Evening Star Newspaper, February 16, 1889, Page 9

THE EVENING STAR: WA*HINGTON, D.C, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1889. “i IN A SNOW-STORM. A Grand View from the Summit of the Washington Monument. 4 LONESOME AND GLOOMY TRIP UP THE #HAFT— EVIDENCES OF VANDALISM ALONG THE WAT— WHIRLING SNOW AND CUTTING WIND@—FROM WINDOWS FIVE HUNDRED FEET ABOVE GROUND. The monument shivered the other morning #«a cold, damp wind from the southeast struck its white surface and dashed fine particles of #now against it. It truly shivered, for it moved a little—a very, very little—to the northwest as if shrinking from the disagreeable contact. Ail else was disagreeable, too; the grounds were hardly muddy, yet far from dry; the air ‘was cold, and even inside of the shaft it was chilly and unpleasant. Nevertheless a Starx reporter made his way to the elevator car, which was loaded with two great marble memorial tablets and half a dozen workmen. The car *tarted up with a jerky motion. a sort of pro- test against having to work in such a climate. The uneven motion, the reporter was quickly assured by the conductor. who always seems to anticipate questions as te the safety of the shaft and the elevator, was due to the fact that the load was unevenly distributed, both stones being on one side of the car. This caused e difficulty with the “ I” and the “dogs.” which the reporter did not try to un- derstand. The car stopped at the 250-foot level, where the last series of memorial stones is being set in the wall. and a rude bridge made of three or four boards nailed together was shoved out over the railing to the car door. One of the men in going across stepped too far along the other end and went down, carrying with him the whole bridge. He dropped tothe floor, 8 feet below, and the bridge, relieved of his weight, fel! back into pl The incident, however. caused the repoxter’s heart to take an elevated position, and it refused to change its lodging place until ite owner had safely crossed the planks and crawled around the blocks of stone on the platform to the stairway. TOWARD THE TOP. Then Tar Stam man and the top-floorman went on up, into the twilight of the shaft, leaving the workmen to get the great stones over the frail bri: tothe landing. The air was damp and cold, and the iron railing around the black well was rough, here and there, with frost. The north wall of the shaft sparkied in the light from the electric lamps as though diamond dust had been blown against it. This was due to the fact that the north wall con- tained less heat than the others and the damp- ness had changed into a fine, almost impalpa- ble frost dust. At frequent intervals the work of the vandals appeared and marred the monotony of granite and marble. One name, that of a person known as Wilkinsgn, (Apa in at least a dozen places between the half-way point and the top, and presumably as many more times on the lower stretch. It was scrawled in bold, black letters that attracted the eye benery “I wish that fellow could have been caught,” said the floorman as he came across the fourth or fifth repetition. “He seems to be a down- ight rascal. There are a great many people whe start to write their names without think- ing, really. that it is wrong. Of course, if they considered a minute, they would not do it. but they see other names all around them and it is the most natural thing in the world for them to do the same thing. y. I've caught them, on top. starting to scribble their names right be- fore my eyes. One lady the other day even asked me to lend her a pencil. There ought to be signs with great big letters stuck on the walls here and there and enough men to catch & few of the people who violate the rules, and I think they wouid stop it.” IX 4 SNOW STORM. A solitary electric lamp lit up the top plat- form. On each side faint lines of light shone through the cracks at the windows, and one of the window-slabs eee a faint yellow ray, asthe daylight filtered through the stone. The floor- man went to one of the south windows, un- locked it and swung it back into its niche in the wall. A gust of wind blew the snow over the floor and nipped the ears of the re ras he leaned out and blinked in the sudden light. It was snowing quite hard, the ground had, per- haps, balf an inch of » white mantle, and the air was thick with fine flakes. The earth seemed mufiied, the encumbered air prevented sight to any distance, aud one had a feeling of oppres- sion. The ground, 500 feet below, presented varying tones of white, cream color, yellow, red and black. The monument hill looked like a huge pile of white, very white, sand, that had Tun out to s distance, furrowed wi little ditches. The river seemed stopped in its flow and the lakes in the flats were white. The horizon looked to be encompassed, not very far off, with a wall, and above was a whirling, driving, twisting, falling gray mass of snow, THE EASTERN OUTLOOK was cheerless; the capitol was the limit of vision, and it was but half visible, standing with a half-sullen air, draped in a cloak of ob- seurity. The parks between the monument and the capitol were bleak and cold in appear- ance. The bare trees hid the white ground but Poorly and rather emphasized the coldness of e landscape. One spot of color, however, relieved the scene, # great red wall in the northeast, the pension office. The northern windows opened toa beautiful outlook. The White House, Treasury, and the — depart- ment building to the west, nestled together in the snow, diminished by the thick atmosphere. Everything looked diminutive. The white lot, or ellipse, was a beautiful sight; the snow had fallen evenly over the half- sprouted and the whole surface was of light yellow color, with which the clumps of rubs contrasted with a fine effect. It wasa subject worthy of a great artist, a theme from which a Turner could have weaved @ color-poem. COLD QUARTERS. The winds were causing the atmosphere on the landing to grow uncomfortable, and the floorman made haste to close the wooden shut- ters that kept out the air, but let in the light. ‘Then he hopped around into one of the corner alcoves, formed by the projection of two but- tresses, aud swung his arms to keep warm. “I wish they would fix this upas IT want them to,” he managed 5 enunciate through his chattering teeth. “They could floor it, put a wainscoting around it, and a little roof avout twelve feet up, and a doorway ere, and it would make a first-class room, that could be kept comfortably warm by this thing,” and he tapped with his foot a small oil stove in one corner. “No use trying to keep warm up here now. The place is too damp, and the walls are too full of holes,” pointing to the skeleton-like framework where the buttresses join the walls, “A great many people come up here who don't get « chance to look out of the windows on ac- count of the crowd. ‘Well,’ they say, ‘we'll wait until the elevator goes back.’ But they have to stand around on thiscold iron platform for ten or fifteen minutes, and they mbie and say that things ‘aren't run right.’ If there Was 4 warm place in this corner it could easily sccommodate ten people; they could make themselves comfortable until the windows were clear. Of course, I'd have to watch to see that —— got in there, and to keep it clear for en.” TO BE MARRIED ON THE MONUMENT. He was silent awhile, as he kicked his toes against the buttress, and the reporter gazed thoughtfully at the snow storm outside. Finally the floorman remarked, with a ghost of aj st chuckle in his voice: epee what ideas some folks get in their He waited for the re, orter to aquiesce,which be at last did, wonderingly. “Now here. a couple of weeks ago, there was quite a crowd up and # young fellow, Bicely rt and ig. came up to me and said: ‘I wi yong thas you Roane poo wane Marriage ceremony formed hs It rather took me off my feet, and I hed to let him | pe without answering him. He said that he came from up in Pennsylvania, and oa ee amen es any ly ‘ashington. He it that ia to « dun thing geen in on above the ot ried to gst permis- see the cus- sion. I told him that he'd have to todian; that I couldn’t let such a thin; pen, He said he was going to fet perminton, ut f beven't heard any more from His month yet.” fen't a By this time the elevator car had come to the top, and Tax Stam man descended the shaft, Written for Tuk Evawrse Stan. ETIQUETTE AND MANNERS. What to Do and What Not to Do in Polite Society. MRS. SHERWOOD'S CORRESPONDENCE COLUMN— HOW TO EAT EGG8—ENGAGEMENT AND WEDDING RINGS — CORRESPONDENCE ADVICE — DINNER PARTIES—AN OFFICER AND HI3 UNIFORM. The following questions have been selected this week by Mrs. Sherwood for consideration, as being of general interest: E.R. Earnest asks: “Will you explain the etiquette of engagement rings and on what finger should the ring be worn, Is it proper for 9 young lady to wear one when not engaged? When was the custom estab- lished? The custom of wearing wedding and engage- ment rings is lost ina remote antiquity. Of course no one would wear either butas a signet of betrothal or marriage. A handsome dia- mond is the usual gift of a lover to his “fair ladye” when she consents to be his. She wears it on the third finger of her right hand, nor re- moves it unti! he puts the plain gold wedding ring on. place of a guard. Barbara Worcen asks (1) “if it is leave of the host at au evening party?” It is not necessary. (2.) “Please tell me how to eat an egg properly from ab egg cup!” Put the egg in the small end and delicately break the top of the shell. There are many peo- ple, however, who prefer to have the egg broken into the large end, and to salt and pepper the whole mass. Either way is proper enough. ,Proper to take (3) It is not well to eat the gurnishing of 4 sala‘ QA ¢ an always precedes a lady going up and dow: 53. (S.) “Itis permissible in a small western town for a gentlonan meeting alady on the street to invite her ‘@ ball?” Yes, if the acquaintance was intimate enough, and manner and customs rural, we should say it was, <6.) “When a hostess pours coffee for guests should fe the creaw and sugar or allow tue guests to She should ask each guest if she shall do so if she is sitting at the head of the table. “Sheridan A ne” ask: Ts it pr to address a Igtter or card to's indy by hor husbbawensmuett bets Yes; if she uses his name. “Is it proper to leave cards when the lady is at home?" Yes; “Should Mr" _If he is # doctor of divinity give him his title; if not, call him plain “Mr.” “G. V. B." anks: “If, on going to friend, T should be fatroduced to's youne Ialy eallins thers cad We exchange invitations to visit,wiich should call first after the mecting?” There can be no law on this point; eitber should call as soon as possible. “Old Subscriber” asks: “In regard to Invitations to dalls and weddings, if there is a young manor youne woman in the family, is it requisite to send ei special invitation o will one to the parents be she is engaged and cannot see you. ® minister be called ‘doctor’ or plain It is more complimentary to send an especial one to the young man or maiden, Ignorance asks “how to serve a nice dinner.” This 13 a long question and requires a long experience. She had better buy some good work on the subject. “Cayton” asks: “Is it proper to take bread from the bread-plate with the fiucers oF with w fore?™ Always with the fingers, @) “h Rt —! sParty call should the lady leave Of course, mCjdge Within what time should a party call be In London it is always made the next day; in New York within a week. “Jack” asks: “When a gantleman makes a formal cali suould he wear his overcuat into the parlor, keep- ioe huis hat in bis hand, or should he leave tou ta A gentleman leaves his heavy overcoat in the hall, but he carries his hat in his hand. “Inquirer” asks: “At a small but formal dinner Party should a guest take leave of each of the eima:8 Separately or only of the hi d hostess, with a gene- bow to the rest of te company?” Bliquette is satisfied if the departing guest takes leave only of his host and hostess, “Constant Reader” asks years o) Weddin, We should say lavender; his years do not make a more gloomy color necessary on so aus- Picious an occasion. “Upon going into the : who ies antipen goine dining-room sccompan! “Phe groom, - “Is there syrh @ thing as a groom's cake, and who crite it? What place docs the’ groom oeapene he ie’ “If @ bridegroom is sixty what-colored gloves dues he wear at Lis Ata wedding breakfast the groom sits next the bride, ‘and there is no such thing as a groom's cake. THE CHAPERON QUESTION. “Miss Propriety” writes: “I live in a university town, and it seems to me that the rules of propriety are somewhat relaxed as to the students and their Young eirl friends. If a young ¢iri recelves an invite ‘ion to go to @ foot-ball or base-ball game should she have a chaperon. or cau three or four go ther? After the wame is over would it be efor them to koto the rooms of their student friends without an older lady?" It is proper —— for young girls to go to see a game of ball ina 'Y, especially if in- vited by their brothers, but it would be much better if they were accompanied by a chaperon if they are invited toa breakfast at the rooms of the students. “Delia” : “Init proper Ml an the