Evening Star Newspaper, January 18, 1890, Page 13

THE EVENING STAR: WASHINGTON. Written for Tux Evexixo Stam. | WHOSE WAS THE HAND? BY MISS BRADDON. Author of “Lady Audley’s Secret,” “Like and Uulike,"" “Tshmael,” “The Day Will Come," &0. | j | 14LL RIGHTS RESERVED.) Se Continued, CHAPTER V. DAISY's DIARY SEVEN TEARS AFTER. Oyril says he thinks I could write a norel. 1| have read so many stories, so much poetry and Tem such a fanciful imaginative creature he | felis me, I hope that isn’t another way of say- fing that Iam silly and affected. One never | quite knows what a university men means. Uniergraduates seem to have alangaage of | their own. made up of satire and contempt for | other people. Cyril ix such a curious young | man, he always sewms to mean a great deal | more than he At rate he has said ever so many times this summer that I ought to be able towrite a novel. Howl wish I cou}d. How delightful it must be to invent People that scm alive, to live in their ves and in their adventures to move all over the World in a beautiful dey dream. not dim and confused and blurred and blotted with absurd- ities as night dreams are, but clear and vivid with the light that never was ou land or sea. I only wish Cyril were right; but alas, he | #8 wrong. I have tried ever so many times. I have begun story after story, and have torn up ™my manuscript after the second or third chap- ter, My heroine seemed so foolish and so ble, there was no life in her. those dear dolis [ loved so, that never would sit Bp, not even against the wall. She was every bit as limp. My hero was better, but I'm rather afraid he was too mach like Rochester in “Jane Eyre” where he wasn't the very image of Guy Livingston. What men those were. Guy was nicer—he would have shown off best at a dinner party or a ball, Mr, Roch: ter comes nearer one’s heart. How I could have loved him after he went blind. Huppy | Jaus—to be so miserabie. neariy starved to | death, and then to have her own true love | after ali. No. Pm id 1 shall never write a novel. | There is somethiag waating. Invention I sup- | Pose, But I am very fond of writing, so [ have | made up my mind to write my own life. My adventares would hardly fill a chapter—not if I becan at my cradle. and crue! school lik What it was to be hung: walk, and then it wa: I never went to a hard a yre. Tnever knew except afier a long iy a pieasant Lunger, With the knowiedg ock tea and hot bane aud thin bread and butter were waiting for meat | udes to write we 1 love, By impressions of Dook« and aa:mals, | How big a volume I con'd filf upon one sub- lone if I were to write wother and vears I chic anion, tiwava child and i games, I tancied has I was. | mers even, yihing more 2. To preteud painted wooden jored joints and < and green tarts and pmidings ; 4 to make conversation think everything aice, aud to “ip ofa wooden lrg of mut- iy bored she must have t ea marty dore and shat Sata stretch, people and scenery. and com leeock | She | | Year or two ago. battledore contests * how young looks, more hke my elder sister r. indeed strangers generally tty is too insignificant SHOW nO ONE With and pale. with up her fue . her large hazel eyes ever enw. have so, light in themand her am are like amimer sanshine, at 1 must begin the sory of my life in those | dey when 1 was just old enouzh to under- stand all thet was going on around about me, | aud to be sorry when those I loved were sorry, aod that wili bring me only too soon to the saddest part of ai! my hfe, the time when my father was taken trom us, } Let me try and recall bim vividly in this book while [am still able to remember him exactly as be was, so that when Iam old and memory rows dium Iimay find his image here. as one nds arose ina bovk. dry aud dead, but with its beauty and coior and velvet texture still re. maining. What a like Gu: Rochester. Or repulsive deed, ait splendid Liv: i like Edword F re was nothing dark or ri about my dear gh one’s henrt P T one would take | dy to Brian de Bois Gilbert. or | evento Rochester in real life. My father was like David, of @ pleasant countenance, ruddy aud fairtosee. lcan bring his face and figure before me like a vision when I shut my eves in | the sunshine and fancy him walking across the lawn to mect me, witii the blue of the river be- bind Lim, as 1 used to see him so often in the | happy days before I went to Harle et. | He was tali and broad shouldered, upright, | with an easy walk. He took long steps as he | came across the grass ® his oak stick, the stick he used in his f | or Readi woods to | some out-of-the-way vi s almost always out of do: mer—alone. or with | mother, oftenest with mother—walking, driv- | ing, rowing, playing tenuis, | Hie was not too oid for tennis, Yes, there is | the bright, frank face, and the smiling bine | eyes—honest Englisn eyes. His portrait, im | the hirary, hotugraphs imay heip to iy im my memory, but it ne as if I never could have forgotten here bad been no portrait of iim in It is hardly a question of memory. race lives im my heart and mind | He was fond of me. One of my earliest | recollections lying at the end of the punt among Pp of soft cushions, while; my father w up and down with the lor beavy punt p and moved the gre boat over the t blue wa: ning into a quiet backwater, where he would moor tis boat, aud sitand smoke his pipe i the né, and talk to me in a slow, dreamy een the pulls of tobacco. or let me tobim. Ob, how 1 used to chatter in my | je suriil voice. and what questious I used to | ask hira, q) m after question, and how gled hy used to look sometimes at my everis suush et ing " ing “what.” r a did the river muke the boat or what were the flowers made Dearest father, how patient he was with | He used to laugh of my questions, He xplained things, or taught me the Bames of the flowers like Uncle Ambrose, Our Efe together was a perpetual Loiid: Hie tought me how to fish for dace and minnows Out of the stern of the boat, and 1 was very Bappy with him. It all seems lice a dee: happiness now as I look back apon it. as distinct as the most vivid dream from which Oue has only Just awakened, Sometimes these Lappy mornz jay morninzs when wother was at 3 dened to be # very warm d. uid begin to yawn at breakfast time and ould say be did not fee! inclined for church Would go on the water with Daisy. and neu J used to clap my hands and rush off to | get my sus bonnet, and before mother had | time w make any objection we were off to the boat house to get the pole and the cushions. When the churci bells began to ring from the old red tower we were gliding ever so far up the river on the way to our favorite backwater, Where father used to sit and read his Suaday | apers while { worried the little, happy, danc- @ fish under the willows, Silvery darting creatures, swift