Evening Star Newspaper, January 25, 1890, Page 7

THE EVENING STAR: WASHINGTON , 4 * ast D.C., SATURDAY, JANUARY 25, 1890-TWELVE PAGES. | ‘Written for Tug EVENING STAR, WHOSE WAS THE HAND? BY MISS BRADDON. Author of “Lady Andley’s Secret.” “Like and Unlike,’ “Tabmael,” “The Day Will Come,” de, [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED) oe CHAPTER VL. Daisy's DIARY. I sometimes think mother hardly makes enongh of Uncle Ambrose or of his goodness to me. I know she is grateful to Bim and proud of my progress, which is all his work. Bat now and then it seems to me that she keeps him too much at a distance. instead of treating him as if he were her brothee and really my uncle. She very seldom comes into the morn- | ing room while I am at my studies there, and there are many days when he leaves the house at Lo’clock withont having seen her. Ounce in @ way she asks him to stop to lunch and when | she does Ican see his pale, fair face light ap j suddenly with a flush of pleasure, and he is | full of life and talk at luncheon, he who is gen- | erally so caim and placid, like deep water; and | after lunch he lingers and lingers in the garden | or in the drawing room. till mother is obliged to ask him to stay to tea; and after tea he goesaway siowly and rel ring to the very last, lingering at the gate if it is fine weather, and mother and I go out with him to say good-by. He is so fond of us both! It is the little gate im the fence near bis cottage at which we say good-by to Unele Ambrose—not the gate by which father went ont that summer morning, never to come back to us again, That wiich was brought back nearly a week astterward was not my father. That whieh lies under the grave that mother and I keep bright with flowers is not my father. W know that he is living still—somewhere. Living or wait- ing im a placid sieep for the awakening to the new life. We know not how, we know not where; put we belicve that he is living still, and that we shall see him ag: As I grow older and my education goes on and absorbs more of my master's valuable time I wonder all the more at the sacrifide which he makes and has been making so long for my sake. When I think that he isa man whose books are valued and praised by tho greatest thinkers of his age, aman who might win dis- tinction in almost any walk of literature, I am amazed at his willingness to waste so great a part of his life upon my insignificance. It is all the more wonderful, perhaps, because although wnen he came to live at Lamford he was aQoor man, he is now a very rich man, a @istunt relation having died in America some years ago and left him a large fortune. Thardly know when the change in his cir- eumstances arose, he himself made so light of the matter. It was Cyril who told me one day that bis father was be iid you ever know such a man as my fatier.” he said, ~*to go on living in that ugiy | much in stayty old cotta Park Lane it he biked. I asked if Uncle Ambrose was really very rich. ~Keally, and really, ond really, I believe.” answered Cyril, “though he has never con- descended to eter into particulars with me buta Yankee fellow at Oxford told me all about the man who lett father his fortune, and it was a biggish pile—that's the Yankees expression, mind you, uot mine.” Cyril is wt Christchurch, Oxford, and he spent his last long vacation in Sweden and Norway. He has promised me that he will spend the next long or at any rate the earlier part of his ime at Lamford and that he will take me about in his boat and that 1 shall help him with his classi I'm afraid this is onl ile compliment to me, but Uncle Ambrose says I reaily might be of some use to Cyril in reading Horace aud Virgil wita hbiut, and that I kuow both those poets better than many undergraduates. It Ido 1 have to thank Uncle when he might have a house in | nd a country seat into the bargain, ibrose for my know ledge. and most of all for teaching me to love tin poetry imstead of to hate Latin grammar. ' Cyril is sometimes just a little inclined to find fault with his father for living in the small ugly house to which he came in his poverty; but as he has a very liberal! allowance. can go where be likes for his vacations, and is never denied anything by the most induigent of fathers, he feels that he has no right to com- T'm so afraid that other fellows will take it into their heads thet my father is a miser,” he said one day, “when they tind that 1 have no home to which I can invite them and that my father mopes away bis life in a cottage by the Thames. And the worst part of the business is that most fellows in the university kuow every yard of ground between Reading and ¥ and must know Lawford, I toid him that a man could not be said to mope away his life when he had written two books which had been read and praised all over the civilized world. “Well, no doubt with some men the books count for something and they put my father down as an eccentric scholar, living his own re- tired hfe for his own pleasure, but you see there are more fools than sensible people in the world and the fools must think my father is too fond of money to spend it like a gentle- man. I dare say they fancy that his wealth came to him too late im life and that poverty'’s small saving habits kad got burned into bis very nature.” ~What does it matter what mistakes people of that kind may make about your = Z| said. “We Enow that he is a gentleman in | every act and in every thought of bis life and that if he does not spend money upon things that please other peopie it is oniy because he cares for higher things which don’t cost money or make a great show. “You are right there, Daisy,” answered Cyril, “aud there are some things he cares for which don't make « show, and do cost money—his books, for instance. There are two or three thousand pounds sank im his library—rare books, old books, new books, Oriental’ books, liming the walis of every room in the cottage— upon my word, now, I can scarcely take my bath of 4 morning without splashing a tall copy of the Fathers, and yet I can't get him to make up bis mind to build a house to hold bis treasures. Perhaps when the last niche of wall ps is filled he will begin to think about a change of quarters.” Cyril is pot like his father. He takes after bis mother's family, I am told. He has not his father's pale fair skin and blue eyes, or bis father's pale and silky hair, or his father's high and thoughtful brow. His eyes are dark gray, and sharper than his father’s—a keen clever face, I have heard people call it; not the face of « thinker and dreamer ke Uncle Ambrose, Some cali Cyril handsome, and some do not. He has a very kind and bright expression, and is always very good to me. He is tall and Straight and tremendously