Evening Star Newspaper, March 8, 1890, Page 10

* THE EVENING STAR: WASHINGTON. D.C.. SATURDAY, MARCH 8, 1890-TWELVE PAGES. Written for Tux EVENING Stam. WHOSE WAS THE HAND? MISS 6GRADDON. Author of “Lady Andley's Secret,” “Like and Unlike,” “Lsbmael,” “The Day Will Come.” feo. — or (ALL RIGHTS LESERVED) aie CHAPTER XIV. DAISY'S DIARY AY LAMFORD. OME is sweet even after Italy, even after the bright and busy streets of - Paris, with their flower shops and milliners aud bon bons and pretti- ness of all kindy and the Bois and the carriages and the smart people andthe music aud the life and brightness | everywhere, and above all the opera and the theaters. Paris was very nice. I had no idea I could enjoy any city so much after Venice, I thouzit that enchanting laby- rinth of marble lying upon the Lreast of the | ‘waves would take the cvlor out of every other city in the world But Paris was nice, all the | same, and I was sorry to leave it. sweet always. [have been reading my Ger- man Plato this morning under the willows that shade my father’s gr: iu the old spot that | has been my sanctuary ever since I began to read serious books and to try to undurstand the thoughts of great writers. Plato is so com- ! forting after Schopeuhsuer and Hartmann, | Pisto is full of hope, they are the preachers | of dexpair. Mother seems bap Home is | py tobe at home again in! the old rooms amoug the books and pictures | find in the gardens she loves so dearly. She has imported a smal! fortune im the shape of specimen conifers an} aza\cas and peonies and roses from a famous nurseryman n Paris, | and she is happily employed in superintending | the planting of ber treasures, It is rather | late for planting, our head gardener says in his | broad Seoteh. aud be even wentso far as to Rive us & saying quoted by the great Sir Walter | himself: “Daunt a wee before Candlemass and ye may commaund it to grow; plaunt one after Candlemass aud yo may joost beg it to | Bat, in spite of Sir Walter's proverb, grow.” we must trust in Vrevidence and in our good old Macdonald's skill Unele Ambrose retains the cottage in which be has lived so long and in which Cyril's child- hood was spent. There ne room in our house for his books, which fill every available wall in the cottage. so he keeps them on their old sheives, and uses bis old study sometimes wher he is working on any subject which re- quires much reference to authorities. He is writing a new book. I believe, though he has hot confessed as much to either mother or me. He is very reticent about his hterary work, and seemed surprised and almost scared by the success ef his lust book, and by the tre mendous amount of criticism and argumenta- | tion that was expended upon it. “I could not live without literary work,” he told me once; “but I do not derive very much ssure from the publication of a book. aggravating race. They sce hat I never meant; they overlook the most obvious points. He ts the most self-contained man this world ever saw, I believe. He takes no delight in | the things thut please other people. but he is the best kindest friend I have, and he | adores mother; so what cau I want more in him to nike up perfection? Cyril is his eae site in most things—all energy. action, hght- hearteduess, [sometimes wish he were a little -hearted. One may weary of perpet- | It Lam ever im @ sad or medita- | tive mood I have a feeling that, however kind Cyril is, he cant uuderstand me. He seems miles and miles away from me—as far as from | Eagland to America. | He has been away at Oxford since we came | home, visiting some of his college friends, Of course i miss him sadly. but there is a kind of | relief in being alone after continual compan- ionship. Had Cyril been here I should not have been able to spend « morning by my father’s grave. He would have wanted me to go for a ride, or a walk. or to row down to Healey. I fall back into my old ways and my | sad, quiet life naturally, while he is away. and if it were not that we write to each other every day I might almost forget that we are engaged. Uncle Ambrose is not fond of River Lawn, He does not say as much, but 1 know him too Well not to find out his reai f have a way of watching watch his face years when he was pleased or displeased with me. so that I came toknowevery line in his countenance, and what every line means. No; he is not fond of River Law things I love—the quaint oid cote tings. Children | aud Tused to All the | roums that father and mother found here before they were married, the low ceibugs, the bow windows, the great oak beams and diamond and leaden lattices no charm for | Ambrose. Nor yet the ban rooms father