as light! How glad lam now that I caught so few of em. Yes, he was very good to me. talk of days when Ishould be grown up and When he would take me to parties and bails. “Your mother and iare saving ourselves up ; ‘¥." he said, “Thats keh ermits.” He used to some little princ Feneion was uct thought too good to be a ince’s tutor. Unele Aimbrose trught me from very beginning. It was his whim and fancy todo doso, Heisman of such labo- Pious baits taat Le takes mo acuountof trouble, | lanes; but we reached home safely, and and in all the years he bas labored at my ed- | from her neck almost hg tg Der Iclung to to be allowed to stay ueation I can never remember one impatient | her crying and beggin; word, or even one impatient caordaient on his , with her. Her eyes (eoked right over my head pert. I have lost patience often, I, the learner, | when she said good-by to me at the door, as if tie. the teacher, never. she saw something a Jong war off, some horri- Icon jast remember how I came to call him | ble thing that froze her blood and made her Unele Ambrose, 1 used to call him Mr. Arden— | dumb. Masser Arden, at least, for it was before I could | I can understand what she felt now, and how in her grief she was hardly conscious of my ex- speak plainly, One day he told me net to call hima mister; it was too formal between him and | istouces and that she did not really care whatner me. ‘Cull’ me Ambrose,” he said, and then | I went or stayed. Ican sympathize with her | mother looked up from her work and said that | now. She has told me how she hardly missed } would never do. A little girl could not address | me in those days of agony—only awaking some- | man of his years and learning by his Chris- | times as if out of a dream to wonder that my | tian name. place was empty. We had been so much to- “T am not qnite so elderly as I seem,” he | oe ee after her everywhere like a lap said, langhing, “but if you think Ambrose | dog, shenever tired of me. or became impatient won't do, let me be an imagi uncle, and jet | with me; and yet in thet overwhelming sorrow her call me Uncle Ambrose. ill that do?” she almost forgot that she hada daughter. She “Yes,” said mother, ‘that will do very well.” | has owned as much to me, and I have never Sofrom that time forward he was Uncle Ain- | felt wounded or angry that it should have been brose, and he is Uncle Ambrose to thia day, | so with her, since 1 have been able to under- Just as kind. and good, and devoted aa he was | stand the nature of such grief as hors. But at when I was a little girl, with bare arms, short | the time I was heart broken by her coldness. etticoais, and asun bonnet, He still occupies | Aunt Emily took me to London and gave me prmself about my education, although he a | over to the nurses and governesses in her house muck more distingu shed person than when he | in Harley street. It is ‘a very large house. the began the task. Ie has published three dif-| largest in the street, I believe, and it was built ferent books since then, books of the very | for a rich nobleman w Harley street was st literary character, which have made new, and there was nothing bat fields and | r ttion amongst the learned and the | country villages to the north—no Regent's Park, | reiued su England and on the Continent. Re- no squares and terraces, and never-ending Viewers have written about him in several | strects as there are now. It is a fine old how-e, s. his success has been undisputed, | with paneled walls and decorated ceilings and is quoted with Darwin, and Spencer, | lare rooms at the back; but itseemed, ob! such Mullen. Ina word he is a famous | a dreary house tome after our garden by the man; and yet he is content to go drudging on | river and our bright, gay rooms, at the task of educating a frivolous girl like Father is dead and mother doesn’t love me eare reading Duruy’s “Histoire des | any more,” I sxid to myself again and again, as | er this summer, and with it we | [sobbed myself to sleep in the strange bed are reading Plxto” and Jowett's mag- | room, where the very curtains of the bed were ent trauslat The little Greek that I| an agony to me becouse of their strangeness, know helps me to appreciate the beauty and | I had never been parted trom my mother t grace of the English rendering. I should like | fore. Wherever she and my father went they to kiss the hand that wrote that noble book, had taken me with them. * * * * . My cousins were all older than me and they How suddenly, how awfully that bappy life | had to work very hard under « French and a with my father came to an end. Iremcmber | German governess. Franiein taught them that summer moruing when he left as soon | Music and painting, and Mademoiselle taught after breakiast te go to London and complete | tiem French, attended to their wardrobes, ¢ of Mr. Florestan’s land. We | With @ useful maid under her, and superin- din the garden, in on open tent on | tended their calisthenic exercises and dancing the lawn, and we were all’ so happy, Father | lessons, and was “responsible ior their figures,” taiked o: nothing ‘but the land aed the uew | 1eaunot help putting that plrase in mt book, arden which was to be laid out immediately, | for L heard my aunt use it very often, Her Gs quand bad all been hla out ones iy on | &reat desire was that her daughters should be paper. he plans were im the library on | 8¢complished and elegant in all their attitudes father's writing table—drawings of terraces | #ud movements, i and balustrades, vases aud statues lightly i expect them to be statuesque in repose sketched im with that bewutiful touch which | 8nd graceful in motion,” she said, and it gave mizkes almost any house charming before it ig | her almost a nervous attack when she saw built, Everybody had seen the plans and had | Clementina sitting with her toes turned to each talked sbout them, and argued and advised, | Other, or her feet and ankles twisted into a knot under her chair, | There is no malice in saying that Aunt Emily's idea of education was the ve pposite to thas | of Uncle Ambrose’s, He tunght and trained me | to be happy im solitude. as he is, to be good company for myself and to tiud new interesta | every day in books. Aunt wily wished ber daughters to shine in society, to talk French | German and to play and’ sing better than | | any other girls in her circle, and xbove all to | make the most of their persoual advantages, | She is perfectly candid in the expression of her | idexs and makes no secret of her views upon education, so there is no harm in mv recording them in this journal, which nobody is ever to read,so I might be as malevolent as I like without injuring anybody, Mother ‘says that I am very uncharitable ometimes in my ideas and ments and that a large hearted charity is a Virtue of age rather than youth. 