active, a first-rate Oarsian. and Iam told x good shot. He i very fond of Radnorshire and his mother's people, and I think he likes mother and me, though we do not see him very often. H. Iauzhs at my education and says that fat would have made me a blue-stocking if nature bad Rot insisted upon making me something else. onder what that something else is? Father's grave is in the churchyard at the Other end of the village, such a pretty Pictur- esque sleeping place for the beloved dead. ere is one corner of the church yard which is separated from the river only by a strip of waste land covered with rushes, and by a low stone wall, clothed with moxes and lehens, gray and gold and green—a dear old wall with ne, smail-leaved ivy creeping over it here and there. aud with fairv-like «pleenwort growing out of the interstices of the stone. Just in tue ‘angle of the wail nearest the river lies my father’s grave, under the shadow of a great willow, like my tree on the lawn, It was be- }) cause of that tree my mother chose the spot. Father bac always talked of the bur weeping willow ax Daisy's tree. and mother knew that he ‘was fond of it for his little daughter's sake. So be hes under Daisy's tree, aud Lis only monu- ment is «low red granite cross, with his name and the date of his bu and death. No text, no verse; nothing to say ow much be was be. Jored. Only a blank space for mother's name when she is Inid beside him. All the rest is garden. Mother thinks the garden tells best of our love for him who lies there, because it isa changeful living thing and not dead and immutable like letters carved in marble. _ Mother and I do all the work of this little Barden with our own binds. No one else is al- towed to tonch it, ana the flowers change with every change of the seasons, from Christmas Poses to the pure whiteness of the chrysanthe- mams in the late autamn. and our garden ix always lovely and fnll of freshness and per- fume. Fair weather or foul, one of us goes there every day. We never miss a day while we are at ford. When we are away the garden is lett to itself, and when we come back Lave to make up for that ueglect. We had | is one of those gir! | kind enough to lose me again, | should have thought that even you would un- | deratand that when 1 come to sit by my father's | fal corner bis hair ts dark brown—his features are smaller | ther there should be and for s| | Thule while than that Lntieg kana id cul- | be: a. | tivate father’s That corner by the river is very lonely, the most remote from the church and ‘the vicarage and the path by which people go to church. I bave sat there for hours and no one has ever come near me, though I have heard the boats going by and people talking as they rowed past the little rushy waste outside the wall. Nobody can see me from the river when I am sitting there. for father’s tree makes a great green tent. just as my tree does on the lawn at home. Sometimes I bold the soft drooping greenery apart and Leng out at the boats going by in the sunl ght while I sit in cool shadow, Many and many an afternoon have I spent here with my books, and my Scotch deer hound, Pompey. more solitary, more secure from in- terruption than if I had been at home, where any one of the few friends with whom we are | intimate might drop in upon me. In the church- | yard I have my life all to myself. to read or to | think, and I prophesy that a good dea! of this diary will be scribbled on the grassy bank under the low wall by my father’s grave. There is a little hollow nook all among the bramble and fern, which is my own t, and [can study there better where else, One day Beatrice Reardon eame and found me outin my nook, came sailing up to me in her bonncing noisy way, flourishing her racket. “So I've found you at last, D,” she said. Sho who can never call any- thing by its right name, and she always calls me D, whole afternoon, but I thought I should un- earth you. Come and make up a set.” “Now you have found me, perhaps you'll be Tauswered. “I | grave I like to be alone and I don't like tennis | rackets.” i do’t often lose my temper, but I do think Beatrice Reardon—though no doubt she means well—is a girl who would have exasperated | Job. There are times when I feel tit a con- tinuance of Beatrice’s society would be worse | than boils, “You're a morbid, disagreeable little D,” she said, “and you'll find out your mistake before youre thirty, forby that time your moping, solitary, cross-grained ways will make you look forty and then you'll be sorry.” She marched off with her racket on her shoulder singing “Gather your roses while ye may,” in her lond mezzo-soprano voice, the voice of Lamford and two villages beyond, and I am happy to say she never invaded my peace- xin, Here I read the sixth book of the Eneid, and here I read Dante, until | felt as if 1 were more familiar with the world of shadows than the world of realities, Here I learnt those odes which Unele Ambrose chose for me in my little Horace, and my favorite bits from the Georgics, and my favorite eclogues, Here I read Mil- tou and Shakspeare. “Lhe spot is full of lovely images and haunting fancies. i We have very few friends, though mother is obliged tobe civil to a good many acquaintances seattered about the happy river, between Hen- Bridge and Caversham Weir. She visits very little—oniy in the quictest way at the houses of her oldest triends, the people she knew best in my father’s time. ‘The only tami- lies of whom we see much are the Vicur’s and the Doctor's, for mother’s charities bring her in contact with with both, and as there are girls in both families I have been invited very often to play tennis or to join in water picnics, or any other homely festivities. I have never gone to parties at either house since I was a child, and the girls langh at me for my solitary bringing up; but mother and I have been too happy in cur own quiet way for me to think that I love away from Reardon's birthday dances and hobbiedeboy parties outdoors and in, Not a hundred miles from Lamford there is a big red house by the river called Templemead, which once belonged to anoble family and which is now occupied by Mr. Copeland, who coaches young men for the army. Some of the young men are the sons of noble families aud many of them are rich, and I'm afraid I must say that most of them behave badly. The Vicar says animal spirits, I sey bad manners, The Viear says that as I have never hada brother Idon't understand young men’s ways, and certainly, judging by Cyril's accounts of the goings on ut Christ Church, young men must be extraordinary creatures with the oddest ideas of pleasure. ‘yril says that if Mr. Reardon had not three daughters to marry he would not be quite so charitable m his opinion of