built, sostu other's comfort: drawing room low, bed room, dressing room aud be above. Nothing couid be mure pict than the old rooms, or more cot Juxurious than the new, aud yet Uncle Ambr« does not like the house. I can see it in face. place father loved aud cared about, ousy, Iwonder? Surely a piilosophi who has studied the deeper meant teries of life, om be- joie esque He seems to bear a grudge toward the Is it man so petty and limited a feeling as je Jealousy of my dear dead father's love forethought for my mother: a jealousy so triv 1 as to set him against the rooms and furuiture my father provided for his wife. I cannot believe him capable of such a childish pettiness. He is a mau of large mind and far-reaching thoughts, and to be jeulous about chairs and tables—impossible! Rut the fact still remains: Uncle Ambrose does not like River Lawn. He is full of his | pisos for the house in Grosvenor square; has een uv to Loudon with my mother twice al ready to burry on the work. He wants to in- stall us there at the beginning of June. so that we may enjoy all the gaieties of the season, the summer season when people almost live out of doors, Motuer is to be csented on her d by mother. of my court gown, all white, like a bride's. Cyril suggested that it would be an economy for us to marry while the gown is fresh; but I told tim that the idea of matrimony m reiation to him had not yet entered usy head, “It bas entered o.ser People’s heads thouzh, my dear Lady Disdain,” suid he. “I suppose you know that 4 certain suite of rooms in | Grosvenor square is Lei d with @ view to | our oust oecupation.” : “With a view means any time within the next ten Years.” I told him. | Upon this he began tobe disagrecably per- sistent and declared that nobody had ever con- templated a long eugagement. We had plenty of mouey, and what was there to prevent our being married before th mamer Was Over? “A great many things,” suidi “But first and chief among them the fact that we are both much too featber-headed to take such au awful step as matrimony And then I reminded him how nice it was to be engaged, how much mic 3 people like us than to be marric tied to each Other in a sort of domest “Marriage is « capital instit aged and elderiy peopie. best and brightest examples we have of mar- nied people are Baucis and Philemon aud Darby | and Joan. Now you would not expect me to fee! Like Baucis.~ “Baucis was young once,” said ne “Yes, and then no doubt she was engaged to Philemon, and he used to serenade her as you did me that night at Venice. Ob. it was lo | You cou for middle- suid Le The very You couldn't have serenaded your wile. would have been iudvors gramvling at her more hk “Daisy, You ae talking noaseuse,” said he, Herniy, atid uo doubt he spoke the trath. “Ob, 1 am only pleadiwg for youth and liberty—for the morning hours of life,” I ex- plained, “As itis you can zo where do what you like and there is no one fault with you. If Lwere your wife feel offended at your going up to oten and coming home so late at being a member of so many clubs. 1 might London so wight and It I were your wife | might grumble at your accepting that invitation to Oxford for next week.” “Tell me to withdraw my acceptance and it is done,” he cried. im bis impulsive way. give you all the authority of a wife ig advan: Being your slave what can I do but wait—— “Don't quote that soanet,” I said, body does. Quote something fresh.” He did not notice this impertinence. was pacing up aud down the room in a state of | elcitement. “Your mother did not think like you, Daisy, be suid. “She was only nineteen when married.” “Ab, but then she adored my father,” said I, without thinking what I was saying. He stopped bis impetuous pacing and walked | desperately in P | at least nine and twenty, which } try and fan | alone im the world. mother and father | lying still aud dumb. ax my dear father Lies in | dred years ago. | the thought of the pis over to me, laid his hands upon my shoulders, | and the more I couldn't get in the more keenly and looked me in the face. bo YoU MEAS WHAT YOUR WORDS rmpty. “Margaret Hatrell.” he said, “do you mean what your words imply?" “Do I mean that my mother was desperately in love with my father? Of course [ do.” Aud that you are not in love with me?" Not desperately in love. Oh, Cyril, don't look at me like that. You have no right to look so angry; you have no right to look so shocked and distreaseds Did T ever tell you | that I adored you? Did Lever pretend to be love? Never, never, nevent lam not romantic or poetical, as my mother was at myage. 