1 know that I am quick to sve | the weak points in the characters of my fricuds | and acquaintances and I daresay { at just as | blind to my own defects, It is a lucky thing for Aunt Emily that her five daughters are good looking and two of | them decidedly haudsome. A p.siu daughter | would have been an actual wfliction to her. Ail | the ugliness of the family has concent ‘ated | itself in ber only son. my cousin Horace, plain boy. But fortunately he is scientitic and promises to be @ shining licht in the medica profession; at least that is what his tather and mother say of him. Hie has msde a provound | study of sanitation, and he can hardiy talk to any one five minutes without mentioning sewage 5 He is alwi altering the lighting or the rainage or the ventilation in ilarley street, father compluins that his experiments alent to a reut, and my dear father had talked them ail down with his grand ideas of an Itaiian garden, Unele Ambrose qnoted Lord Bacon's essay on gardens. Iremembered the very words a year ago when I began to read Bacon. ‘They came back to me like the memory of a dream. I was only a child, but 1 used to #it and listen to everything that was said, and thiak and wonder, Father kissed mo at the gate betore he got into the I-cart that was to take him to the station. Thank God fr that kivs, He looked back at motier and me ax he drove away. He looked aronnd #t us with his beaatiful smile und called “i shail bring the title deeds home for you to lok a d mother to meet him at the sta- nthe evening. She was to drive her pomes, aud she was to take me with her if she liked. On those loug summer days I used to situpunilY o'clock, and I used to sit with mother and father wills thev dined. My Aunt Taibot aes against what she tied o aud said | was bein, It, and suould grow up old-fashioned, thnow xbout the spoiling, bat perhaps I grow old-fashior I could not have been Pi did | my mother’s companion in all those happy sii Thad not been fond of many things my cousins don't care for, Station, mother and I, in train that was due ata ore7, We were there about a before the train was due, | quarter 0. and we walked up aud down the long narrow platrorm in the » fa trcer evening talking about er and his delzht in the uew garden, the the first instance,” © father 19 80 good to me ress a wish and he imme- If I were to ask for 4 roc’s exy. itke the Princess Badroulbadour, I believe he would start of to Africa to look for one.” Iremember laughing at the idea of the egg, “A roc’s ecg would be as big Ui our hous, mother. Wouldn't it be funny if some one sent | us one?" There were yery few people at the station, and we walked up and down and talked as mer- rily as if we Lad been im our own garden. Pres- eu when my father died, and while Iwas at Westgate with my consi and the two goveruesses le used to come dow on # Saturday and stop till Monday, ana I mast |own to my diary, which is a kind of lion's mouth into which Lean drop any accusations 1 like, that he gave himselt great airs to his sisters and the governesses, aud was altogether very disagreeable, Those summer wecks at Westgate were the ¥ an clectrie bell begun to ring, and then w | BBhappiest period of my life. I look back at | er came out and rang @ beil on the plat- | tiem, now lam growu up. and wonder that I | Torm in front of the little waiting room, aud ; Ver lived through them. My cousins were then the train came slowly in and mother and | Kind to me in a condescending way, as was | Istood looking at the faces in the carriage | «tural from big girls toa iitle girl, and the | windows. ‘Lbere was xeldom any delay iu fist. | RUVeruesses were very sorry for me ‘aud tried ing ont father among the arrivals, He was al-| ' comfort me, but tliere was no comtort for Ways one of the first to open the door, and al- | Me on the fuce of the earth without my mother, ‘way oot the alavt to ee ua. and night alter night 1 dreauit of my dead . A r her und woke to the agouy of knowing that eal Thee pean ees eee oamad for hime tn | Tehould never see his beloved fnce or hear bis | * | dear voice again, except in dre. T think tue train went on. and mother and I were lett | grown-up people forget how ke standing on the platform, disappointed and un- is . : ye happy. The next train to stop at Lamford was Rivved andl sufered wen thes wore, children, ee ae prigaantirg are | grief. [know that wuen either of the govern- id —® | esses tried to console me she always de me long, long time for us to wait, ng. ae kage vare Just a little more miserable than I was before i rust drive yaa home, Daisy,” said my | ii6 took me on her lap and talked to me sbont mother. “and then I ean come back to meet | heaven and my father beers , Theard by accident, as I was not intended to Ttried to persuade her to wait there and let | hear it, thet my mother was very iil, danger- me wait with ber—the ides of home and bed-| oociy sll, andl was 20 uahappy about her that Ing mother wae en ad cochlea ce thst | after eniceating again and agein with passion: Reracthe aoe As cog =n he - clung t0 | ate tears to be taken to her I made up my mind poled yeactoote ps oredr edging tm | £0 walk to London and from London to River Let us wait for father; I'm not tired; I'm Lawn. I had looked at the map of Engl: paige Ope us wait for him, and ail go | sometimes when my cousins had their atlases | It was.a lovely evening; the sun still bright, | out itt Aner, that to reach Lamford Tf must the station master’s little garden full of sweet thinking of how { was to getaway when the Same roues, clove carnations, aud | governess and the maids were engaged and T on 2 «: could creep ovtof the house without being there ee The seam at home,” said My! seen. 1 believe I should really have started on coraseae et rene “8 this journey but for the arrival of my Uncle | sheng ica ‘ Ambrose, who came upon me suddenly on the ral hip epee po Gecide her. She patme | Gay after I had heard of my mucher's illness i j i 4 ponies could go, I was almost afraid at the | Sn¢,Who found me sitting crying alone on the pace we traveled along the dusty roads ht] | His was the first voice that brought me com- : : | fort; it was upon his breast that 1 sobbed out gree spies greg sapere a | @Y grief, until the burden seemed lightened T went back to the eee cight, and) somehow. He told me that my mother was out mocther, ioe back to the: sieson, Deowidit| Fr asc ccasy aad lia aha wostdacee get well, mer duck in tae onnrand waiting in the sum. | or at least well enough for me to go heme and Fooma.. I got my darce to les ne soar asibs | be with her again, and he suid I must try and — Gor sey ay eee SY SOO OPM, bea comfort and aconsolation to her in the and | listened for the return of the carriage. "| G25 to come When I heard the wneels 