Mr. Copeland's oung men; butI don't think our dear old Vicar is a contriving sort of person, and I don’t think one ought to be toohard upon Mrs. Kear- dion for giving so many tendis parties and Cin- derefla dances and blind mai’s buif parties and water pienies, for three daughters to marry must mean hard work for any mother. Mrs. Tysoe, the Doctor's wife, has two sons and only one daughter; so there is not nearly so much excuse for her, and I must say she does make rather too much of those unman- nerly hobbiedehoys from Templemead, and I cannot conceal from my dear diary that Laura Tysge’s conversation would be more enter- taining if it were not all about Mr. Copeland's young men, Iam afraid my diary is going to develop all the worst propensities in my nature—above all, the propensity for thinking too much of myself avd lookiug down upon other peopie. A diary is such a safe confidante, and it is such a comfort to know one can say just what one likes without any fear of having one's silly bab- ble babbled about and made sillier by one's dearest friend. So, dear diary, I mean to scribble just what llike in your nice, smooth, white pages, and when my foolishness has all'run off in pen and ink I have only to turn the key in your neat little brass lever lock, and my secrets are as safe as if they were shut up in the heart of the biggest pyramid. CHAPTER VIL SHE ANSWERED “stay.” Seven years! Robert Hatrell had been lying in his grave seven years anda day, and Ambrose Arden was slowly pacing the river terrace which the dead man planned in the pride of his heart while his murderer was lying im wait for him, somewhere in the big city yonder, far away to the very east. where the bright bine sky changed toa dull and heavy gray. Ambrose Arden and Clara Hatrell were walking side by side upon the broad gravel terrace between two rows of cypresses, she with a siow and listless step, he suiting his pace to hers, bat by no meaus list- less, intent rather, watching Ty change in the pensive face, every shade upon the fair forehead. Seven years and a day had he been lying in in his grave—seven years and nine days had gone by since he was found stark and cold,with glassy eyes staring up at the smoke-stained ceil- ing in the shabby lodging house near St. Giles’ eburch, a wonder and @ mystery to all England. For seven years his widow had mourned him, missing him and regretting him every day of her life—albeit calmly happy with a daughter j she adored—brooding over the tragedy of his death, brooding over the cruel destmy which had sundered so perfect an union. Her sorrow was in no wise diminished by the Years that had come and gone—her memory of the beloved dead was no less vivid than it ‘was before the first flowers had bloomed upon his grave. He was still in her mind the one loved and loveable of men; her first and her omy lover. Time bad brought calmness and resig- nation, but time had not weakened love. Ambrose Arden, walking by her vide in the sultry stillness of the July afternoon, knew her heart almost as well as she knew it herself, Seven years had made little alteration ex- ternaliy in Robert Hatrell’s widow, or in Robert Hatrell’s friend. At six-und-thirty Clara Hatrell was still a beautiful woman, +o much the lovelier perhaps in her calm matur- ity tor the seclusion and repose of her widow- The cares and excitements of the woman of society had not written premature wrinkies on the broad white brow. The disappointments and vexations of the fashionahle world had not drawn down the corners of the mobile mouth | Or pinched the perfect oval of the check, Ambrose Arden was exactly the man he had | been seven years before—fair complexioned, | dreamy ey with the scholar’s bent shouiders | and with ‘the scholar's measured accents, A remarkable looking man always and a fine looking man in spite of those stooping shoul- | ders and the slow, meditative walk; aman to | attract the admiration and the love of women, as being different from his fellow men, and | with something of that power which women call magnetic in his thoazhtful eyes—so blue, so clear. with the color aud trausparence of childhood, yet with such an untatbomable | depth of thought. Seven years, and in all that length of months and weeks and days he had been this woman's slave; and she knew it not, Day and mght, waking or sleeping, near or far, hu had adored ther, and Knew it not. Seven years since | her hasband’s death and how many years be- fore? Oniy since the hour he first looked | upon her—when it had been to nim as if the heart within hima, a strong and passionate heart, whose forces he had never known till that ment, leaped suddenly into life aud linked fate with hers forever. He had married a fair young wife, and he had been a good and tender husband. "He had truly and tenderly mourned the early dead, But till he met Clara Hatreil he knew not what [meng meant,and he had never suspected hat latent fire smouldering within him ready to into flame at sight of a beautiful face. Hie knew not, and could never what it was that made from ail other women | preme mistress of his mo- earth. the one su- whom to serve was Sibkin told me you were out for the | ' a his hich peopl educated bei friend, what destiny, whom to love was a necessity of his ing. yen) so for seven years and mofe before her husband's death, and for seven years after. he had been ber idolator and slave, she nothing knowing—accepting his quiet attentions as calmly as she took a basket of hot house flowers from her gardener, asking no questions of her own heart or of his, thinking of him only as an amiable eccentric, who lived at her gates be- cause it was his fancy so to live, who gave one- third of his life to the tuition of her child be- cause it was his whim so to waste himself. Her kindnesses to him had been of the slight- est. for in her widowed loneliness it had behoved her to keep even so old friend somewhat aloof, lest the little world of Lamford should begin to have ideas and speculations about her and her daaghter’s teacher. She bad kept her life completely apart from the life of student and master, and had on rarest occasions offered hospitality to the man to whom she owed so much, To hisson she had been more frankly kind, treating him almost as a son of the house, and letting him feel that he was always wel- come. Even to Cyril's college friends her house had been open, and -he had in no wise stretched his privileges, though they were oc- casions Spe which hp was glad to take a boat- ing friend to River Lawn rather than to his own dal! old cottage, with its shabby furniture, and atmosphere of over-much learing. So had he worshiped her faithfally and silently for fou vars, just the length of Jacob’s servitu for Rachel, and she was