1 have been taught differ- eutly. Your father trained 1 did not make me romantic. It isn't in my nature to love any one as mother loved my jather— ast I think not, ‘altering stopped me as I said this; im feeling tlut there were hidden | rusia in my heart; dreams th I might have dreamt: feelings that would have brought my mind nearer akin to my mother’s mind, if things had been different. s The look of absolute A strang 4 curious di distress in his face | amade me unhappy. and I ted to make amends | b, for my silly sp 2 “Why should you be shocked because I am not romantic?” Iasked. ‘I don’t think you are a ver¥ romantic person, either. We have known each other all our lives ind we ought to be very happy together by-and-by, Is that not enongh, Cyril?" “Not qu.te,” he answered, graver thau Thad ever seen him until that moment. “but I sup- pose it is all I shal so I must Le satisfied.” Yesterday afternoon I amused myself with an exploration. It was a lovely afternoon, almost summerlike, though we are still i the time of bh ths, and the be s have not yet un- folded their teuder young leaves. Mother had gone to London with her husband to look at | the drawing rooms, which are receiviag their finishing touches ai the hands of the ra tors, and Thad all the day tomyeelf. I spent the whole worming at my studies, working upon a synopsis of Duruy's history of the Greeks, which Uncle Ambrose advised me to write, firstly, to impress historical facts upon mind; secondly, to cultivate style, and to acquire the power of arranging and 1uga subject with neatuess and fucil- k. but 1 like it, aud I Ihave been reading Ebers’ whiles, aud I think that the atmosphere of that | bygone age when Pisistratus was ruling at Athens and Creesus was discoursing wisely upon his fallen fortunes at the court of Amasi 1 finished my work before lunch, which is an ebsurd meal when mother is aw A mere seraunble with the dogs. who come in to keep me company and clear my plite under my nose. Dircetly after lunch I took up my hat to go out, whereupon Sappho and Ponto, my dar- ling Irish setters. went nad and neariy knocked me down in their delight at the idea of a ram- ble with me We had explored every lane, copse and com- mon within four méles of River Lawn, so I wauted, if I possibly could, to give the dogs a chauge; and I thought IL would venture to peep in ut Fountain Head, where the shrubberies are full of primroses at this season, The Fountaia Head gardener and our under- gardener are great friends, and Ihave often talked to him when he has been in our grounds, Ye | Iknow the old house keeper. too, so I had no | compunction in opening a little gate in the shrubbery which gives access to the narrow lane that divides our property from Mr. Florestan’s, There isa grand entrance on the Henley road, and high iron gates, and # rustic lodge with a thatched roof and the dearest oid chimney stack. ‘The gardener’s family live in this lodge but the big gate is only opened when Mr. Florestan is at home, and that is very seldom, He told me he meant to be oftener at Fountain Head in the future. He feels himself growing too old for a roving life. I suppose he must be is certainly old with Cyril and me. young—to feel one’s self quite young—and how sad it must be when weariness and age begin to creep over one. I fam miserable sometimes when I think that mother will grow old before 1 do—that I shall see the shadows stealing over that dear and lovely fae the shadows that foretell the end. Oh, that ie the bane of life, that is what makes | life not worth living—the knowledge that death is waiting somewhere on that road we know not—the gray, mysterious highway of the future—waiting for those we love. . * * * * The old shrubberies looked lovely in the af- ternoon sun—such a wiid wealth of arbutus and rhododendron and Portugal laurel, and so mayy fine conifers half buried among the sprohding branches, a tungle of loveliness, per- iwinkle and St. John’s wort straggling over every bit of unoccupied ground. Ponto and Sappho rushed about mad things. imagin- ing all sorts of jug and digging when of reach of my whip. That dog whip of mine looks formidable, but I'm afraid those two vr darings know that I would not hurt them for worius, Thad my pocket Dante with me, meaning to myself in the Pine forest near Ravenna, where he used to meditate, but the book was so far true to its name that it never left my pocke' think about; cloudlets flow perfume of vio must fanciful fan think my thoughts w Vanity that afternoo: er they got out nd & spring afternoon with light ng inapale blue sky, and the oue’s I light ax thistledowa or or tiey could never have | strayed so far, and yet there was a touch of sadgess in them, for i could not help thinking | laughed at our poor little show.” of Gilbert Florestan and his sad position, quite oth @rave ander the willows—no sister or behest no one to care for Lim or to lean upon im. No doubt he has cousins, as I hay not quite made up my mind whe are @ necessary evi ing. I'm afraid it I stood aloue in the world as he does, Dora and Flora would not fill a large gup in my Life. Irambled in the shrubberies and the de shioned gardens till I was tired, and then un to feel the keenest curiosity about the inside of the house. It is not & pretty house, but it is old and dig- nified| When one has come but lately fri a city of palaces one can hardly be altogether alive to the beauty of an old English mansion, with moss-grown walls and deep-set windows, and a general gr ss and low tone of color which some people find so dispiriting. Yet tue house touched me by a kind of mournful beauty, and a sense of quiet desolation such as I feit only a few weeks ago when I looked at those old neglected mansions upon some of the smatiler canals, 60 gloomy im their gradeur, as of the dead irrevocabie past. I have felt some- times as if 1 would give worlds to be able to buy one of those degraded, dilapidated old palaces, and to clear away all its parasite growth of petty modern uses and to restore it to the splendor aud the beauty of three hun- And yet Lhave shuddered at toms that might come crowding round me in those great grand room of all the dead people who might awake at the sound of music and laughter in the home where they were once young and merr; Iwalked up and dowa the broad gra race in frou: of Mr. Florestan’s house. It stands ouly about twenty feet above the level of the river bank and a wide lawn slopes gently from the house tothe river. I could see the and hear the voices of the row- ich were a relief after the uncanny ing that had crept over me while I was in great overgrown garden on the other side the house. I betieve the gardener must have given himself a holiday, for not a human creature did I see in the gro There is « glass door opent race, with an old-fashioned hang ventured to ring that antiquated Ihave cousins ing bell. I bling a little at the thought of ghosts and per- | thought that the old house | haps a littic at the keeper would wonder her domain. my foolish brain before today, but I suppose that was becaus- 1 hlad seen so little of Mr. Florestan until we met in Paris and could not feel any particular interest in his house. Now at my wanting to explore | that I know bim the house seems like anpold friend and 1 wonder that Ican have looked often at the old Indian red roof and the arent gray stons chimney stacks without wanting to | of delicacy and cousi see what the inside is like. answer, th mund, and he | mpossible vermin and scrateh- | I seemed to have #0 much to | or a modified kind of bless- | 1 tor- | ing on to the ter- | bell, trem- | The fancy bad never come into | | | | | i } { | quaintly mconvenient, with queer little doors, jinto the | hi curious I «. So at last, knowing old Mrs. Murdew would never resent any liberty on the part of my mother's daughter, mother be- tng power at Lamford, I tried the door. ‘t opened easily and I went in, taking care to shut the door after me, so as to keep Ponto and Sappho outside. ba Were scampering about the shrubberies and I knew they would find their war home when they missed me. I went in, feeling very muchas Fatima must have felt, or, in other words, just a little ashamed of my idle curiosity. The house isa dear old house, very shabby as to carpets and curtains, but with lovely old furniture of Sir Charles Grandison’s period wad with old china in every corner. china which Tam convinced is worth « fortune; but I will hever breathe a word about its value to Mr. Florestan or he may pack it all off to Christie's. Men are such Goths where old china is con- cerned, Yes, it is a dear old house. It has an old, old, perfume of rose leaves and lavender, which must have been hoarded ever so long before Mr. Florestan was born, in all the old chrysai themum bowls and hawthorn jars which stand about everywhere on the tops of cabinets and in corner cupboards. and in quaiut little al- coves and recesses which one meets with un- awares in the corridors and lobbies, Not all the wealth of the Indies could create suc a house. It is the slow growth of time. like the golden brown lichens and cool gray mosses on the garden wall. Troamed aud roamed about the rooms on the ground floor, opening one into another, half wainscot and half wall paper: rooms with- out the faintest pretension to splendor or dig- 'y, rooms that suggest the world as Miss Edgeworth and Miss Austen knew it, a