1 ran out upon the | “4? : i rs - told him I was afraid my mother bad left lence fs Wutence oroenie se feP | off loving me since father’s death. She had not sf ‘ “e seemed to mind my going away, while i was Batt aly cae epee ae eee tug | Neart broken at leavingher. And then he tried butler» we ™Y mother speaking to the | i> make me understand how in a great grief "e - \ like my mother’s all things seem biotted out, “Your master has not come by the nine o'clock | except that one overpowering sense of loss, train. Simeon. There is no other train till after | He told me that a dark curtain had fallen over midnight, You will bave to sit up for him and | my mother’s mind, and that I should tind her jrrauge @ comfortable supper. He may not | changed from the happy woman I had known have found time to dine in London, in the happy days thai were gone. I ran down stairs in my night gown, bate-| “But the curtain will be litted by-and-by, footed, and tried to comfort poor mother, for I Daisy,” be said, “and you will see your mother's could tell by ber voice that she was unhappy. | joyous nature return to her. No grief lasts She took mein her arms and cried over me, forever. A year ix a long time even tor a great j nd we went upstairs together, she scolding | sorrow, and in @ year your mother wiil begin to me a little for icaving my bed room, but not forget,” really angry. I knew that she was hardly! He meant this for consolation, but my tears thinking about me. 1 kuew that she was mis-| broke out afresh at the thought that my father erable about my father. could be forgotten, This was only the beginning of trouble. She hall never forget him,” I said. Was up all night, walking about her own room ¥ jo, my darling, he will live in your memory or going down stairs and out into the garden | and your mother's, but your memory of him d to the gate to listen for his coming. All| will be sweet and’ sad, insiead of bitter and mgot at intervals I heard her going ap and | cruel. He wiil have taken hix natural place in down and the opening and shutting of the | the past, aud his shadow will not darken the heavy hail door. The butler and one of the | present as it does now.” maids sat up all night, Mother told Simeon “Let me go home soon.” { said, clinging to she felt sure his master would come home by | him when he was leaving Westgate later in the road im the middie of the night even, rather | afternoon. than leave her im suspense. Such athing as| “Pray, pray, pray let it be soon,” his breaking an appoitment with her bad ‘As soon as ever your mother is well enough never happened before. to see you, darling,” he promised. It was broad daylight when I cried myself to 1 had always been fond of him. He had sleep—so unhappy for mothe ke; so fright- | always had the next place in my heart after my ened. without knowing why. about my father. , fatter and mother, but he seemed nearer to me Mother lett the house early next morning to than ever after that day, and he has never lust | go to London with Ambrose Arden. She did| the place that he took thea, or tho influence uot come back for three days. and then my | that he had over me then in my desolation, Aunt Eauly came with her, and mother w: I+pent three more weary weeks at Westgate altered that I hardly knew her. She was dressed | after this. Aunt Talbot was with a fashionable in » aud her pale face had a look that | party in the Higllands, Uncle Talbot was part made me tremble. She scarcely spoke tome | of his time in ilurley street and part of his or uoticed me, but my aunt took me on her lap | time rushing about England and Scotland by sud told me that a great sorrow had come upon | express trains to see his most distinguished me. patients, I used to hear my cousin wik of the My father was dead. d places he went to and the people he went to 1 would not believe it for ever so long. I had | see—great people all of them. He had the lite heard of people dying. but they were oid peo- | and sanity of cabinent ministers and bishops in ple who had beeu ill for a long time, or weak | his special custody, and he made them obey his ittle children, and even they bad been ill for | most severe orders in fear and trembling. I agood many days and nights before the end | used to sit and listen idly in my wretched, low- came, Dut my father was well and strong and | spirited state wie my cousins and the gover- happy when he sat in the cart waving us good- | nesses chatted about my aunt’s gowns and my by with bis whip. My auat saw that I did | uncle's patients, and 1 remembered as children not believe or did not understand her; and she | remember things in which they take no in- = me hav! ws my father =e. died sud- | terest, ha; lenly in London when he was on way toa| At last the came for my goin; lawyer's office to buy Mr. Florestan's He | home, and here fens we Ambrose to fete was dead within afew hours after he drove| me. ‘How good it is of” you to come so far,” 1 away from our gat te do told him. “you must have other things Nothing could ever bring him back to me upon | be: ides coming to fetch me.” this earth, If I were to = all my life in| There is no other thing in this world that prayers, never to rise up my knees while I comes before my duty to my little pupil and sived, my prayers would not give him to me for | her mother,” he answered, in his slow serious tive minutes, would not gain me +o much as | ton: 08. the sound of his dear voice calling me from the| We went off to the station in an open fly to- inwa. &' fr, and I'm sure my lively cousius must My aunt took me to London we been very giad to get rid of a cryi: I child that used to = corners and sit at with a me! face, but they couldn't be gladder to part me thau I was wo go away. I had tried to take interest in their wil to al jh \ D. C., SATURDAY, JANUARY 18. 