still afar off. cold as marble, unresponsive, uncon- scious of his love, It was a hard pie to have been so patient and to have waited so long end tobe no nearer the goal—to feel the golden Years of mauhood slipping away like those faded lilies yonder dritting with ‘the current, flowers which some careless hand had plucked and flung away, It was hard, it was more diili- cult to be patient now when he felt the glory and strength of life beginning to wane. Was he to be an old man before he dared ask for his guerdon—he who had done so much to win his beloved, who had sacrificed for her sake all that other men cared for? Today his heart was throbbing with a new vehemence, and there was a fire in his thoughts that mnst needs burst into a blaze before long. Everything in life has its limits; even the ience of a man why loves as he loved ‘ows prettier and more womanly day,” he said, after a contemplative silence of a must not waste her life as you have wasted your own—since your bereavement. I conciade that you in- tend to go into society next season, if only for her sake,” “I have been thinking about it,” Clara an- swered quietly pose it must be #0. Poor child, has seen very little of the world, but waflave been so happy together, so completely anited that I do not think my Daisy will ever regret her. solitary girlhood, How- ever, everything must come to an end,” with a faint sigh, ‘so [have asked my sister Emily to look out for a furnished house at the West End, in Wilton Crescent, or somewhere about there, and if she can find one that Daisy and I like I ul take it next Januury. You must come and see us mn our new home,” she added, smiling at him wit her calm and friendly smile, “Ishould seem like a fish out of water among smart people.” “You might feel bored by their frivolity, but the smart people would be very glad to know you. They must all have heard of your books.” “Heard of them, ad them, no—and I fancy there are not many smart people who care for the makers of books—only the intel- lectual few, the stars of the smart world, who have found time to cultivate their minds as well as go to parties,” “Cyril will come to us often, Ihope,” she said cordially. “L shall have to give parties, and I must have a day for calle it witt be all very dreadful.” This time her sigh was deep and long. “Why dreadful? You whoare still young, still beautiful, and rich enough to indulge your ca- prices, are not a woman to shriik from society.” “Am Tnot? Oh, Mr. Arden, how can you be so short sighted? Do you think it will be no ordeal to me to face strangers’ Do you forget that I am the widow of a man who was crue. and mysteriously murdered aud whose murder set all England talking and wondering? I shrink with herror from the thought of going into society, knowing that people will whisper about me and point me out to each other in every room enter. But that isn’t the worst! Daisy will hear. Daisy will be told the dreadful history we have kept hidden from her. Here people are kind and considerate, and they have re- spected her feelings—but in London it will be different.” “True, she cannot be so fenced .round and Protected in society asshe has been among Your few intimate friends -here;"/ answered ‘Arden thoughtfully, “but seven’ years are a long time. Dynusties are forgotten within a lesser period.” Look at France, for instance, and see how little trace is left of a fallen em- vre and a suicidal war. Tout passe, tout lasse, tout casse. That tragedy which madeto deep a mark in your life is forgotten by the world at large. I donot think you need fear any annoyance either for yourself or Daisy. But there is one way by which you could puta barrier between the present and the past if you would but take that wa: His pale, fair face flushed as he drew nearer to her, his eyes lighted with a sudden fire as he laid his long white hand upon her shoulder, stopping her almost imperiously, looking down at her with a resolu 8 that gave to his face something of the eagle look which belongs to col ering nature ltered, perplexed by the sudden change in a familiar face, “Take my name insteadof yours, Let Robert Hatreli’s widow vanish in” Ambrose Arden’s wife. Clara, [cannot be eloquent where ail I value on earth isat stake. I iove you—I have loved you ever since—no, I dare not say how jong. ‘Only remember that I have never of- fended you by one hint of my consuming love, IT huve waited. waited, waited—until it seems to me that my life is like the children of Israel's pilgrimage through the desert, so long, so weary, so far fromthe Promised Land. Let me not be like their leader! With the haven of my hope seen tainable distance, have been not? I have never offended you, “Offended me, no, You have been a kind and devoted friend” she answered quickly, “bat [never thonght vou wanted to be more than a friend. Nothing was further from my thoughts—nothing” she went on in an embar- rassed manner, and then with a sudden tran- sition to warmest fecling she exclaimed, “You know I loved him. You know how dear his image is to me. It wonld be treason to care for any any one else. It would be cowardice to take another name. I am the widow of Robert Hatrell him whom some devil mur- dered, Marr: in! Call myself by another name! Why, to be true to the past I ought to give up all my future life to one continnous endeavor to bring his murderer to justice.” “My dearest, in plays and in novels murder- ers are brouglit to the scaffold by devoted women like you, after any interval the novelist or dramatist may find convenient, but in real life there is only one kind of machinery that works, and that is the mach abused police, When the police, stimulated by the offer of a large reward. cannot find a criminal within seven years fromthe date of the crime, you may be sure the criminal iswafe, The odds are that the murderer who is not caught within a week has saved his neck. In the case of my lamented friend the assassin was a man of pecu- liar audacity—prompt, resolute, anflinching, and there 18 strong reason to believe that the murder in Denmark street was not his first cried Clara Ilatrell, with a sudden vehemence which startled her lover. “Then it will not be his last crime, and he will be caught sooner or later, like the man in Vi- enna the other d: “The man in Vicuna was a professional mur- derer who had been trapped like a wild beast after a series of crimes. When trapped, con- demned, and assured that his ease was hope- less he confessed, gloating over the details of his iniquity, proud of having struck horror to the hearts of his fellow men.” “He will be caught some dav,” said Clara Hatrell, “-jnst as that Austrian was caught, red- handed, and he will confess his catalogue of crimes.” The scholar was silent for