Minsos Heath St PhcPare natae seed miseahe No; one should address the older lady ag the niece as Miss Anna Beach. sks the following embarrassing question: corres! ug with # young lady. Over er, but failed to mail the letter. ladies “OC. AH. “T haye been note from ber, inquiring? “What isa zentleman's duty upon receiving a letter from a lady?’ and she inclosed her card. What did se meant” Probably a delicate little scolding for your neglect. “Catherine Leyburn” asks: “What is a r thi to do upon receiving an Invitation toa wedding whic you are unable to attend?” Send your card on the wedding day, No UNIFORMS, “Young naval officer” asks: “Am I expected to wear my uniform st private parties? It is very stiff and uncomfortable, No; an army or naval officer must wear his uniform on state occasions or a visit to his chief, to weddings, and to fancy bails, but he is allowed the freedom of plain clothes on all other occasions. It might be whispered in his ear that he looks much better in uniform than he does in plain clothes, however, It is a great drawback to the brilliancy of American streets and American parties that all the men are in solemn black. e beauty and popularity of fancy balls is therefore keenly appreciated by all lovers of color and costume, In Europe, where at every bail. even in sober England, are seen men in uniform, in costume, and with orders and ribbons, the effect is very much handsomer, Every street in a foreign city is enameled with costumes, The Turks, the Persians, the Tunisians walk about Paris and London in their gay dress; the brilliant searlet of the guards and common soldiers lights up the city of the Thames, and in Rome the soldiers, ecclesiastics, and oceasional vis- itors from foreign climes make the narrow Corso or the bridge of St. Angelo brilliant; while our streets are innocent of apy such em bellishment. In Spain the drivers of carts and donkeys are handsome in their ay rags, while the passing matador is superb. Newkers but in America are all men somber; 80 we advise the young naval officer to wear his uniform whenever he can. INSIGNIA OF RANK. “Matilda” writes: “I have lately returned from Eu- ope, and I wore a head-dress of gold bought in Rome Party in London. I heard afterward that I was criticised havi ‘Worn 8 coronet, eTa right to wear asormee Tyler Now ha No; women goi abroad should be v careful to not assume the insignia of Tank. ike fondness which some Americans have shown for the titles and filded equipage of rank has laughed at, at home and abroad, and they teil of one ecstatic young = said that she loved to breathe an air which was thick with archdukes and princes, ese women are the toadstools, even worse ety. They Giving and sccepting, Dinner invitations should only be acce; from those whose acquaintance you wish to keep. Some vulgar ill-bred persons have toe at at inore ore the kind entertainers ever cut e enter! rs ever afterward. is is the ae = Thon the engagement ring takes the | | place, as perhaps he knew. A GOOD MAN’S DILEMMA. The clock of St. Martin’s was striking ten as Archdeacon Yale of Studbury, in Gloucester- shire, who had taken breakfast at the Athe- neum, walked down the club steps, castward bound. He was a man of fresh complexion and good presence, of tolerable means, and some reputation as an author of a curiously morbid book, ‘Timon Defended.’ As he walked briskly along?an unopened letter which peeped from his pocket seemed—and rightly—to in- dicate a man free from anxieties; a man almost without a care. But before he left the dignified stillness of Pall Mall, he found leisure to read this: “I en- close,” wrote his wife, “a letter which came for you this morning. I trust, Cyprian, that you are not fretting about the visitation ques- tion, and get your meals fairly well cooked.” The’ archdeacon paused at this point and smiled faintly as at some pleasant reminis- cence, “Give my love to dear Jack. Oh—h’m— I do not recognize your correspondent’s hand writing.” “Nor do I!" said the archdeacon aloud; and he opened the enclosure with curiosity’ that had in it no fear of trouble. After glancing at the signature, however, he turned into a side street and read the letter through. He sighed. “Oh dear, dear!” he muttered. “What can I do? 1 must go! There is no room for refusal, And yet—ob dear—after all these years. No. 14 Sidmouth street, Gray’s Inn Road! What a place!” It was a shabby third-rate lodging-house Bat he called a cab and had himself driven thither without de- lay. At the corner of the street he dismissed the eab and looked about him furtively. For aman who had left his club so free from care, and whose wife at Stubury and son at Lincoln’s Inn were well, he wore aa oddly anxious face. It could not be—for he was an archdeacon— that he was about to do anything of which he was ashamed. Of course not. Bishops, and others of that class, may be open to tempta- tions, or have pages of their lives folded down which they would not wish turned. But an archdeacon? Ob, no. Yet when he was distant a house or so from No. 14 he started guiitily at a very ordinary oc- curence—nothing more than the arrival of.a hansom cab at the door, Truc, a young wo- man descended from it, and let herself into the house with a laichkey, But young women and latchkeys are common in London, as common as—as dirt. It could hardly be that which darkened his face as he rang the bell. In the hull, where a dun was sitting, there was little to remove any prejudice he may hnve conceived; little, too, in the dingy staircase, cumbered with plates and stale food; or in the first-floor rooms. from which some one that eecond-floor room, at once smart and shabby and remarkable for many photographs of one young girl, where he was bidden to wait—little | or nothing. But when he had pithed and pshawed at the tenth photograph he was calied mtoan inner room, where a strange silence prevailed, Involuntarily he stepped softiy. “It waa kind of you to come,” some on said— speak r might breathe the more easil kind. And you have come so quick, “I have been in London some day swers gently, the fastidious expression gone from his fi “Your daughter's letter fol- lowed me from the country and reached me only an hour ago. It has been no trouble to me to come. 1am only pained at finding you so ill.” “Ah!” she answered. Doubtless her thoughts were busy, while his flew back nearly thirty years to a summer evening, when he had walked with her under the trees in Chelsea gerdens and heard her pour into his ear—sle Was a young actress then in the first blush of success—all her hopes and ambitions, There was nothing in the memory of which he had need