1890—SIXTEEN PAGES. lessons when the German govet urged me to rnin my mind, but their lessons se med so dull and dificult compared with Uncie Ame brose’s way of teaching me. The Fraulein was always grinding at ea ant cept so fer as learning my French verbs, I hardly knew what grammar meant. but, with- out being vain, it is only fair to Uncle Am- brose to say that at ten yearsold I knewa 7 deai more about the history of the worl people ‘who lived” in it than mg ‘ousin Dora, who was eighteen. And even in those days I knew something abont the great poets of the world, of whom Dora and her Sisters knew nothing; for Uncle Ambrose had told me abont Dante and his wonderful hist bout heli and beaven, and about Goethe ani is Faust. andhe had read Milton's story of Adam and Eve and the fallen angel who tempted him and Shakespeare's “Tempest” and “As You Like It” and “Midsummer Night's Dream” aloud to me, to familiarize my ear and my mind with poetry while 1 was still'a child, he said, I had to thank his kindness for all I knew, and for being a better companion to my mother than I would have been if I had had @ Fraulein and a Mademoiselle to teach me, When we were sitting in the railway carriage and the sun was shining fall upon Cnele Am- brose’s face I noticed for the first time that there was a great change in him since the sum mer. I had been too excited and busy to take notice of it before, but I saw now that he had grown thin and paler, and that he looked older and very ill, Iputmy arms round him and kissed him as I used to do in the dear old days. “Poor Unele Ambrose,” [ said, “how sorry you must have been. Ilove you better than ever dear, because you are so sorry for us.” His head was leaning forward on his breast, and ho gave one great aob. That was his only answer, How distinctly I retaember that journey, through the clear September light, by great Yellow corn fields and the blue bright sea, and then hop gardens and orchards full of fruit, and then houses and houses and houses and then at last the air grew dull and chick and the sun seemed dead and this was London. Uncle Ambrose was silent and thoughtful all through the journey, which seemed so long; oh, 8o long, as if it would never come to an end. and bring me to mother and home, I have been to the Highlands since then and to the Riviera, but those journeys were with mother and they did not seem half so long as the We from Westgate to London and across .ondon to Paddington and from Paddington to the little station at Lamford, where we waited for father that evening —for father who Waa never, never, never coming home to us v sight of the station, and the station- er's garden—which was all ablaze with sand hollybocks now, where the sweet pers had been blooming—I burst into tears, Lhey were the first f had shed since I left West- ; but the sight of the garden brougnt back the memory of that evening when I walked and down with mother, and when we were bot s0 gay and happy, talking of father and what be would say and Low he would look when we saw his face at the carriage window. I have but to shut my eyes, even now, after seven years have changed me from a child to almost a woman, i 1 can see the station lyin, all among the meadows by the river side, and cau see my father's face as I expected to see it, siniling at us us the train came in—dear, well- remembered faces which 1 was never to see agian, SThere waa a carriage at the station to take us home, but mother wasn’t in the carriage, When he saw my disappointment Uncle Atmbrose told me that she was still great invalid and had not gone beyond the garden since her ill- a “You will have to comfort and cheer her with your loving littic ways, Daisy.” he said; ‘hut You will have to be very quiet and gentle. It is not so long since she could hardly bear the sound of any one's voice. You will fiud ber sadly chan i 1hink how much more trouble e hus gony tirough than I have had to bear.” on look as if you cou:dn't have been I said; for indeed I never had sadaess in any face ag I had seen in his tha: day, . . . Mother was lying ona sofa by the drawing room fire, The evenings were beginning to be chilly and she was an iuvalid, wrapped in a larg: ie China erape sh one of father's gilts, which I remembered ever siues I conld . Temember anything, ‘ihere was a middie aged woman in the room, neatly dr iu black, With a white cap and aprou, whom I afterward knew as one of mother’s nurses. She had had two nurses all through her illness, one for the day and the other for the night, for there had been one dreadful time when it was thought thatshe might try to kill herself if she were left alone. Yes, she was changed. more changed than Unele Ambrose. She was wasted to a shadow sud there was no color in her face, Even her lips were white. Her beautiful hair, which father had been so proud of, had all been cut off, and she wore a little lace cap, which cov- ered her close-cropped head and was tied under her chin, Her poor hands were almost trans- parent, She gathered me up in her arms and she ed and cried over me, and I thought even brought any sense of relief with them, She lifted me into a corner of her sofa, weak as she was. and she kept me there till my bedtime, She bad my supper laid upon a little table by the sofa aud she fed me and cared for me with her own feebie hands, in spite of all the nurse could say, and from that night I was with her alw You don't know what it is to me to have m: little girl again,” she said to nurse; “you don't kuow what is to feel this frozen heart begin- ning to melt and to know that there is some- thing leit in this world that I can love.” She said ulmost the same words to Uncle Ambrose next day when he came over to River Lawn soon after breakfast to give me my morn- mg lessons and I thought he looked more and more sorry 1s he stood listening to her with his hund upon the little pile of books which he had f r from the cottage. He answered th a smile a minute afterward; e8, itisa blessed thing to know we can love and be beloved, Mother told me afterward that there was a reason for his sympathizing with her in her sorrow more than any other friend. He, too, had lost inis nearest and dearest, his good and devoted young wife, after a brief illness, almost as suddenly 28 her loss had come upon her. He, too, was alone in the world, but for an only child, bis son, of whom he was doubtless very fond, ut, mother added, there were times when she fancied thathe was fonder of me than of bis own son. Our lives went on very quietly after that day, and from that day Iwas mother's only com- pauion, We have never been parted since my desolate days at Westgate, and we bave lived almost out of the world. Mother says that next year when Lam eighteen she wiil have to go into society for my sake, end that she will not be able always to go on refusing invitations to garden and tennis parties all along the river banks from Henley to Reading, It will be only right for me to see a little more of the world, mother gays, and to mix with girls of my own I suppose I shall like it when the time but Ihave no longing for ‘ties, or r fine clothes, and my cousins in Har- ley street say Lum the oddest girl they ever met with, but that it isno wonder Iam odd, considering the eccentric manner in which I have been educated. Thave been so happy, so happy with mother in all these years, so tond of our pretty house, which grows prettier every year under mother's care, aud our gardens, which are looked upon as model gardens by all the neighborhood. People come and ask to see them, asa great favor, which is rather hard upon mother and me, who love seclusion, For seven years Uncle Ambrose had gone steadily on with my education, never missing a ape. except when some slight ‘illness has made ther him or