afew moments, and then answered quietly: “Buch cases as those are rare; but as you say the murderer may confess some day, Clara,it is time you drew a veil over that dark and crucl t; itis time you took pity on the man who loves you, Oh, my below a, I have no words to tell my love. Ihave given you years ot my life where other men give words, I have waited seven ¥ too soon.” There was x marble bench near the spot where they were standing—an antique seat which had been brought from Rome to adorn Mrs. Hatrell’s garden. Ambrose Arden stag- gered a few paces forward and fluug himself ‘upon thiv benchyand tuere with his face hid- den in his bands sobbed out his passion, with sobs which snoox his powerful frame and swelled the veins upon his clasped hands, That agony of grief touched Clara Hatrell with sudden pity. He had been so good and true and it was love, Passionate love for her which had chained him to the dali onotony of a life thet was a puzzle to the who knew his talent and his ineans, It was for her he had sacrificed himself, for her sake he had edacated her child as never child and now I feel that I have spoken was fore. And he had been her husband's trasted frieud . band's better \sease. Wenge faithtal Se oe o nth of ‘bat should she say to him? Was she to him wait and hope, or tell him plainly that she could never be his wife? She had vowed no now to remain single all her life, for it had seemed to her in her fond regret that @ second marriage for her was of all this ea:th the least possible. There had been no spoken promise to her child, put Daisy had taken it for granted that her mother be constant tothe dead until death reunited the broken bond, nitil she should lie down by his side, his true wife in the grave. Pity and gratitude moved her profoundly at sight of Ambrose Arden’s agony. He fought Against his weakness as a strong man fights his foe, until those convulsive sobs came at lo! intervals, and the powerful shoulders ceased to heave, At last, wich a final struggle, he dashed the tears from his eyes, rage from the bench, and stood before her calm and still, but dis- figured by the vermillion stain upon iis eyelids and the deathly pallor of cheek and lip. “Forgive mo tor having made a fool of my- self, Mra, Hatreil,” he said huskily; “I onght to have known better. I ought not to have trusted myself to speak, How you must de- spise me!” ant She held out her hand to him, with a gentle seriousness, “Despise you?” she repeated softly. “Can you think me xo base as not to be grateful for your patient friendship and for your love? But you should not have spoken to me of love. You should remember that my heart is buried in my husband's grave—yet believe, at least, thatIam not ungratefnl, Let us be friends as we have been in the quiet years that e come and gone since his untimely death.” “No, no, Clara—that biessed interval—that paradise of the dend—is over. Friendship is too thin a mask for passion. I could not goon acting my part—after today, It must be all or nothing.” She hung her head, and the slow tears rolled down her checks. She did not love him, but she did not want to let him go, “It must be all or nothing, Clara,” he re: peated, still holding the hand that she had given him in assurance of friendship. “I must leave you at once and forever, or stay with the hope of winning you.” “Stay,” she auswered gently, * * . * * He dined at River Lawn that evening for the first time since Robert Hatreli’s death, a cozy little party of three, his pupil pleased to have his company and fuil of affectionate attentions to him all through the repast, complaining of his want of appetite, his indifference to certain dishes which Cyril liked and which were really worthy of his notice. They dined in one of the old cottage rooms. a room with a low ceil- ing, an old-fashioned dado and chimney piece anda bow window, the best purlor of the origi- ual building. The dining room had been very little used during Clara's widowhood. They took their coffee in the veranda in front of the drawing room, enjoying the beauty of the night and the newly risen moon, “Shall I play. you a little Mozart?” asked nd without waiting for an answer she m and seated herself at the grand piano, from whence she could see them dimly as they sit in the shadow of the clematis and magnolia which overhung the veranda She was not « brilliant pianist, having given only her leisure hours to music, but she played with delicacy and expression, and as she had been content to devote herself to one composer she had Icarned to interpret his compositions with feeling and understanding. “Mozart is enough for onc lifetime,” she said, cousins ridiculed her limited reper- toire, being taught Ly amaster who discovered @ now Sclavonic composer every quarter, “I never hope to play us well as he ought to be played it Igo on working all the days of my lite.” » The clever fingers flew over the keys in the light and airy Fisher variations, The round wigte wrist nioved with easy grace in the pas- sages for crossed hands, the player looking straight before her all thy time at those two motionless figurés between the lamplight and the moon, How earnestly he bent over her mother ashe telked; how still her mother sat, with slightly droopiug head; and how odd that on this one day in seven years her mother shouid ask him to dinner, and allow him to spend the evening in a long tete-a-tete. Sne had kept him at such a distance hitherto that any departure from the old habit seemed strange, * * ™ . It was Daisy's custom to spend half an hour or so in her mother’s room betore going to bed. These two, who lived together always, had 80 much to say to each other that the day seemed insufficient for coniidential talk, and if the girl happened to be deprived of her nightly tete-a- tete she would complain that she saw nothing ot her mother, and was altogether hardly used. On this cular evening, after Mr. Arden had wished them good night and strolled across to his cottage on the other side of the lane, the mother and daughter waiked up and down’ the terrace two or three times in tho moonlight be- fore going in for good; and then the doors were shut and locked and the lamps were put out, and River Lawn sank into darkness except for five lighted windows on the first floor. Three of these windows, which opened on a wide bal- cony, belonged to Mrs. Hotrell’s bed room and boudoir, the other two were Daisy's, and the lamplight shone through artistic terra-cotta muslin curtains which the girl had draped with her own hands. The boudoir was one of the prettiest rooms in the house, It bad been plenned and furnished by Robert Hatrell as an offering to the wife he admired, and both Clara and her daughter loved it all the more for the sake of