to be ashamed. In those days he had Leen reading for orders, and, having lodgings came by chance wo hbors—her mother and herself, ‘The two were living a quiet domestic life, which surprised and impressed him. The girl's talent and the contrast between her no- toriety and her simple ways had a certain charm for him. Forsome months the neophyte and the actress were as brother and sister. But there the feeling stopped, and when his appointment to a country curacy closed this retty episode in his life, the exchange ofa Sow letters had but added grace to its ending. Now old feelings rose to swell his pity as he traced the girl’s features in the woman's face. “You have a daughter. You have been married since we ted,” he said. “Yes. tt for her sake I have troubled you,” was her answer. “She is a good girl— ob, so good! But she has no one in the world oxnert me, and Iam leaving her. Poor Gris- sel!” ‘She is on the stage?” he inquired gravely. and she has succeeded young, as I did. We have not been unhappy together. You re- member the life my mother led and I led? I think it has been the same with us again.” She smiled ever so little. He remembered something of the quiet pathos of that life. “Your husband is dead?” he asked. “Dead! wish he were!” she answered bitterly, the «mile passing from her face on the instant, y girl had better by far be alone than with her father. Ah, you do not know! When he went to America years ago— with another woman—I thanked God for it. Dead? Oh, no! There is no chance that he is dead.” Mr. Yale was shocked. divorce?” he said. ‘ Until last year, when Grissel made a good engagement, we were very poor, Then I fell ill, and there were expenses. We had to come here. Now that her name is known he will come back and find her out. She plays as Kittie Latouche, but the profession know who she is, and—and what can [ do? Oh, Mr. Yale! tell me what I can do for her,” Her anxiety unnerved him. Her terror of the future, not her own, but her child’s, wrung his heart. He had a presentiment whither she was leading him, and he tried to murmur some commonplace of encouragement. “You may yet recover,” he urged. “At any rate, there will be time to talk of this again.” “There will not be time,” she entreated him, “I have scarcely three days to live, and then my child will be alone. Oh, Mr. Yale! help me. She is young and handsome, with no one to guide her. If her father return he will be her worst enemy. There is some one, too— some gentleman—who has fallen in with her, and been here. He may be a friend—what you were to me—or not. Don't you understand me?” she cried piteously. “‘Howcan I leave her unless you—there is no one else whom I can ask—will protect her?” He started and looked round for relief, but found none, “I? It is impossible!” he cried. “Oh dear, dear! I am afraid that it is impossi- ble, Mrs, Kent.” fi ot impossible! Ido not ask you to give her a home or money! Only care. If you will be her guardian—her friend ——” She was a woman dying in sore straits. He was a merciful man. In the end he promised to do what she wished. Then he hastened to escape her gratitude, unconscious, as he passed down the stairs, of the whispering and giggling, the slatternliness and dirt, which been so dreadful to him on his entrance. He walked along Oxford street in a reverie, “Poor thing!” falling from him at intervals, until he reached the corner of Tottenham Court Road, and his eye rested upon a board- ing—at the first idly, then with a purpose, finally with a timid sidelong glance. The ad- vertisement which had caught his attention was a coarse engraving of half a dozen heads arranged in a circle, with one in the center. Under this last, which was larger and more staring and less to be evaded than the others, appeared the words “Miss Kittie Latouche.” ie went on with a shiver, crossing here and there to avoid the boardings, but only to fall in with a string of sandwich-men bearing the same device, and to a the haven of Soho as if he were a polit Loge agen The it and the name of his ward! In a few days he would be left in charge of an actress whose name was known to all London— guardian, in loco parentis, what you will, of the closest and most responsible nature to a gidd; w “You have not gota eeped | and another whispered and both giggled; or in | “My friend, who, I ma; , is a clergyman in my secbdehooary? porn the elder gen- tleman, “has been appointed guardian (it is 8 ridiculous thing for a man in his position) to @ —s young actress. She is quite a 1, I under- stand, but of some notoriety a! 5 “Indeed,” said Jack drily. ‘‘May I ask how that came about? Wards of that kind do not fall from heaven—as a rule.” The archdeacon winced. “He tells me,” he rd, her mother was an old friend died. some time back, she left the girl as a kind of legacy, you sce.” “A legacy to him, sir?” “To him, certainly. You follow me?” said the elder man in some distress, “Quite #0,” said Jack. “Oh, quite so! A common thing, no doubt. Did you say that your friend was a married man, sir?” “Yes,” replied the archdeacon faintly. “Just so! just so!” his son said, in the same tone, a tone that was so dreadful to the arch- deacon that it needed Jack's question, “And what is the point upon which he wants advice?” to induce him to goon. Vhat had he botter do, being a clergyman?” “He should have thought of that earlier— ahem!—I mean it depends a good deal on the young lady. There are actresses and actresses, you know.” |" “I suppose so,” the archdeacon admitted grudgingly. He was in a mood to see the dark- | est side of his ditticulty. “Of course there are!” said Jack, for him quite warmiy. And indeed that is the worst of barristers. ‘They will argue in season and out | of season if you do not agree with them quickly. “Some are as good—as good girls as my mother when you married her, sit. “Well, well. she may bea good girl—I do not know,” the elder man allowed. “You always had rather a prejudice against the stage, sir.” thinking The archdeacon looked up sharply, this uncalled for; unless, horrible thought! his son knew something of the matter and was chaffing him, He made an effort to get on firmer ground. “Granted she is a good girl,” he said, “there are still two difficulties, Hor | father is a rascal and there is @ man, probably & rascal, too, hanging about her and likely to give trouble in another way.” Jack nodded and sagely pondered over the Position. ‘I think Taos) advise your friend to get some respectable woman to live with the iri.” he suggested, “and play the duenna, rst getting rid of your second rascal.” “But how will you do that? Aud what would you do about the father?” “Buy