me unfit for work. As punctually as the clock strikes 10 he appears at the little garden gate nearest his cottage. If the weather is warm we sitin the summer bonse or under the great willow, which grows and grows aud grows as if it were a magic tree, If it is not summery enough for sitting out-of-doors we work ia the boudoir upstairs, which mother has made my room. Yes, we have been happy together, mother and I, but we have never forgotten father; we never have come to think less of our great loss, Saddest thoughts have mixed with our happiest hours, We uever have forgotten him; we never can forget him. Many women as beau- tifal and #s young looking as my mother would have married a second hueband within two or three years of my father's death; but she has never given a thought to any other man than him and she never will, Once I ventured to ask ber if father was her first love; it she had never cared ever so little for any other lover; and she told me that he was the first who ever spoken to her ot love. She was only eighteen when she married; she was only nine- teen when I was born. She and my father fell in love with each other at first sight, likea prince and princess in a fairy dale, . (70 be continued, } Gladstone’s Appetizer. Excl day for himself. He has perbly in this difficult situation, - MIRACLES IN THE HOUSEHOLD. One Young Woman Executes Four Within Thirty Seconds of Time. Asa matter of fact the pretty young woman ‘was sitting on her foot, though you would never have imagined it, 90 artfully was it dis- guised. She was doing some mysterious fancy work on stuff that looked like satin, but wasn’t, and at this particular moment it chanced that she was on the point of sewing in one corner @ curious little star-shaped button—purpose unknown. Like @ flash she passed a silken thread through the eye of her fine needie.drew sknot in the end of itand began to stitch on the button in the usual fashion. The young man on the sofa opposite balanced his silk hat on the silver knob of his cane and gazed upon her with admiring wonder. “Do you know,” he said, “that you have been rforming, withing the past 30 seconds, four istinet miracles? At any rate they seem such to me. “Miracles!” she exclaimed, with laughing — “Pray, what do you mean?” “Well, in the first place, your threading of that needie off-hand with hardly a glance at it was a marvel in itself. I am sure it would take me at least an hour to accomplish the feat.” “Why that,” suid the pretty girl, ‘is simply ® matter of practice,” “Maybe so; though I'm very sure that no amount of practice would enable me to do it. But I admit that was a trifle compared with the knotin the end of the thread. How on earth could you tie it with one hand? I have seen the thing done often before; but it is a sleight- gibend trick that seems positively astonishing me.” HOW IT 1s DONE. “How fanny! Men always think that won- derful; and yet nothing could be easier, See @his! You give the end of the thread alittle turn around the end of the forefinger; that makes the loop. Then a gentle movement of the forefinger end across the ball of the thumb revolves the loop so as to bring the end of the thread through it; pull, and your knot is fin- ished. Itiscasy enough, you observe.” “No. [ don't, Never. [am sure, could I ac- wire such au art. The only man that ever id acquire it—if, indeed, he knew how to tie a knot with one hand—mnst have been Teiresiaa, the old Greek prophet 1 used to read about in Homer, He was a woman for part of his life, you know. owing to some magical metamorphosis, and he used to entertain the boys around the camp fire before Troy with stories of when he was a girl that were calcu- luted to give away his former sex.” “That was horridjy mean of him, However, do tell me what were the other two miracles that you credit me with performing?” “I'll only meution one of them.” replied the young man. ‘You have just completed it with the sewing onof the button. Ican sew ona button myseif—in fact. {'ve done such a thing once or twice—but the mystery is how you strike the holes from the back side of the cloth every time, They are very small and I shouid have to feel all around for them with the needle; but yousew right through the button as if it presented no obstruction whatever, Without so much as taking the trouble te look at what you are doing.” ‘“Lhat is curious, L admit,” said the maiden, “T really don’t know how that is done, A sort of instinct it seems to be, somehow, acquired by practice, so that one kaow where the holes are without feeliag for them, Bat I iosist upon bearing about the fourth miracie.” MYSTERY OF AN ATTITUDE. “If you won't think me impolite for men- tioning it I will tell you, You are sitting, very gracefully, on your foot, and that is something the possibility of which I have never beon able tocomprehend, No man can sit on his foot without the greatest diticalty, and to preserve such an attitude for five minutes would be torture tome, I have always been curious to know how it was done and why.” The pretty girl yielded to an irrepressible giggle. “You are certainly the most observant person Ihave ever met,” she responded, “i shouid not have supposed that you couid possibly tell, 80 carefully have I studied the art of sitting on my foot without appearing to do so. Don't you know that there is no other position in which one can be #0 entirely comfortable as im thisy Men, I suppose, are not able to curl up that way, it.ia Very unfortunate for them. There is ‘quite a science in doing it properly so 4s not to excite notice. It is not thought to be quite decorous, of course, and so it must be mannged unobtrusively, But the next time that you find yourself in a parlor full of women seated observe them closely and you will find a large perceutage of them sitting on their feet surrepttiously, There is one thing men do that hus always seemed a miracle to me.” A MASCULINE MIRACLE, “T'm glad of that, Do tell me what it ia.” “Shave. I've never understood it, and I never will, how men can do that without chop- ping themselves into little bits, To let a bar- ber do itis worse yet, I cuuid not reconcile myself to the feeiing that I was ip a chair cn- tirely at the mercy of a person operating upon me with a razor, Who could cut my head off any second with a single stroke of his weapon. No; 1 confess I wouid like to be a man if it were not for the necessity of shavin. “You might let your beard grow,” “That I would never do. Lhbatea beard. A mustache is nice; but, if I werea man, I would aiways be close-shaven otherwise.” “The only real advantage of being a woman,” said the young man, ‘is that she doesn’t have to shay “And, alas!” responded the pretty girl, “that advantage is offset by the troublesome neces- sity of doing up her hair.” ————— The Art of Dinner