the love that had presided over its crea- tion, Here in the subdued light of a shaded lamp Clara sank somewhat wearily into a deep arm chair, and st siient while Daisy moved about the room, looking at the water-color studies on the wall—a Surrey lane by Birkett a girlish head, Dobson, a street corner or lightly touch- china boxes and Indian bronzes on the tables, in idle restless- ness, “You look tired tonight, mother dear,” she eaid presently, watchful of her mother's “ am very tired.” ‘And yet you have not been beyond the gardens today, It must be the heat that bas tired you, I was so glad you asked Uncle Ambrose to dinner for once in a way, Yon are not very hospitable to him. you know, He dees not get much attention from you im return for ali his gooduess to me.” “You know Tum grateful to him, Daisy; but you and J living alone together can hardly be expected to entertain gentlemen, WV mother, you surely don’t suppose that people would talk if he were to dine here every day. What a strange idea! confirmed old bachelot “People are more ready to talk than you wouid ever suppose, Daisy. Mr. Arden is not an old man.” Not in years, but he is old in He is uot like other men. Uncle Ambrose, a houghts and g No, he is not ike other men, He has deeper feelings than most men. Come here, darling, and be quiet if you can, You make me nervous while you are moving about and touching things.” “Lwill be a very mouse for tranquility, mother dear,” cried the gir!, smiling, in « half sitting, haif kneeling position at her mother’s ee ‘Lhe mother caressed the dark brown hair, tenderly touched the broad forehead, above hazie eves that were like her own, cyes that looked wonderingly at her, seeing an unwonted trouble in her face, “Daisy, would it distress you if—if—in time to come I were to marry agiun?” “Distress me? No. inother. It would be only natural that you should marry again—you who are so handsome and so young-looking—if youcould meet anv one good enoogh for you. No, Lam not such a selfish. unzraceful dangh- ter as to be distressed atany change which would make your life happy. [should be jealous. no doubt, horribiy jeaious—atver hav- tug had you ali to myself—and 1 should hate the Lhate him already in anticipation, without knowing what he is like or where he is coming from. or when he will cowie. Butdon't be trightened, dearest, for your sake I shonld do my best to behave admirably, and L would try and school myself to toleraie the——.” She screwed up her lips asif some abusive epithet Were Ou the point of utterance, and end ai a loua, clear voive with the monosyllable “Man!” Hut what if it were sume one you like al- some one you love, Dai some one Llove—a man! Why that could be only oue man in the world, Uucle Ambrose,” exciaimed Dummy, gazing at her mother with widely opened eyes, surprised and “half in- Gredatous, es - “It is Mr, Arden who urges me to him, No thought of a second marriage would ever have entered ty head but for him. “Unele Ambrose, what an absurd idea,” said Daisy slowly. nele Ambrose,” iinge-ing over the name, “Uncle Ambrose in |: a@youns mau! It seems almost ridiculons, “Giris 01 seventeen think that hearts ure cold and numbed with age at forty.” said Clara Hatrell, ‘oat itis not always so. Thera are attuchments that outlust youth.” “Yes, mother, dear, I cau quite understand that. and if it had been the colonel of a eav- airy regiment—a fins, handsom: man who had distinguished biuse f in India, wun an iron- gray moustech»—or a politician, a man of the world—I shouldn't have been a bit surprised to hear that he was madly in love with yuu. But Unele Ambrose,a man who only li read real he.r in his subdued and that in love. has talked to me of his and of his griet when he iost her; bar ould Rod sever been, love “Well, Daisy, I was of your opinion yester- @ay, I, to, thought Mr. Arden incapable of as romantic attachment: but now he has showa me his heart—such an unselfish, devoted heart —s heart which beats only for you and Cyril and me. He is not happy, dear, lonely life is killing him, h people think he is a recluse by choice. He for a fuller lite—for a home. He asked me ae Beep a ig seven years to prove ity ; to we, ahd his respect for the friend he lost in my dear husband. If L refuse we shall see him no more-—you will lose your kind master.” “And if you say yes he will live with us always,” exclaimed Daisy; “I have so often thought you unkind for turning him out of the house when he evidently longed to stay. I have even thought you ungrateful; but it would be very gratetui of you to marry him.” ‘You talk as if you would like me to marry him, Daisy. Would you reaily?” “Yes, L really would, for his sake. because I think he deserves a good deal more attention than you have ever shown him. Only there is one thing— . “What is that, pet?” “1 could never call him father. Icould never speak the word I spoke at the gate that fatal morning when my own dear father bade us good-bye, He would be Uncle Ambrose to the end.” There was a silence, during which the mother sat with downcast eyclids and thought- ful brow; perplexed, uncertain, wavering be- tween two opinions, and then’ Daisy began again with a staring suddenness. ° “You would be Cyri’s mother and I should be his sister. It would be very nice to have such a clever brother.” Another sil-uce; another sudden burst of apeech from Daisy. There is one question I have not asked | as she said impressively, “Do you love am?” “I answered that question in advance, Daisy, ® year ugo, when we were talking together on this spot, just as we are talking tonight. I told you then that your father was my first love, and that he would be my last. That is as true now as it was a year ago; it will be true to the end of my life; “Poor Uncle Ambrose!” sighed Daisy. “I have always pitied a man who marries a widow. You know what Guy Darrell aays in ‘What Will He Do With lt? Nothing so insipid as a heart warmed up.’ And yet that very Guy Darrell marries a widow atter all, Poor Uncle Am- brose! But you don't dislike him, do you mother?” “Dislike him? No, He is the one man I would choose fora friend and counselor. I re- spect and admire him for his fine character— so free from unworthy ambitions, so single- minded—and for his intcilect. ‘There is no one I would sooncr have a8 my friend and com- pamiou—no one whom I would rather obey.” “Ln those things where women do obey their husbands,” said Daisy making a wry face, “I am not over fond of that word ‘obedience; and Thope, if Lever marry, my husband will not have the bad taste to prounounce it in my hearing. Dear, dearest one,” with a sudden change to earnestness, “there are tears stream- ing Pt your cheeks. Are you unhappy, mothe , love, only troubled and undecided. I to act for the best.” then I reaily think you ought to marry Unele Ambrose. He is so devoted to us both, {aud he knows so much; and it will be very nice to have him and C. ter evening.” Mother and daughter kissed and clasped each other, and Daisy sobbed out her emotions on her mother’s breast, and the end of this coutidential talk was Clara Hatrell’s promise to marry the man who adored her. [Zo be Continued] ss HOME MATTE! Seasonable Suggestions to Housewives About Cooking and Household Affairs. il by our fireside on @ win- Viotet, Rose axp OranGe Bossom leaves are frozen in ice creams of delicate flavor. Tur Crear Juice or tue Prvearrce is now considered by some physicians to be the best remedy for diphtheretic core throat and even for diphtheria, Try Keerina Cranpesnres Fresu by putting them in cold water containing a piece of char- coul. Change the water occasionally. Iris Sam tHat Kenosexe will soften boots and shoes that have been hardened by water. ASmMaLt Prece of paper or linen moistened with turpentine and put into the wardrobe or drawers for a single day two or three times a year is a preventive against moths, PorCaxruor Gum with your new silver ware and it will never tarnish as long as the gum is there. Never wash silver in soapsuds, as that gives it a white appearance. Wuex Your Sirrer becomes clogged with flour or meal siftsome hot ashes through it; you will be surprised to see how nicely it is cleaned. A Mustanp Puaster applied to the back of the neck often relieves a severe headache. Iodide of potassium, too, is a good remedy when the pain is mostly in the forehead: two grains dissolved in a wine glass of water sipped siowly, Tux Best Way To Crean Ovr Leap Pires without the expensive aid of a plumber is to pour a strong solution of concentrated lye down them, The lye will dissolve hair, lint, indeed all animal and most vegetable matter, and so open the pipes. Correr Pouxpen tx A Mortar and roasted on an iron plate, sugar burned on hot coals and vinegar boiled with myrrh and sprinkled on the floor and furniture of a sick room are excellent deodorizers, Lemox Covan Ccre.—Roasta lemon without “burning. When hot enough, cut it and squeeze out juice, which can be sweetened to taste. Dose, a dessert spoontu! when cough is trouble- some, To Creaxse Porcetatn Savcerays fill them half full of hot water and put in the water a tablespoonful of powdered borax and let it boil. If this does not remove all the stains scour well with a cloth rubbed with soap and borax, Bakep Apries with Caanperny Savce.— Take a dish of apples and pare, core and bake with sugar and cinnamon, Serve cold as a dessert, patting each apple into a fruit plate and cover it with the cranberry sauce. This made a very pretty and delicious dessert and the same time a very handy aud inexpensive one. To Roast Oysters wash the shells in cold water, put the oysters on a wire gridiron over aciear, hot fire or in a brisk oven, the round shell downward, As fast as they open take them off the fire and serve immediately. Each guest removes the upper shell himself. A savory condiment is a little melted butter, Jemon juice, sult and a pinch of red or white pepper to the tast ——— ee —____ Too Much. From the New York Sun. There is too much love in the world, said someone the other day to me. There is too much of a great many things in this world, but not too much of that. ‘There is too much bad temper. Too much scandal, Too much evil thinking. ‘Too much hard judgment, Too much impertinence. ‘Loo much weakness unforgiven. ‘Too much of bad puns, Too mauy courses at dinner, Too wany chestnuts, ‘Too many women who support their hus- bands. ‘Loo many liars, ‘Too many bore: Too many tiresome plays, avid many books written to sell and not to rew ‘Too many—no, there are not too many babies, and while there are plenty of babies and plenty 0: love. there will always be plenty of happi- ness in this world, —re7r-—____ What a Pin Scratch Can Do. From ‘he Owings ville, Ky., Outloox. A doll, which belonged to one of Mrs, Moore's daughters, had beencarefully laid away twelve or fourteen years ago, with tobacco sprinkled over it tokeep the moths out This doll she was taking out to fix up for her little grand- daughter, aud, in running her hand over it to brush off the tobacco crumbs, one of her fin- gets was slightly scratched by a pia which fastened @ covering on the doll. Ina short time her hand and arm up to the elbow began swelling and coloring and was very This was about fcurteen weeks ago, and in that time her arm has been lanced no less than eleven times, ——— $9 Felt It Coming On. ‘From the Chicago Tribune, Mamma (to family physician)—“Doctor, what are the symptoms of this new irfluenza?” Physician—“It begins in many cases, madam, ri ans of indisposition to kind of ¢ ‘ EDUCATIONAL Br Be Boe Ree Beret, ____IN WASHINGTON. F. 8, WILLIAMS & 00.5, DRUGGISTS, VERNESS (DAILY)—YOU UND Maso earn, GS waition to Testi "Giudeen tia tes bree CALL, EXAMINE Ge GO008 AED BB COM | Ccecncesgives, Athos Geter sae PRESCuIPTIONS. = Wisasar0 . Cloud Builline, Sth NGTON CONSERVATORY OF MUBIG, tian + Urenn, Voter, ‘Nolin, Brute: Senge bee Pian . volin, Fi Frecadvautsicen OR BULDARD. Pures QHORTHAND—A NEW EA LN THE ART. ACME Phosesteyty ta vensorin Pee Be > an th thon two to three mou oa rapidity, Ingitality, unprecedented. Seesic H = ‘yamunict. HEAD SCHOOL ACME PHONGGHS a pam be P SCHOOL AL . | Ayers hair vaso 98 | ITV! ta MULAES, Principe jai 6-135- | Sows cathartic B23) FQVENIN IxstBUCTIONS 1, SHORT BAND be given t hevinuers and dictaticns to more Bovinine, smail size. Bovimine, iange size. “aodens Bull's Couch ‘Syrup. RT SCHOOL. 2013 10TH ST. BET. K AND L STS. ‘Miss S. W. KELLY, London Medalist, Principal. Competition for JANUARY WEST END i Casumere Bouquet Carter's Lite Liver nlig’ ‘liane’ Little Liver Pills, the Cemrick’s Soluble Pood, ised. Carurick’s Sciuble Food: large. Caliorna Bix 5.0 “s Cream Balm. e sew Culture of the Speaking Voice and of ative Faculties, Full Moral and Mental Activity Developed by Sons aud Iustrated Stories, dad-Lin? om. Sirup HypOphos Hop Bitters, per voitle. a ‘= Bitters 28a) FIFTEENTH ST 1223 =e —. THE MISSES KERI'S SCHOOL For foUs@ LADIES AND LITTLE CHILDREN, SECOND TERM BFGINS FEB 3. a3 1tofeo rc NO MAINA SINGING SCHOOL A METHOD. | stusio and Residence O19 cea tried fre glene oo For te AGU 6 F sh 2 Drawing nod Painting fro NSTRUCTION FOR D, Parents, Teachers and Artiste; for De- leners, Drariemen, Miustrators. Architects, Decate Portrait and His al Painters. Mra. IMO. years in Furoye. or private. Pe rtrsite 4p c a paste), water and oil colors, t ~ Studios open daily and Vaneline, Pure, and sre the wouderfal pro PLAY OF FINE AAS, BUS E, Minctsas A JM ture, Theory an’ Lyiuau Wheeler, 1106 