him off,” said Jack, curtly. “As to the | lover, have an interview with him, Say to | him, ‘Do you wish to marry my ward? whe you? If you do not, go about your do, who are business.’" “But if he will not go,” said the archdeacon, “what can my friend do?” “Well, indeed,” replied Jack, looking rather nonplussed, “I hardly know, unless you make her award of court. You see,” he added apologetically, “your friend's position is a little—shail f say a little anomalous?” ‘The archdeacon shuddered. He dropped his napkin and picked it up again, to hide his dis- may, and plunged into afresh ‘subject, When his son upon some excuse left him early, he | was glad to be alone. He had now, however, a course laid down for him, and acting upon it, he next day saw the landlady in Sidmouth street and requested her to take charge of the young lady in the event of the mother’s death | | and to guard her from intrusion until other | arrangements could be made, ‘You will look to me for all expenses,” added the archdeacon, | seizing with eagerness upon the only ground | on which he felt himself at home, ‘To which | the landlady gladly said she would, and ac- | cepted Mr. Yale’s address at the Athenwum | club as a personal favor to herself, So the archdeacon, free for the moment, went down to Studbury, and as he walked about his shrubberies with the sc: of his wife's old- fashioned flowers in the air, or sat drinking i f Léoville ‘74 after dinner, while ue butler, anxious to get to his sup- per. rattled the spoons on the sideboard, he tried to believe it a dream. What, he won- dered, would Winnall say if he knew that mas- ter had a ward, and that ward a or, as Siudbury would prefer to style her, a | painted Jezebel? And what would Mrs. Yale say, who loved lavender, and had seen a bal- | let—once? Was Archdeacon ever, he ask | himself, in a position s2—so anomalous befo! syd dear,” his wife remarked when he had read his letters one morning, “I am sure you are not well. I have noticed that you have not been yourself since you were in London.” “Nonsense,” he replied tartly. “Itis not nonsense. There is something preying on your mind. I believe,” she per- sisted, “it is that visitation, Cyprian, that is troubling you.” “Visitation? What visitation?” he said in- cautiously, For indeed he had forgotten all about that very important business, and could think only of a visitation more personal to himself, Before his wife could hold up her hands in astonishment, “What visitation! in- deed?” he had escaped into the open air, Mrs. Kent was dead. Yes, the blow had fallen; but the first shock over, things were made very easy for him. He wrote to his ward aa soon after the funcral as seemed decent, and her answer greatly pleased him. Ready as he was to scent misbehavior in the sir, he thought it a proper letter, a good girl's letter. She did not deny his right to give advice. She had not, she said, seen the gen- tleman he mentioned since her mother's death, although Mr. Charles Williams—that was his name—had called several times; but she had — him an appointment for the followii fuesday, and was willing that Mr. Yale shoul see bim on that occasion, All this in a formal and stately way; but there was something in the tone of her reference to Mr. Williams which led the archdeacon to smile sagely. “She is over head and ears in love,” he thought. And in his reply, after say- | ing that he would be in Sidmouth’ street on Tuesday at the hour named, he added that if there appeared to be nothing against Mr. Charles Williams, he, the archdeacon, would have pleasure in forwarding his ward's hap- piness. “I am going to London to-morrow, m; for two nights,” he said to his wife on evening. ‘I have some business there. Mrs. ate sat silent for a moment, as if she had not heard. Then she laid down her book and folded her hands. “Cyprian,” she said, “what is it?” The archdeacon was fussing with his pile of sermons and did not turn, ‘ t is what, my dear?” he asked, “Why are you going to London?” a She business, my dear; business,” he said, lightly. “Yes, but what business?” replied Mra. Yale, with decision. “Cyprian, you are keeping some- thing from me; you were not used to have se- crets from me. Tell me what it is.” But he remained obstinately silent. He would not tell @ lie, and he could not tell the truth. it about Jack. Cyprian?” with sudden conviction. “I know what it is; he has en- Sores himself with some girl!” The archdeacon laughed oddly. “You ought to know your son better by this time, my dear. He is about as likely to entangle himself with a girl as—as I am.” jut Mrs. Yale shook her head unconvinced, The archdeacon was a squire, though a poor one. It was his choicest ambition, end his wife's, that Jack should some day be rich enough to live at the Hall, instead of letting it. as Mr. Yale found it nece: to do. But while the archdeacon considered that Jack’s way to the Hall lay over the woolsack, his wife had in view a short cut to it through the marriage market, being a woman, and so thinking it a small sin ina man to marry for money, Con- sequently she lived in fear lest Jack ahould be entrapped by some penniless fair and was not whoily reassured now, “Well, I shall be sure to find out, Cyprian,” she said warningly, ving me. A g ES dear, junday “if you are decei: And these words recurred to the archdeacon’s mind on his way to town and afterwards. They rendered him sensitive ae a mole in Sunshine. He found almost intolerable. He could not the 2. Naturally be shrank into himself down Sidmouth street next i ih HAE i i ‘4 ; | closing one eye with | you make of it now? Mmeanly followed me to—to detect me in— in-——” And there he came to a deadlock, and, redder than before, thundered, “Are you not ashamed of yourself, sir?” “I thought Isaw a back I knew.” mattered ened I ing Feteg Sire but at his father, wi was terril tating. “I was comi through the street.” on pa “You were coming memes the street: I sup Pose you often pass through Sidmouth street!” retorted the archdeacon with withering sar- casm, but swallowing some of his wrath. “Very often,” said Jack so sturdily that his father could not but believe him, and was fur- ther sobered. “I sawa back I thought I knew, and I came in here. I had no intention of offending you, sir, And now I think I will go,” he added, looking about him uneasily, ‘‘and— and speak to you another time.” But the archdeacon’s anger was shortlived. A wretched embarrassment was already taking its gay as it dawned upon him that after ali Jack might by pure chance have seen him en- ter and have followed innocently, In that case, how had he committed himself by his