world in wuich people dined at 5 o'clock, and danced country dances, and played on the spinet, and painted ou velvet, and talked about the lunch- eon tray and the Britska, 1 looked at all the ornamentson all the tables and chimney picves, the things our grand- mothers loved; cardboard hand sereens, with peneil hindseapes—Craigmiller Castle, Guy's Clit—spill boxes. What are spills, by the way? Old albams and scrap books, old work baskets lined with faded satin. Everything was ar- ranged as neatly as it had been fifty years ago, when Mr. Florestan’s grandmother was mistress of the house, and these were her things, most of them. His mother’s room had a more mod- ern look, yeteven there the books. desks and work boxes were old-fashioned, How quickly the fashion of this life passes away. At first 1 was too much interested aad amused to feel the uncanny influences of those empty rooms full of things that had belonged to pe ple who were all dead; but presently that ai of long ago, together with the deathilike of the house, began to affect my spirits, A fecling of profound melancholy crept over me, Tthought of my dear, dead fath and won- dered, as I have so often wondered, where the dead are, how near us, or how distant. 1 went back to the dining room for a last look at the fawily portraits before leaving the desolate | house, Mrs. Murdew bad evidently gone out upou some errand and there was no use in waiting for her return. Llooked with interest at the picture on the left of the sideboard and near the door leading hall. It wax the portrait of Mr. Florestan’s father, a full-length painting, ina rough brown shooting suit, knickerbockers and mighty hobnailed boots. A picturesque brown at, gun and liver-colored pointer were the accessories of the boldly punted figure, against a background of russet roliage, The picture, which was by a master hand, might have been called 4 stady in brown, The likencss between father and son was re- markable. It might have been Gilbert Flores- tan’s portrait that I was looking at. I studied the picture so long—fascinated by that wonder- ful slapdash power, the kind of painting which Iuskin describes as a rapid hand anda full brash—that the face seemed to grow into my mind and thi ure almost took life and motion as I looked at it. My nerves were in a peculiar state after that hour of silence and thoughtful- uess in the desolate house or else 1 could urdly have been so foolish as I was two minutes afterward when I turned to leave the dining room and sbrieked with terror on seeing a Hgure on the threshold of the door in the shadow of the half closed shutters. I was idiot enough to mistake reality for ap- parition. In that moment of terror I believed that the figure stauding there lookiag at me with a quiet smile was the ghostly semblance of the dead man whose picture I had contem- plated so long. 1 PRAY FORGIVE ME FOR STARTLING You. forgive me for startling you,” said Mr. Florestan, offering mo his hand in the easi- est way. and not allowing me to see that he thought me an idiot, as he must have done ought to have given you some noice of my rival, You were so absorbed in my father's picture that you did not hear his son's foot- steps.” “I think it is the fault of that thick Turkey carpet rather than of my abstractions,” I told | but I really was absorbed in the picture, and envying the painter his power to get such a grand effect out of such simple elements. It is almost as good as Gainsborough’s blue Boy. Thad uo idea you were coming to England so soon.” , “Thad no idea myself; but the distance from | Paris to Lamford is such a bagatelle that I thought I might as well run across and have a! look at the old home before all the tulips had | withered. My mother used to beso fond of | her tulips, though they were never a costly | collection, A Dutch connoisseur would have “Have you only just arrived,” I asked, feel- ing that 'was redder than the great ‘ove blown peonies I had seen in the shrubvery and wondering what he must think of my extra- ordinary intrusion. “Within three minutes. The fly is still at the door and my servant is bringing in my portmanteau.” You must think it so strange to find me here,” ['stammered, feeling even worse than | Fatima, though there were no gory heads lying | about, “Tonly think it delightful to comed by the pr-sence of a friend,” he an- swered with inexpressible kindness, There was some! in his smile and in his tone of voice so full ot protecting friendline that I began to feel casier in my mind and w able to explain my appearance in the dining | room on that particular afternoon, and then told him that I must go and bhuut for the dogs, who