientist who recommended dressing them in oll. So one Saturday afternoon, when the weather reports looked threatening, Johnny went down to a ship-yard and stole or begged a bucket of slush, and asthe shades of evening fell the last rays of the setting sun threw his form into strong relief against the murky back- ground of slush with which he was coating the sidewalk. “Now, Jack Frost, come on,” aid Johnny, as he smuggied tie bucket up the back alley. Half an hour afterwards, while he was studying his Sunday-school lesson with all the fervor of childish innocence and ignorance, he heard something drop outside, and then came a crash of glass. Talk about childish intuition! Jobnny -didn’t need to go to the window to know that the city-lamplighter was standing on the back of his head, with his ladder sticking half way through the parlor window. Then Johnny's heart quaked within him and he toid his father all about it, and as the old man started tor a hod ot ashes, Johnny, knowing that he was now in for it and might as well be skinned for sheep as mutton, went up to the parlor and took it all in. The old man came out of the basement door just as the policeman on that beat struck the other end of the side- walk. The Governor's “Look out there!” was blended with the policeman’s curse as he slipped, pivoted on his revoiver pocket, and then subsided at full length in the gutter. Ac- tuated by the most praiseworthy of humanita- rian views, the old man rushed forward to suc- cor the prostrate “cop,” but as he struck the slush he cut a spread-eagle that would have electrified a skating rink, and landed square on the policeman’s stomach, the hod of ashes com- ing down last and covering beth. The police- man clinched with all the vim that was left in hiin, and went for the old man with his short club, while the latter, after vainly trying to ex- plain, inaugurated a reciprocal policy with the coal-hod. Several people who rushed up to see what the matter was were soon added to the heap, and it was only after their united strug- gles had scratched that sidewalk down to hard- pan that the old man got on his feet and had a chance to explain things. Johnny's father is now borrowing money to pay doctors’ billa and damaze claims, and Johnny hopes to be able to sit down with some degree of comfort in about @ week. = a An exchange contains an article on “Young Women Who Die Early.” This frequently oc- curs; but the cases ot ola women who die early are very few Indeed.—Norristorn IST OF LETTERS REMAINING WASHINGTON CITY POST OFFICE, SATURDAY, JANUARY 13, 1883. §27To obtain any of these Letters the applicant must THE call for **ADVERTIsED LeTrens,” and give the date of this list. #27 If not called for within onemonth they will be sent tothe Dead Letter Oftice. LADIES’ LIST. ‘Ash Rose Kelly Lydia A Appich Lule Keith Mary Mrs | Berger Margaret E Kenuy Browne Alice B Lyle Buiah Burrell Annie B Tambie ET Mrs Bush Eliza Lewis Frances Browa Eu Topen St = maces pod Benton Jes Mitchaer B Mrs Boyle Katie Mnnor Betay Brooks Liddis Mitchell Carrie Barnard Kate Morris Helen Brows Jucy Morvan Tdzzie Mra Breston Nati Morgan Sailie Belger 3 McAlister Baiger Mary E Nitanar Ellen Buckie Mle Q' Seal Mary verly Ma eons ADS | Birch RW Mee Potter ¥ McNeil | Bradshaw Sall'e Pec | Beckham Winnie, 2 Pickett HR Mrs Couey Anna, Luey Car-oll Aun, 2 Lin Carter Anna @ Plowden Lizzie Coftin reon Matic 5 Cole Doreas Peters Sarah £ mons F W Mire Roberts At, Mrs ley Knte, 2 Roach bS jack Mary Ratnmond t ambers Lizzie sbingon | Cleary Sage Reese | Cuawbers Martha Kenebaw Jennie, 3 jenebaw | Roy Lucy Row to escape consequences. If dar was i yE no law to punish dishonesty we wouldn't find | Gouas Marta F one manin twenty doin’ de honest thing fur | Costigan Sallie yberso Sallie prine{pies’ sake. Tt am de fear of consequences | Pobsriy CM Mrs 7 9 Bins Amani which keeps thousands of clerks an’ cashiersan’| Downie lddic Mo Smith 1: Mrs treasurers honest. pores Sy en —— “An’ what do de lawyers say to ebery man | Powhty Fanni rg who's fingers Itch to make a hanl? Dey might | Disks Frances eet ae aa well advertise af reg’lar rates dat