outbreak — how, indeed! “Jack,” he said sweetly, “I be; your pardon. I beg your pardon, J. Tsee was mistaken. Do not go. my boy, until I have explained to you why I am here. It ia not. perhaps,” he went on, smiling a wretched smile at the pretty faces roand him, “quite the place in which you would expect to find me.” “It is certainly not the place in which I did expect to find you, sir,” said Jack bluntly. And he looked about him also in a dazed fash- ion, as if the archdeacon and the photographs were not aconjunction for which he was pre- pare “No, no,” assented the archdeacon, wincin: however. | “But it is the simplest piece of bu ness in the world which has brought me here. And he recalled to his son’s memory their talk at the club, “Ah, I understand,” said Jack, as if he did, too. “You have come about your friend's busi- ness.” The archdeacon conld not hides spasm. “Well, not precisely. ‘To tell you the truth. there never was a friend, Jack, But.” he it on hurriedly, holding up a hand of dignified protest, for Jack had looked at him queerly, very queerly, *-you know me too well to doubt me, I hope, when I say there is no ground for doubt?” The son's keen eyes met the father’s for an instant, and then a rare smile softened them as the men’s hands met. “I do, sir; you may be sure of t! ” he said brightly. The archdeacon cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said; “now [think you will under- stand the pos: Miss Kent, the young lady in question, lives here, and I have called to-day to see her by appointment.” “The dickens you have! It is like your im- pudence!” cried some one—some one behind them. Both men swung around at this interruption. In the doorway, holding the door open with one hand, while with the other placed against the wall he balanced himself on bia feet, stood @ smart, Jewish-looking man. “The dickens youhave!” this gentleman repeated. leoring on the two most unpleasantly. “So that is your fame, is it? Ain't you ashamed of yourself,” e continued, addressing himself particularly to the shuddering archdeacon—and how far away seemed Winnall and the lavender, and ‘.e calm delights of Studbury at that | moment!—“ain't you ashamed of yourself, old m: “This is a private room,” said Jack sternly, anticipating his father’s outburst. “You do not seem to be aware of it, my friend. “A private room, is ‘it?’ replied tho visitor, nuch enjoyment. “A private room, and what then?” “This much, that you are requested to leave it.” “Ho, ho!” replied the man; “so you would put me out of my daughter's room, would you —out of my daughter's room? I dare say that you would like to do it.” Then, with a sudden change to ferocity, he added, “yon are brag- ging above your cards, young man. Dry up, do you hear?” Dry up.” And Jack did d: ip. falling back against the | table with a white face and trembling hands, The archdeacon, even in his own misery—mis- ery which far excoeded his presentiments—saw and marveled at his son's collapse. That Jac keen, practical, hard-headed Jack, should so completely overwhelmed by collision this creature, and so plainly seared by his sinuations, infected the archdeacon with a kind of terror. Yet, struggling against the feeling, he forced himself to say, “you are Mr. Kent, I presume?” “Lam, sir, yours to command,” swaggered the wretch, “Then I may tell yon that your daughter,” the archdeacon continued, resuming some- thing of his natural self-possession, -‘was left in my charge by your wife, and that I am here in consequence of that arrangement.” “Gammon!” replied Mr. Kent distinctly, utting his tongue in his cheek. “Gammon! Bo you think that story will go down with —. Do you think it will go down with any one?” ' “Tt is the truth.” “All right; but look here, when did you see my wife? On her death-bed. Once. And be- fore that—not for twenty years, Well, what do Why,” he exclaimed, with genuine admiration in his tone, “you have the impudence of the old one himself! Fie on you, sir! Ain't you ashamed of hanging about stage-doors and following actresses home at your age? But I know you. And your friends shall know you, Archdeacon Yale. of the Atheneum club. You will hear more of this!” “Youare an insolent fellow!” cried the cler- an. But the perspiration stood in great Geeta capone ates aan ais quivering lips be- trayed the agony of his soul as he writhed un- der the man’s coarse insinuations, The awk- wardness and improbability of the tale he would have to tell in his defense flashed across his mind while the other was speaking. He saw how cogently the silence he aaa maintained about the matter would tell against him. He pictured the nudge of one friend, the wink of another, and his own crimsoning cheeks. His son’s unwonted silence, too, that touched him home. Yet he tried to bear himself as an inno- cent man. He struggled to give back look for look, “You are a madman anda scoundrel, besides being drunk.” he said stoutly, “If it = not so, or—or I were as young as my son ere——" . “I do not see him,” said the man, curtly. “Jack!” cried the archdeacon, purple with indignation. “Jack! If you have a voice, speek to him. sir.” “It won't do,” replied Mr, Kent, shaking his head, “Call him Charley, and I might believe ou, é “Charley?” repeated the archdeacon, me- chanically, “Ay, Chart —Charley Williams. Oh, I know him, too,” with vulgar triumph. “I have not been hanging about this house for two days for nothing. He has been here heaps of times! What you two are doing together beats me, I confess, But I am certain of this, that I have caught you both—killed two birds with one stone, eh?” It was the archdeacon’s turn to fall back, nerveless and aghast. The light that shone in upon him with SS 80 nary = it every spark o! is anger paled an dwindled before it, His son Charles Williams? He sought in that son’s eyes, sought with a itiful eagerness. some gleam of denial. But Sack's eyes avoided his; Jack’s downcast air seemed only too strongly to confirm the inso- lent charge. The shock was a severe one, tak- ing from him all thought of himself. The ~~ and wherefore of his presence there couli never again be questioned by any one. A real sorrow, areal trouble to be faced gave him courage. “Jack!” he said with sternness, “we had better go from here. Come with me. For you, sir,” he continued proudly, turning to the actor, “your suspicions are natural to you. Nothing I can say will remove them, So be it. They affect me not one whit. It is enough for me that I came here in all honor, and wit an honorable Ce Ee *} eal “Indeed,” rep! . Kent, mockingly. “ deed? And your son, Mr. Charles Jack Wil- Mams Yale, archdeacon? No doubt you will ‘answer for him,’ as he has not gota word to pe Reed Saar He, a er with =; honor- P , I suppose yes, of course, we are all honorable men!” For an instant the archdeacon “ret He saw the pitfall dug before him. He knew all that his answer would eg Oe! disappointed hopes apd a vain ambition. He recognized all that could be made of it by his listeners, friend Sn Riooring lip of ho wretah ceancenioe ee wret him 4 himself. Nay, Aeneas g es He F | Es iE EE FE 4 i ; 6 f & i I . ‘ 5 i t HE : i § E will not break mine to the mother, so help me | EDUCATIONAL. Heaven 2 = —— bit,” said Jack, his ntterance a little husky, | GUELDON'® DANCING ACADEMY, 1098 P “she is f good girl, and some day she will honor | "i." MNS pfor iertes, tio. you as I do.” Bail. Send for ciret la. * They without more words. The erch- deacon. ‘diy master of his thoughts as yet, walked on quickly until he reached the corner of Oxford street; but there he paused, and see- ing girls oung. graceful, soft-eved, lean- ing Back Ti ccctinget Sth persels rosea wren, an thinking that Jack might have chosen oat | of all these, while he had chosen in Sidmouth street—Sidmouth street, Gray's Inn road—he, the archdeacon, could not stiflea groan. He plunged recklessly across and found himself presently in St. James’ square. and round and round this he sauntered, fighting the battie with himself. His poor wife, that was the bur- den of his cry. His poor wife, and the shock it would be to ber, and the downfall of hopes! He knew that she. asa woman, must recoil from such a danghter-in-law far more than he did, who had known Grissel’s mother, and knew, too, that actresses may be good and true women. It would be dreadful for her—the archdeacon knew it; but he valued one thing above even the peace of his home, and that was his honor, It was notin sarcasm we called hima good man. To break his word to the dead woman who had trasted him; to leave this girl, whom it behooved him to protect, in the hands of her wretched father, and so to leave her with her faith in goodness shattered—this Archdeacon Yale could not do. But he was tempted that night to think hard things of Jack, to think that Jack, who had never given him the heartache before, had yet better not have been born than bring this trouble on them. It went no further than temptation, and he was marvelously thankful next morning that he had not framed the thought in words; for, as he entered the break- fast-room, looking a year older than he had seemed chipping his egg yesterday, the hall- porter put a telegram iuto his bands. ‘Come at once—Jack,” were the words that first made themselves intelligible to him; and then, but a few seconds later, the address, “St. Thomas’ hospital.” How swiftly does a great misfortune, a great loss, a great pain expel a loss! I have known aman ey his wife and go he: and then losing a thousand oblivious of her as if she But the archdeacon was not such # man, and, rattling toward Westminster in a cab, felt not only that a thousand pounds would be a small rice to pay for his son's safety, but that. if Proriasuse should take him at his thought, he might have worse news for his wife than those tidings which had almost aged him in a night. His = however, met him at the gre: gates, whole and sound, but with a grave face. "You are too late, he said quietiy. yet flushing a little at the of his father's hand, and more when the archdeacon told him to pay the cabman a double fare. “I have brought you here for nothing. He died a quarter of an hour ago, sinking very rapidly after I sent to you.” “Who? Who died?” asked the archdeacon, | shoulder, as they walked slowly back toward the bridge. “Mr. Kent.” E The elder man said nothing for a while— alond at least, But presently he asked Jack to tell him about it. “There is little to tell. After we left him he went out, Going home again late at night, and not, I fear, very steady, he was ran down by aroad~car. When they brought him to the hospital he was hopelessly injured, but quite sensible, They fetcned his daughter, and then he asked for me—as your son. He did not know my address, but the assistant surgeon happened to be a friend of mine, and did, and he seut a cab for me.” And really that seemed all. “It is very, very sudden; but—heaven forgive me—I caunot re- gret his death,” said the clergyman. “It is im- | possible.” They had reached the corner of the bridge. | “There is something else I should tell you.” | Jack said nervousiy, “When he had sent fot j me: he bad @ lawyer brought and made his wil is will?” repeated the archdeacon, some- what startled. ‘Had he anything to leave?” He asked the question rather in pity for so | wretched a creature as the man had seemed to him than out of curiosity. “If we may believe him,” said Jack slowly, ~and I think he was telling the truth, he was worth £30,000.” “Impossible!” cried the archdeacon, “I do not know,” replied Jack. “But we shall soon learn. He said he had made it in oil, and had come home asa poor man to see how his wife and child would receive him. I do not think he was all bad,” Jack continued thoughtfully, “There must have been a streak of romance in him.” : “I fear,” muttered the archdeacon very sensi- “that it is all romance.” But it was not romance; truth beats fic- tion; there is in the states yet, and Mr. Kent, of whom, since he is dead, we all speak with respect, by hook or by crook had got his share. The £30,000 were really discovered pleasantly fractifying in Argentine railways, and proved as many reasons why Mrs. Yale, when Jack’s fate became known to her, should still smile again, The archdeacon put it neatly: To marry an actress is a grave offense because a common one, aud one easily committed; but to marry an actress with £30,000. Well, such ladies are not blackberries, nor do they grow on every bush. Mr. and Mrs. John Yale have not yet estab- lished themselves at the Hall. They live at Henley, and their honse is the resort in sum- mer of all kinds of people, among whom the archdeacon is a butterfly. An idea prevails— though a few of us are in the secret—that Mrs. Jack comes, in common with so many other pretty women. of an old Irish family; and the other day I overheard an amusing scrap of con- versation at her table. “Mra. Yale,” some one was saying, ‘do vou know that you remind me so strongly, if I may say it without offense, of Miss Kittie Latouche, actress?” cs “Indeed?” replied the lady with a charming blush. “And do you know that you are on dangerous ground? My husband was in love with that young lady before he knew me, and I believe that he secretly regrets her now.” “Tit for tat!" cried Jack. “Let us ail begin telling tales. If my wife was not in love with one Mr. Chas, Williams a month—only a month—bejore she married me, I will eat her.” “Ob, Jack!” exclaimed the lady, covered with confusion. But this story wonld not be believed in Studbury, where Mrs. John passes for being a little shy, a little timid, and not a little pradish.