might be doing all manner of mischief in his shrubbery, had «secret conviction that Sappho and Ponto had gone peaceably home to the stables, but the dogs made a decent excuse to get me out of the Louse. wt 1 sure they won't do the slightest harm, said, “but if you ay the least little bit un on that score we'll go and look for thent together, aud then will take pity upon a tire a cup of tea,” “Tam so dreadfully sorry,” I said, “mother | is in London and won't be home m before | eight.” | “That's a sad disappointment. I had looked forward to seeing her this afternoon.” i We went out at the hall door together, and | we explored the slrubberies and garden, but saw no sign of the dogs. He went home with | me and we found Sappho and Ponto in their Kennels, whither they had roturned half an | hour before. Then from the stable yard we wandered naturally to the garden, where the | basket chairs and ‘tables had been set out in| the usual place on the terrace in honor of the | lovely afternoon. The footman came out with | the tea tray and arranged it, while wo, Mr. | Florestan and 1, were standing looking at the | river. Servants are so officious. I had happened to say at luncheon that if the day continued fine I thought i would have tea in the garden and here was the man setting out the cups aud | saucers under Mr. Florestan’s nose. There was no help tor it. I could not be so | inhospitable as to vend him away tealess with my pet brass kettle singing merrily over the spirit lamp and my favorite buns frizzllng fresh from the oven. I made the best of my awkward position, “Perhaps. as mother isn't hege, you'll allow me to give youacup of tea,¥I said. He ac- cepted eagerly. 1 almost hoped he'd take it! standing and go away a perars your mother | traveler and give me | a good deal older than look confused or silly poured out the tea, “Please let me wait upon you,” I said, when I saw him struggling out of the chair, the seat of which is only about a foot from the ground. “I know how tired you must be. Let me wait ‘upon you just as if you were mother.” “The offer is too tempting. I own to feeling tired. 1 left Paris at 8 o'clock. and that meant leaving my lodgings at7. And the day was hot and dry and dusty. However, this garden and the river make amends for ell I have suf- fered and this toasted bun is better than the most famous of Bignon’s sautes. Why do we Waste our substance on Paris dinners when tea and cake in a sunlit terrace are so delicious? “We cannot always have the terrace and the sunshine.” “Oh, but there is the winter fireside,” said he. “Every one hasa fireside. Iam assured that epicurean dinicg isa mistake. A man left to his own devices usually diues on a mut- ton chop. Gourmandism is mere swagger and rivalry. A Lord Alvanley invents a dish which shall be costlier than anytody else’s dish. A fricassee composed of that ticular morse! out of a fowl's back which epicures have chris- tened the oyster. A hecatomb of chickens have to be sacrificed for a single fricassee, and Lord Alvanley goes down to posterity as the in- ventor of the costliest dish that was ever cooked since Vitellius and Wis nightingales’ tongues. Almost allgour dining in Faris is upon the same principle. We vie with each chad in wastefulness and restaurateurs grow rich,” It was a pleasure to hear him rattle on as he took his tea, devouring bans and jam sand- wiches, and seeming really to enjoy the meal. 1 was very soon as much at home with him as if he had been Cyril. I told him about the house in Grosvenor square and we had a long discussion upon col- oriug and high art in furniture. I find that he inclines to the Italian school and thinks that orientalism is a mistake in London. “Your Persian lattices and Moorish divans imply perpetual sunshine and a lazy and semi- tropical climate,” he said. “They are mere foolishness in such & country ae England, Aud go you are going to desert River Lawn in all its summer beauty for the starched stateliness of Grosvenor square. I told him that the change was not my choice or my mother's, but that it was my stepfather who was shifting the scene of our lives. And then I was drawn on to tell him of my step- father’s ike of the house which had been my father’s home. se it is a natural feeling on his part,” “the loves my mother so intensely that he caunot bear to see her in the home which her first husband made for her.” “Yes, no doubt, such a jealousy 18 natural to some temperaments. Your steplather is a peculiar man, a man of deep feeling, I fancy.” “Yes, that is quite true. He was devoted to my mother for years—all the years of her widowhood—betore he took courage to ask her to be his wife. He