Nth st nw tors JIANG LESSONS — MISS CLAKA HARRISON, ni iad Line: Papil of 1 i, Manon tie Emulsion, tis £ New \ork, 1008 Nat, "sp ‘az8-See resh) in jant bottles, ‘ot Ammouta, Full Strei my. Sareupari \ ilsains'Kose Tooth Powd: Wi tains’ Quinine and Row, ¢ 8 mnequalet 'g: 3 aN indispensable requisite to Toilet; it renders the skin white, smooth aud sot prevents chappuus. Every lady suotld use it HARVARD Gh Singly oF 4u Sir A a, on infallible external remedy for Neu- he aud Toothache, It never lalls to ef ih the most obstinate cases, Give 4 Pye and or Mins AMS rain Capsiles 200 grains Quinine, Powers & Welgiitiuau, ROSE'S INDUSTRIAL SCHOOL, be Sisters of Charity, G st. be oh aud 2st, Frosh ‘y a French Gvol Don't mistake the place-THE TEMPLE DRUG Cabessivaiten tena ae S1OKE, Guder Masonic Texpio, cvrner i" - 40 BALCH, beo Ma Br Wr to Foret: Lr gations. A Dissextarios Ox Axenicax oe. ADOWS CIVIL SERVIC. INST OTE, WINES, Pupils sepered tor alles? tur ‘Geusus Bureau. Tt is mow mniversally conceded by even the moat fanatical teetotalers that a ¢laes of thoroughly ma- tured and pure wine is the most w 1@, heath and strenxth-qiving beverave for waukind. Almost F Mt Pri state—no matter how ecld ite climate—pro- an aie duces grapes from which wine is pressed, but THE Yul, late of New Liwisud Conserva- PASADENA WINES are made from those lusct 4d Sout CALLZORNIA grapes which attain the duyhest xrade ol maturity aud ripeness and are, there- Mme. M. Chevremont, fore, the best Wines in the market, me de TAcadriuie de aris and expertenced Address 11363 LOth st. 11.9 Jad-1m* KINDELGARTEN AND? qx KISDEAGARTES AND: axp L H. A SELIGSON, or 1200 and 1202 Penns. ave. n.w.s WASHINGTON, D. C., am the sole agent for the Pasadena Wines and Brandies und sejl st mbrvelously low prices. IBnve receited orders from rich.and poor alike and all cheerfully ac- knowledge that the Pasadeua Wines and Brandies are by far the bestand purest in the District, notwith- standing the fact that my prices are tue very lowest. SNS PREES Ge Prarches in New York, Boston, Brooklyn, Piifladeljhia, Lousville, Yaris <Prancen Borie and Dresden, Germany. ele COLUMBIA, COLLEGE OF COMMERCE, 009 F st. B.Ww.— Business course: Bookkecpang system, © Bankin), Word Leskons and C My 20 per cent removal discount will be indetinitely | Puglisi, Accountancy, Lelecsapiy, horthend et conunued, Typewriting, New furniture, steam heat and other modern coi : nud {or cureulars, FLLaSé COMPARE MY PRICES WITH THOSE OF « <k., Prin. year us ‘or i tals city. Fit} OTHERS. re the facuity of Hagtnan College, a-thian Systems of - Pratt Reduced cived the ouly Guid Medel awarded tor PASADENA WINES. ee EY stot at Ue World's Fair beld iu Paria, 1880, Claret, extra quality. eluv “e050 jurundy, 150 STITUTE, 150 june ave. (Hichiand Terrace), 250 44th Street Circle. £3 €21-6m, Mr and Mra, Wa. D. CABELL, Principals, Jov | V 7 OOD'S COMMERCIAL SCHOOL, 407 E.CaP.8T foo MP emery ue pt tow eae | ree pve aD atteridatice. iv New methods; easy terms; rajad progress, ae Send for circular or call bet. ound’ p.m. 412-3 930 SLOCUTION AND DRAMATIC ART. 5 ‘Also Grace, Champarne, quarts, dozen... iz oo Soattesbury meth: ous 11 clase oF private, Cle Champagne, pits, 2 dozen. 3300 oa Coutts tft Sn TUL niet ee, eric Ser tert VIRGINIA AND OTHER AMERICAN WINES. = me ee Virginia Claret. - 100 80 | Norton's Varguiia’ Seediiig, por xocutios A ‘duzetss...-0 4000320 E MAKITAN Co. Sweet Catawba (duest quality 9 30 ‘noes Tcarry the larzest stock of Imported Wines, Cog- er courses privately oF in class, nace, Gius, Jamaica and 5t. Croix ums and sii the a7 French Cordials, including the celebrated after-dinner iaip aan cordial, ChEME DE MiNTHE (Cream of Minv, aves ailicespen tioetay, Gatemien teens green or orange. pews Langs «5 for acquiriusg ie pope ot 4 sais Soeftorte are advance the pay ‘Tho oldest Rye, Bourbon and Iniported Whiskies dart. ‘The murical departuent compress # befoundat my store, Lenumerateas few: | theory aud tectitile aud ein Puabo, barb, Viol, Trimble Pure Rye. cuawes, geueral vocal and drawing and fancy Mou: ilo Pure Kj In DemiJohns or work frou, — vc lt r na Bottles very low. | CTENCERIAN | BUSINESS COLLEGE, “padre oy Comer sth and D sts, nw, oe ere ee 600 480. | “School of Businens and Counting House Draining, Scoteh Whisky, very o! 750 600 Rchoul of Beactical Eawlinh. Seotel Wiis 1000-800 Rebooi of Shorts: 600 380 Sehvol of Teles 230 B00 | School ot spene 1000 S00 beboclot Mechamieal and Archi OU 400 Day aud nicht sessions, I make 2 specialty of Bigh-fsvored Cooking and | 1400). 2) Pa} — Pony Jelly Wines and Brandies. PIANOS AND ORGANS. BAKAU IANOS “ARE OF SUPERIOR Tone, Workuanshiy spd Please Be i see them at KeHs’s Tealrt OF MUSIC. Gist. Finest Tuning aud Keculating. Jatl-a THE WINE AND LIQUOR MERCHANT, 1200 and 1202 Penna. ave. n.w, Leapers. Telephone Call 112-3, al8-wks GRATEFUL—COMFORTING. EFPS's COCOA BREAKFAST. “By a thorough knowledge of the natural laws’ Eo. ths peerauons of digestion and nutrition, an # caretul aypiication of the ne properties of weil- Hicetea Cocous Sur, Rjpe bus provided our Dreakinat tubles with a delicatesy Severed, overage witch may #8V€ UsIURLy heavy doctors’ At is by the jndi- Gots use vi much articles of diet that a coustitution ey be xraduaily Lunt up until Mst ever) tendency to disease. Hum haladicn ure foutitiy atound us ready to attack wher asa Wee ever there pout, We may eacape many e y reo ited with intal shuit Uy heeyang’ wurselves well tort bed pure Lived aud a properly nourished 5 juzette. ‘Made simply with boiling water or milk. Sold only ‘avhals-pound tne by e1ucers, labeled tus: JAMES EPPS & CU., Hommopathic Chemists, aul7-sameta ‘Londop, England. Mas. J . Scueursorr, ‘MILLINERY, 606 11th st. nw., Opp. Woodward & Lothrop’s, Aecided not to remove sny of my present steel To “ny new store’ abd will sact.Bee to Close by Jettoary 24 Aut'of tay “Lrigioed an Cutstiamed Hats, Shea Lanutas Qc A Bh ot oie change, allowing the full value therefor. Wealsobaves department for tuning and repairing, and give carefab attention to any work in this line entrusted tous, ‘We have well-stocked ware rooms at 34 F street, this city; 13 North Charles street, Baltimore, and 1217 Main street, Richmond, Va. Buying on as large a scale us we do (being the largest ‘Fiano and Organ concern in the south) enables us to sell to our customers at the lowest possible prices and on the most favorable terms, Do uot think of buying or renting s Organ before examining our splendid assortment ef instruments and getting our terms, SANDERS & STAYMAN, 934 F street northwest. Ja? Srerr Praxos. Exposition. 200 first indorsed by over 100 tusic schools ty. Uld Pianos ! and duracility. taken in exchange. only ee a gees eee 213m S14 Lith st. nw,