—Cornhill Magazine. Baby McKee’s Teeth. Oh, how are they coming now, Baby McKee? Haby McKee, with your smooth red gums; There Il be joy in your tioosier home, Baby McKee, High jinks galore, when your first tooth comes. A big man will be, Baby McKee, Baby McKee, with your white fazzy head, And the country will bear of it, Baby vickee, In the morning before it gets up out of bed. Half-hourly bulletins, Baby McKee, by McKeo, with your high-ehrilling squeal, Will be put in the windows for people to see, And every fond motuer'll Know just how you feel. Five hundred fingers will feel of that tooth, Pry open that mouth of Baby McKee, And statesmen declare, with the accent of Booth, You're the handsomest young one they ever did Bee. You'll have bushelsof teething rings, Baby McKee, Baby McKee, when you “holler” at night,— And the great man, your daddy, will tramp up and bigger than ¢, Baby McKee, many Moles ec a B., von Lige | the boss of the earth. cn News, Saturday Smiles. Those who wish to see ice in August will saw ice in February.—Chicago Inter-Ocean, “Do you expect to keep Lent, Mr. Gi “Oh, yes, sorter half way keep it; that better half keeps it. Harper's Bazar, | “What a it is,” says a city clergyman, staan theecas us tia sous amon eaten saints.”"—St, Louis ee. The bankrupt lists rarely contain name of an advertiser.— Philadelphia Press, Qld Lady (rushing into drug store)—“Say, mister, I want some it” Obliging Clerk—“Yes'm, | pressing one hand very heavily on the other's | © i om © a i2w* ASHINGTON CONSERVATORY OF MI a Pp Cloud Building, oth and = ‘Tween! ane, € nie. Comet, Sdvantages OB . Direct Mian ORTHAND IN SIXTEEN & da S' ie LESRONS. * ly. Tuition by mail eepecialty. send for pamphlet. Type-writ charge Head whool Acme = fcscctaat WA Pw AINT! DRAWING TN. CHARCOAL ND Crayon taught by Mise PULLER. « student rm edeiphia Art Schools, 12 lessuue for 64, nw. QHOKT-HAND ACQUIRED POR NOTE-TAKING 3m Bve lessons, reporting bo twelve wre br pal lesson tree, PL RNIN <STTt h _- ae A) 10th st. n. f 4 for all examinations, FE! positions carefully revised : | erene N ASTER OF AKTS WITH poy futut, collage, Fonserly brit it Ney Pipl High and Normal seboula Fi ‘AE 3 sence : JRENCH, LATIN, GREER. wecialty. Prof. ARR Lae F. a Private tutor in Sciences, modern languages. 903 16th st. nw. Colleges of America, . Tuition fees, inoderste. Pive Besines Course, Shorthand any ing; Practical Englix: re’ Raph viting , Reading and Oratory, Delsarte wethod. Business amea rnished with competent eyes, Wiustrated an- nouncements, free SAKA A SPENCER, Vice- pal, HENRY C. SPENCER, LL.B, Principal. PROF SCHEEL TEACHER OF PIANO. ORGAN and Soo at nie! edgantotn, ok ey to he inners ax well as those 1 ‘as pers fi ere; 734 12th at. nw. Sate-skwtmne LESSONS. q MADAME CHEV KEMONT, de VAcadéme de Paris. Sart daily. Evening classes for adi 512 13th wt, now, IANO, 1-ESSONS — puri of Wim. Mason, e020 Suu* im USS CLARA HARRISON, a fies “2294 19th st. nw, TD RANING AND PAINTING—INSTRUCTION IN every branch and for all &t THE NATIONAL ACADEM S04 Est. Call aud see the students. Pe 188 ERNA V_ RODENGTE! ah oe vw ole we — — concerts, &c. A limited number of pup received. Address 1329 Wallach Pisce PSist WASHINGTON SCHOOL OF FL0C Oratory, 904 M st. nw, Mre. BART, Principal. Voice enlture and sicb caretully taugut. 51AMMERIN cured. Refereucesto patrons, JDWARD C. TOWNSEN 4 Teacher of Flocution. deep) breath oice Culture, Oratorical an@ Action. 13th st, now a3i Sm . ANNAPOLIS, MD. 7 te and four courses of study, _Uretaratory school attached SPECIAL ATTENTION GIVEN TO PRE: ATION CANDIDATES YOR F NAVAL ACADEM, eu ress Progident se THOMAS FELL, A.M. Mz YEesON SeaiNans, 2100-1104—1116 M STREET AND 1128 11TH STREET. BOARDING AND DAY SCHOOL FOR YOUN@ LADIES AND LITTLE GIRLS. fon in all branches tn arcordance: nei methods. Commodions pow tom Real t OSS, 1412 MASSA. ure? ti Rogan ad r Thorough instrnet! with the best of Techuicon,Orgun, au cial attention given te thorouwh bass classes; also to vocal, Py Larmony aud dl-3m BUSINES c JATION- SOOK-KEEPING,PEN- 1 Br os, Ly pe-writiag, kio- al progress. Low tes. Est. i NR. WOOD'S COMMERCIAL SCHOOL, jal y BEKLITZ SCHOOL OF LANGUAGES ‘Terns begin now. oe 723 14th st. nw JPRESDE, SELECT SCHOOL A rurmaiy, 43 termediate, and Wich Schou Sor both wraes 1s ii T st. mw HOS. W. SIDWELL, Principal application ERANCIS G. AMC HARVARD GRADUATE DESIEAS PUPLLA Singly or a Classes. Apply te Warn PUES iat aw, #e19-Gmo _At Sanders & Stayvaun’s, 334 Fs. iw. LADIES’ GOODs. Warre, Howarn & Co, 2 ; we York, ‘Ssratowa, Long Branch, and St. Awrustin®, Have opened their Branch House, 815 15th stn. ©. With the most magnificent stock of IMPORTED COSTUMES DINNEK AND BALL GOWNS, WRAPS, BONNETS, &e. Mux M. J. Praxo 1520 F et. nw. Mrs. Harrison’ FINE FRENCH BALE GOODS. Also, A special selection in SHELL, AMBER AND DULL JET OK NAMENTS. SHAMPOOLNG, Bair Dressed and Bangs Shingiod. "—_jad-2m* Mass J. Boocrss MODEL RIDING HABITS EVENING AND KECEPTION COSTUMES _-- a e LADY, FOKMERLY CARRYING 01 making ‘in New York, would like the Washington ladies Moderate prices and’ peri Cutting and basting a specialty. HE FEDORA DRESS SHIELDS pounced y ty WwooDW asthe best in their stock. The everywhere, JON BRANDIS. 1 Tailor-made Ge Street Costumes, ete., made Stand work, one tittiig regui Formerly ‘with Lord & Tay Barr & © red Jor, New York, Ly St. Louis. Buttowholes made. "jal! H DYEING. SCOURING we + AND DR! Bou. Hiuah, Velvet aud kvening Dresses Rake ning LERCH, torwerly with A. is. HAM, RRIERS” 923 F street, secoud floor, And 1310 Sth st. n.w., between N and 0 sta. jetta NION FISCHER'S DRY CLEANING ESTAB- LISHMENT AND DYE WORK ‘Ladies’ and Gents’ Garments of all Dyed without being ripp 2 Phir 7 years’ experience, Rice ve y ed for and delivered. WOOL GALMENTS, MADE UP OR RiP?! ved mourning bla Abalsimdasnr tine =, ORF a4 ‘208 G st. aw, _ PIANOS AND ORGANS. eornnur K PMARKA- by fine pustremene z “¢ Pianos and Burdett Orvans, wuld tere since 15 years, tle “yak for themselves.” G. Ho KUN. Sole Agent, 407 Lot st. aw. Ei) Sasprns & Sears AN DECKER BROS. W FISCHER snd ESTER PIANOS. Sold on we erwin aiid for Bem w why ESTEY ORGAN», ore, Md wond, Va. JPALLET ss bavie Fi sclectod flock: kaw FI re many 1 TONE, UNEQUALED Ay attention of DOVE et 6 invited for rent. SEOOND-HAND, PIANOS. SONPMLY INSTR ag