dey will | Lolwn Juda Stephenson Jennie A guarantee to clear ‘em of de law fura sartin | Dick : gam, Let me steal $75,000 In cash, an’ nine- Duent Gree Bie Liza tenths ot the lawyers of Detroit will be eager to | Dickerson 3: ancy defend me—to effect a compromise—to hush it | Everett 3 Mrs ee up—to clear me of punishment. About de best | Franer Mary th Nanuie Jegal talent in America makes a spec'alty of de- | Ford Mary Sullivan josing fendin’ criminals. Any lawyer am looked upon | Foster Nanni ee ee ce as good ‘nuff fur prosecutin’ attorney. while de | G: Thomas Eliza werry keenest talent am reserved fur defense of | G: iaylor Eze, thieves, burglars and odder law-breakers. oe tte ES ad “Time after tine men have stolen or embez- | Harris re zled, an’ de lawyers have taken a sheer of de | Hilyer Beusie plunderto clear "em. We've had half a dozen | Hotebkiss CF Mra cases right yere widin two years, an’ we am | Hamilton E sartin to have mo’. Let me steal a ton of coal, | Hammond Emma an'upT go. Let me get my claws on $50,000, | Handey Harriet W an’ I doan’ go up worf shucks. I may be ‘reated | Hammond Jennie an’ toted off to jail, but inside of a week de case Lebbie ain settled up, an’ I walk de streets a hero, De | Howard Marie lawyers return €40.000 of de money, pocket | Halstead £9,975, an’ han’ me $50 as a reward fur bringin’ Hayes Einie em a fat case. fcc tay “Suppose it war’ known dat ebery burglar | Jones Lilliay, 3 fa'rly convicted would recelve twenty years in | Jameson M Ate prison, wid no possibility of pardon, would we | 38.00 need ave one burglary whar’ we now have two? Who makes burglary a payin’ purfeshun? De | iyo, 4 y _ O° STLEMEN'S List. lawyer. Albaght Geo W Yogan Leonard “If a clerk who embezzled was sartin to re- | alist kW 3F Lomax Major L L celve a five or ten y'ar sentence, how many | Brown AP Pinger eee cases of embezzlement weuld you har of in a| pete oe Mayers AB year? An’ who makes embezzlement a payin’ | Beale Forbes jazoon © H, 2 usiness? De lawyer. tee rr cy “If dat Rochester bank president am sent to | BevedctJae# mepaennel e E state prison for twenty years, what will be de | Beall Jus F Mites Hon Fred Q effeck on odder Roctiester bank presidents? | Butler James F edevomeny ey But be won't be. De lawyers have gathered to | Bresnauan 3 Moses J B his aid, an’ will defeat justice. Bell E ‘Murray James A “Tam spokin’ what I believe tobe de solemn | BamsNF a yee. BS traf, when I'say to you dat law has become a | Planebard: Moran Wm farce an’ lawyers de middle-men between rob- | Back Prof $J Miler Maj Wm H bers an’ de robbed. De question am how to nee ree ny break de law—not how to enforce it. It am | Gtaniaybsm AB MeDermid DA. not how to put a thief in prison, but how to Clark GL McDouell JH seep him out. It amnot how to punish dis- | ConnorJ eee Honest Se ae poe to gently sane our 88 | Cox Lewis s Pemarend, VS much as dey kin restore, an’ forgive the remain- | Coll.ns Hon ioble Rev J der. Let us purceed to bizness, feelin’ dat | GamuBNM 4.4 Nicholeon Newton what ever crimes we commit we stan’ two | Gumpepem? Qeborn Mr chances of goin’ clear to one of punishment,” pan 35 Fenn Don a ELECTION. Davie Harris B Forers Hanefard Sir Isaac Bane eae 2 cee oe B fame i passing aroun: e bean-box, that he was too | Du! Parker Thos. old to begin life anew, but ho had given the | Doves = ey Aig burglary business considerable study of lateand | Parle T Harris, a0 , but for his advanced age he should make a | Eastwood 0 W Rockwell Willig partnership with some lawyer—he to do the | £sstering 3 Morman Saltese 3 stealing and the lawyer to take half and clear | Ksrmwell AB aoe him. He then made hls rounds, and the follow- | Fletcher 3¢ Howard pra tnce ing candidates were duly elected: Sublime | Pus oF | ay Hastings, Heartfelt Davis, Uncle Taylor, Darwin | Foote Gen it Borda 0 W Jones, Deacon Carter and Taffy Ringgold. Grimes David Sicphens aa TT MAY OCCUR. Sstowood Jaa E Tom Tuage Chewso didn’t want to delay the busl- | Graham Jodeph an pore says ness of the meeting, but there was something on | Goine? Jone y" Bi ‘wm hig mind. As he understood it, the Lime-Klln | Goodman M oy EE Club had something like $2,900 0n hand. The eocean De z Perown peon Hon David money was kept in the safe in the hall. The | Herteneia A Feet sors President had one key and the treasurer the | Harrison AO Pergo Nal other. What was to prevent either official from Hough Edgar 8 GW. hawking on the money and telling the club to | Hawking¥ H i whistle and be hanged? Hoekine 3 Franeiin, Woitran “‘Brudder Chewso,” kindly replied the Presi- | Herrick NJ Wright cy dent, “de ae am well tooken. Dar’ am nuffin | Hawes Pat 0.2 b Semarang oll | to prevent de treasurer or myself from robbin’ ‘Dr WmP ‘Wateon James de safe, and I may add dat of de money Fanos LeDice na J Eraak Would secure de highest legal talent in Detroit | jenifer Jap 4 Pro = to defend an’ doubtless clear us. Does the | omuines ge Won he Judge want to frow out any suggestions ?” garboe ‘Wm A je ‘Ward Samuel If the Judge did, he was disappointed. He | Zones Wallace Yolker Thos ad been hole marble in bis mouth to pol-| Kramer J W ‘Wm teeth, and just. at that moment the | Kerr Dr James started to zo down his throat. gy Lewis Geo Was a fit of gasping, cot ant LisT OF LETTERS which quite laid him’ up je rest of the —The bien- sland, N. ¥.,Wed- | Duckie Miss 4 VALUABLE MEDICINE. Muave Remedy,—its Many Merits, ‘There are no diseases more prevalent, with, perhape, the exception of Consumption, in thiecountry, than the ‘Kidney and Liver Complaints; and to find « remedy thas ‘would effectaaily relieve them has long been the aim of many afflicted sufferers. Whether oar habits ax people ‘are conducive to these dineases, or whether they may resuitfrom the peculiarity of our climate,is beyond our comprehension, and is of little value since an efficacious remedy can be had; but of one thing we are sure, that the long-aMficted public will hail with joy the specific which has again and again proved its ability to offecta- ally cope with and eradicate theso diseases. Tho nameof this medicine is Hunt's Remedy, and it is manufactured by the Hunt ‘sRemedy Company of Providencs. Itis not often that mention of a patent medicine occurs im these columns: but, when one comes under our notice possessing such undoubted merit as the one of which we aveak, we cannot refrain from giving it the credit it de- serves. It cures when all other reusdies fail, as itecte directiy on the Kidneys, Liver. and Bowels, restonng them al! at once toa healthy action, Ttis sure to ered - cate ail diseases of tho Kidney, Bladder Urinary Ore sans, —such as Gravel, Diabetes, Incontinence, Reten+ ‘ion of the Urine. Ithas a wonderful effect on Weak- ness or Pain inthe Back, Sides, or Loing, and has Proved itself the most reliable modicine extayg for Gen- eral Debility, Female Diseases, Disturbed Sleep. Lone of Appetite, and all complaints of the Urino-Genital Organs. Its efficacy in cases of that dreadful scourge and insidious destroyer, Brigit’s Disease of the Kid- neys, has been remarkable; and, if its merit rested on ite success in onping with that disease alone, it would be worthy of hich rank a#a public benefactor. In all diseases of the Liver—as Billiousess, Headache, Dys- pensia, Sour Stomach. and Costivenesss—it quickly in- duces that organ to healthy action, and removes the cause atthe same tme, It is purely vegetable in com- position, bein entirely free from ail mercurial or min- eral poisons, und possoases rare virtues as aremedy for Heart Discare and Kheumatism. We have neither time Nor space to do thismmeticine full justice; but the public can obtain full particulars in the shape of pamphlets and circu'arsby addressing Hunt's Remedy Company, Providence, R. I.—Scientiie Times. ate) era ae CELEBRATED STOMACH BITTERS, Hostetter's Stomach Bitters gives steadiness to the nerves, induces a healthy, natural fow of bile, pree Vents constipation without unduly purging the bowels, gently stimulates the circulation, and by promoting @ ‘vigorous condition of the physical system, promotes, ; also, that cheerfulness which is the truest indication of 8 well-balanced condition of all the animal powers. 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