Giving. From the New York Sun. A hostess who wants to make her dinners popular may have them as simple as she likes, but there are some laws she must observe as strictly and with as much fear as were those of the Medes and Persians. She must not have tepid oysters; neither must ice be served about them. She must not have the napery starched until the man with a young mustache feels that every time he puts his napkin to his lips he is risking the destruction of the pride of his life, She inust not bake what ought to be roasted, not serve « fillet until nobody knows whether it 1s a rubber shoe or a piece of oil cloth, She must not have a servant who is inter- ested in anything except good service, He should’nt smile if the wittiest man inthe world told the funniest story, nor should he appear interested if a political secret on which hinged the tuture of Ireland was heard by him. She should count the sweets of the least im- portance and not believe that a bad dinner can be bolstered up by very much decorated cuke or pudding. . She should see that her coffee is as clear as her conscience and as strong as her love. She should not ask anybody whether they will have cream or not, for people who go out to diuuer should learn to do without it, She should not attempt too elaborate a menu. for she wishes each dish to reach the height of perfection, and when the successful dinuer is acheived she should give the cook a large dose of encouragement, a medicine pleas- ant to take. The woman who understands the art of dinner giving is the woman who is past mis- ey of the artof keeping her husband at ome. (eee The Conductor and the Farmer. From the New .ork Sun. As the train left Dayton, south bound, the conductor came into the smoking car with a cry of ‘Tickets, please!” and as there was only one fresh passenger he walked directly up to him, This new arrival was from the farm and in nothing of a hurry. “What's up, kurnel?” he asked as the con- ductor halted before him, “Ticket, sir.” “Yea, is she on time?” “Yes.” “Going right to Cincinnati?” “Yes, Ticket if you please.” “T had a ticket, but— Say, how's wheat looking along the line?” “Give me your ticket,” “Wonder where I put it. Been much rain between bere and Hamilton this month? Feller was telling me yesterday thet he never-—” “I'm in a great hurry, sir!” i “Shoo! Haven't got any ~~ out at the other end of the lin got caught once it week; and me'n Bill had to work like nailors to beat a thunder storm.” ‘Have sou got a ticket?” “Of course, “Then hand it over at once. I can't fool my time here!” “Shoo! Wall, here's the ticket, and I wanta receipt for it. Feller in such a burry as you might die suddenly, Lands! but what a man you'd make for s week or two! Never had one who was in a hurry. Say, if \ AUCTION SALES. =—_ BO. W. STICKNEY, Auctioneer, 930 F. — f Dear eee SEE PORTS vary \ certain deed of trast recorded tn Liber in iSdl hie Set eee tees see District of Columiia, and at the Teguest of the party ro + Pine EIGuTED it day of t DAY, ys ON Fi eeo. = th LE-PASt FOUR O'CLOCK | in the the eft Wit: All of .ot ‘original lot 3, | i] jor ribed pro fon, District of Colum Warters subdivision “Jerme of sale: One-third cash, balance in one two (2) Fears, with interest at the rete of six (8) per contin per albums, payabie seuii-aunually, oF al at the opt oy of the purchaser, @100 deposit requi Shas gle, Ail couveyaucing at purchaser's cost complied with in atten day seonds FibLDEk F. HACKNEY. yaad 5 WAGGAMAN, Real . st.te Auctioneer, as Te: 13 AUCTION SALES, FUTURE Days. JUNCANSON BAO, aucuoneers, C8: iF A NICE pgNoetey ba ate DwerLine. TH Sik SORLHREST of trust da in Liber By virtue of » a USS8, Aud recorded rty-neren ty -01 1-100) feet 10 the rear Of said lot, Uarnoe south aixteoon (1G) f USTEES' SALE OF TWO-STORY BRICK HOUSE, y ty -ths pd thirty -cigut hum oS NO 1214 GEAGDEN'S ALLEY, BETWEEN OM | 58-100) fort to the beesuuiue aad lene of tena AND N AND NINIB AND GENIN STREETS wed by a tw ry treme dweliiug No. i NOGTHS hol BA ireer north wew By wirtue of a of trust recorded in Liber No, | Terms: Oue-thid cash, Delance in three equal 1547, folio 457, of the land reco ds of the District of | Stall..euta, in one, aud three pears, for whi Colambia and at th thereby | notes of the puch juitereat_ at the rete, Secured. we will fell npc abet mor the F cont per an mle and premises On SA. a TS y ok e Aen Weiter HALF Past YOCR OC OCR Pa eae lanes ayy dot 10 u heirs of Joh Dasideon subshivinion of :ous in boys snd ali Suveraveine are 38S, beginning for tue srine at the sovtneavt | anor 6 trae Corter of maid fot aud rum tg’ theses weet glee aes | PRS ‘aaleor§ ri © West south line of satd lot BO reet. tenes cu cust 50 feot to the t alley to the beginning. wich ‘right of way throngh pussageway between this property ata that on the bor h, with the ing Tovenents above stated ‘Terma: One-thid Valance in tre 6 chaser Learins intere day of sale nud secured by deed of rust 01 fold Will be taxen, or all cash, at option of A depositor #100 will be required at time silconveyancing and recordiuc will beat THIS EVENING. ATCLIF! DARK & ©v., Auctioneers, R ae DARE 5 Pee ae, PEREMPTORY AUCTION SALE OF THE ENTIRE PONLENTS OF HE OLD ESLABLISHLD IOK AND STATIONERY SiO0KL GUN. 44 51. AND FA. AVE, LY KNOWS AS BHILLING? AT PRESENT MALISUN Na AKT OF BOOKS BY AP AND b & C!S, CONSISTING I ALL Tite £OPULAK AUTHORS Ly CHE BIAE BINDINGS BEASIDE, LOV OTHER LiskakIes. A FULL [INE OF F JOUSE SUPPLIES, “TL0N TUES AND SHOW CASES, LEITER Faass, &0., &, C1ION. On SATUKDAY. JANUARY EIGHTEENTR, 1890, degivning at ALF-PASi SEVEN O'CLOCK an contuaing cach evening thereurter at sate hour until 11 1s noid, We Will well the above weil-selected stock of Goods » Partly mentioned tu the Lixhest bidders, to which We invite geveral attention. ‘Stove for rent aud leuse cau be had for term of years. MALCLIFFE, DARK & 00. uct 16-08 FUTURE DAYS, , dated ¢ £, L868, und recorded in ot the land ‘records for the © eat the reg. thereuy, 1 Will se. JANUAR, BIKA m., in frout of ri and premises khuwn and Of alot No. turee (25) in thy Gntuke a6 wet f bonnued us the tract nnd Jot by Jeaues Bireu on th 8 W. 40 poira IS lines to hk cor: a Jomues Burch and adjotubig x Ey —— puller, wo the fown food i savd lit { maid road iu 28 anibg, contung eleven wad is improved by s fine Dwelling dings aud is iu a guod cond.tion for cull « - 01 jmomely inuToVed by #-rovan house wil Aturucce, Persons will be taken to seo property ir iforusti JAMES B, CLE. Jui Fat nw, ald-dis shingiou, D.C, $97THE ABOVE SALE IS POSTPONED THUSSDAY, JANUARY TWENTY-1 uti, 1 Fol Al., and wili be: reib OF shane, i jal LES HAL. Trustee, SON BROS., Auctioneers. KU: °$ SALE AND LoT SITVATED © Nik Si KEET TWEEN F a @ STREEIS NUKRLHEASI—HOLSE No. oli. iftueof adeeiof trast cnly recorded in Liber No. Que of the land records of itis 4 ¥ 5 te ah the ony of Dia, aud desuenated tat hap per eubdi mine hundred aud sixty, as record: eyo oftive of said District in’ book K.L.B., iolio 1s, Kethor with all the improvements, ways, easeuchis, rights, privileges aud appurtenances to the same ve- lopxing or in any wise ay) ertaininy, ‘This jot will be two cert of = tos) trust, one for 400 and ove for 8500, ferms: Cash over and above the two trusts noted. Tertuy of #3. to b complied with in ten days, other wise the trustee reserves the rigut to resell the prop- erty at the risa and cost of th: Cemulting purchusel aor tive days! public uotice of wu rewsle tu oun is hewspaper published in Washingto: Convey aucue Gat urchaser's cout, “A posit of Quired'at time of vale. jalG-d& HOMAS DOWLING, Auctioneer, BNTIRE CONTENTS UF LESIDENCF NO. 1717 KNODE TSLAND AVENLE NOKiHWEST AT AUCLION. On FRIDAY, TWENTY-FOURKTR JANUARY, AT TEN A.M at kesidence No. 1717 Rhode. aveutie, T will’ sell tor cash, without 1880, 7 Ising reserve, the ful- Wing Well-keyt Kousebold effects: Avegant Parlor Purnivy Feuestals, Fancy Work Tuble, Cabinets, Bric-a-Brac, Hail Kack, Tabie anu Sofa, Superb Japanese Writing Desk, Elegant Japanese Cabiucte, Bereeus. Payee Mirrur, M el Miroor, Bouk Case, ide Tables, nut Leether-covered wining Chai Porteres) Widow Hanengs, russele Cacpets, Luce, \Waluut and othe: Chaniber Furniture, Brass Bedstead, Pictures, . Hair aud tusk Mattre. Piiows aid Bolsters, Bedding, China, Giaseware, &., Kircues Kequisites, Servants’ Furniture, &e,, &e. Huse open day p.ior to sale dal G-dis HUMAS DOWLING, Auctioneer. /HOMAS DOWLING, Auctioneer. ASSIGNEE'S SALE OF LARGE LOT NGEK ALNGS, LARG: MBINATION " Lock SHWELER'S DAY, JANUARY TWENTY-NINTE, 182.0, ut TWO O'CLUCK P.M, withia the sales rooms of Thomas Dowling, southwest corner of Peunsyiva- bia ave. and 11:h st. p.w., 1 will sell as @ Whole the en- tire stock of Jeweiry, Watches, Diumonds, Ki Charis, Chuius, Iron ‘Safe, &c., as per invoice, not suid ax ® whole will be ‘offered in detau Imer, of Which due notice Wall be given, Perms cul Ly order of MILLS DEAN, assiznes of F. NEWTON. rpuomas DOWLING, Auctioneer, JEWELRY, CASE: Sictine” CRAYON PORTRAITS OF ROYAL PERSONAGES AND DISTINGUISHED FOREIGNERS; ALSO A COLLECTION OF MINERALS, To take place at my AUCTION ROOMS, 11TH ST. AND PA. AVE, Washington, D.C, TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY AND THURSDAY, JANUARY 21, 22 and 23, 1890, At SEVEN O'CLOCK P.M. Jal4-ats NE BS w TH! gigosb px ‘Sho. - et a} A Fy ty ith a depth of O4 feet to ‘This lot is sitmeted on 16th st, just north of Let, ‘One of the be.t sections of the northwest. terms: Gue-th.rd cash, balance in one and two Sanaa sf Sale 2 ray £0 be | as Seve e eee Sis etbes cree conpiied with m ten rot sale or property will be Tesoid at risk amd cost i «i BAINAN WARNER, # LOLIs b. WINE, . si 7-aha ‘Opp. City Post Office FIVE HUNDRED PIECES MENS CLOTRING, WOMEN'S LONG AND SHORT COATS, JACKETS AND WRAPS, &o.; ALSO A LOT OF SHOES, FASHIONABLE GOUDa AT AUCTION, WITHIN OUR SALESROOMS, ON MONDAY MORNING, JANUARY TWENTIETH, aT TEN CLOCK. IN LOTS TO accomMODATE. IMPROVED PROPERTY ON THR HSIDL UF O Ok SHCUND STRERT BL- AND ERbbe hie A STRABIM, GLOKGE LOW ND. AL CALON On TUESDAY, JANUAGY DWINTY-PIRST, 2 at FUCK O'CLOCK, iu front of ti sedi part of Lot 135, iu equ th wide or te Broderick sircets by adeythe dermis. Uvetourts cnsh, belane in Lend? With votes beariu nt red Uy a. A St purchasers cost, 1 the tine of ale. AS DOWLING. Auctioneer. ERP MPTORY SALt OF A THKEE-»TOKS AND DASEM! a7 BCK HOUSK, NO 1406 RIGGS Kbit NOH WkoT 1 wil offer ior sale iu front of the premises op TUESDAY (Hi TWEN.)-FlUST DAL OF JANU- Ali, ibvu, Ad HALF-PAnT POUK U'CLOCK FAL, Jot niumvered 16 mm square 2.9, schi *ub}-ct to deed of trust te uu May 1, TSR itterest. (ol the pulchane meubey ont to De paid in can aud the corm, With Lieterest at Sie rate un, payeble sem wally, vo the property, or all ¢ sor $100 Gepost at tae tad Pecos @ at purchaser's days or resale bainnee 30 01 Of G per cent per by a deed « LOTION 84 <PEITED PLE si avenue, “ccmmmencn Poe Sect ve A, ucitnkvey Aly Nile tocon? A w ae. CLOCK and OCK untiall the dots are arr ive. KT ULTOR, Pawnbroker, Auctioneers. dabd-7ee SALE OP VALUABLE IMPROVED eb ON FUR StL bid NOKLHWESE Thess ‘ AND Ay~ AnD Mt » F Ni-a-MALF AND Inti, qu equ. Lhouscu va. Gs 2 muses, tue foil wine-de saLbrenerty Sate 1th a Madiiartny Pacem TURSD AY. ik LWENLAFLISS DAR UI ANU ANY, 1800, | At FOUR OC mn square No, 456. b in. A. oe No. esi | tuarov, e-story Lis House nulubere | 4+ 00 Mary.andavenur, between 445 aud GLb Stree southwest snedistely theresfter the AVI: toti of lots in square 4 ree at the b equal lncalluents, «coured by Lutes o ? ry obe aid so) eure Vearkig duterest trom day of sale at © per cout per a uid deed ot trust on property sold, or aii cash, at open of the pur weer. Adeporit of $1 0 will be required uu euch Hiece of property when sold apd all cunve) ancig or Fecordity to be at purchaser It ters of ase nuplied wits within ter day ot male tei property will be resid aiter cays’ previous ad- Vertiscwent, at the risk audcust of the detausting pur RUTLEDGE WILLS saMwL MABDOK, DUNCANSON BROS., Auctione _ PIANOS AND ORGAN Leapens. We represent five of the largest houses in the world, Bamely: Decker Bros., Weber, Fischer end Dstey Pianos and Estey Organs These famous instruments rank os “ieaders’ everywhere. We sel) on exy Monthly payments, rent Pianos and Organs with option of purchase, and take old instruments in ex cusnwe, allowing the full value therefor, Wesisolaves department for tunine and repairing, «nd ¢ive careful ention to any work in this iine entrusted to us 13 North Charies street, Baltuwore, and 1217 Main street, Richmond, Va. Buying ov as iarge « scale as we do (being the largest Piano and Organ concern in the south) ensbles usto sel to our customers at the owes: possible prices and OB the most favorabie terma, Do uot think of buying or renting s Pisno oran Oran before examining our splendid assoruueut of instruments Qud getting our terms. SANDEKS & STAYMAN, gaz 934 F street northwest, Snerr Praxos. Boze Medal Fara kxposition. 200 first premiums, ize indorsed by over 100 music schools aud colleges fot dusaviiity. Old Pisuos taken in exchange. Tbe only Upright that can take the place of » Gra a « PPLE 421-3m ALLET & DAVIS UPAIGHT GRAND PIANOS; elewant Holiday styles; sujerb topes, exquisite Louch; marvellous cuduriug power | new. cm ements, THE PealkCi UPKIGHT al bil buat iw, mw SRS A B NN AA 4S Pi Ear pebonatee zy Fines torrent, SEOCOND-HAND PiANOS.—A iarge Oui rising Aunost every well_kuows make is the Kevinetine. OSTEtiaL INDUCE ANTS ober inky ime auaLy ANDi. ae yt Sealed 46 S17 Sn BOOKS AND STATIONERY Titi) 3 & AAA a BAUR 4 — a - a