is the most unseifish of men. He hardly made any use of his fortune until his marriage; but since he has been mother’s husband he has spent his money like & prince.” AND YOU ARE TO BE HIS SON'S WIFE. “And you are to be his son's wife,” he 5 that will strengthen the bond between your mother and him.” His voice and manner changed curiously as he said this. No one could have been gayer than he was five minutes before, when he was expatiating upon the merits of jam sand- wiches. No one could be graver than he was now. What could I say? My I did not answer him. engagement is an accepted fact. We were both silent, till I felt somebody would have to say something. so I said, rather stupidly, riland I have known each other since we were children. We are almost like ther and sister.” : “Almost—with the difference of a wedding ring,” he answered, as he rose to say good-by, When he was gone I found he Lind stayed only twenty minutes, and I had two hours to dis- pose of before 8 o'clock. He came to see mother this afternoon, and they walked together on the terrace in earnest conversation for more thanan hour. Uncle Ambrose was over at the cottage, buried amon; his books, Iwas inthe drawing room, and couldn't help feeling a little curious about what mother and Mr. Florestan could find to talk aboutallthattime. I tried to practice, but found myself repeatedly running to the open window to look at them, He took leave at last without coming into the house to see me, which I though: was a little ungratefal on his par after my having given him his tea yesterday afternoon, “What secrets have you and your neighbor been talking, Ma I said when mother came slowly in at the drawing room window, looking grave and thoughtful “Don't ask to kuow too much, my pet. We have been talking of a page in the book of the past, Nothing that touches my Daisy.” “You have been talking of my father,” I said, She did not deay it. lasked no more ucetions, knowing how easily she is saddened by any thought of the past. Yet I could not help wondering and wondering and wondering all day long what connection there could be between Mr. Flo- restan and my dear father’s fate. * * * . * May 30.—It is a fortnigit since I wrote the last line in my diary, and we have all migrated to Grosvenor squa ‘The house is iovely; every detail that can minister to the comfort and convenience of its inhabitants has been studied and thought out. My rooms are delicious, coloring, form, every- thing in excellent taste, outlook sunny, flowers in all the windows, brightness and prettincss everywhere, aud yet I find myself regretting River Lawn every hour of my life ant hare a shrewd suspicion that mother feels very much asIdo, Already she has been talking about August, when we shall go back to Lumford ‘The drawing room is for tomorrow and my court gown has come home from Madam Marti- net's, a train of thick dull whic silk, w falls in massive statuesque folds; a white satin petticoat covered with crystal beads, all one sparkle, dazzling iridescent. The costume is a marval’ of briiliwut simpli Mother has given me the pearl neckiace she wore at her presentation three and twenty years ago, and Cnele Atubrose has given me aset of diamond stars Which are to fasten the ostrich plumes in my hair and on my shoulders, Cyril brought his offering this morning—a sapphire half- hoop ring—the second he las given me. ‘The first was given me in Venice, whicre he bought it at one of the jeweicrs in the dear htile | Merceria—a double half-boop of diamonds and rubies. . . . . * * June 1.—The awful ceremony is over without any hitch, and I hope without any gaucherie upon my part, I have seer the tace of majesty, for mother and I were atthe palace and the queen had not retired when our turn came. My gown has been sdmired and is laid by in iy introduced to privileges and ponsibilities of a youns person who is “out? Cyril is not to be allowed the splendors and xuries of Grosvenor square until after our marriage. His father thinks that as a bachelor he is better off in the Albany, where he has a delightful set of rooms, andwhere he nay keep dogs, entertain his Oxford friends and smoke as much as he likes. If I were a young man with such Tshould never want to marry, My cousins have expressed themeelves very decidedly about my tuture lite in Grosvenor square, They cannot believe it possible. that any young couple could be happy under the same root as their father and mother. the Edgeware road to your splendid apart- ments, said Dora, “The plin may answer very wellim France. There isa kind of chiid- ishness about the French which makes them look up to their parents in a positively ridicu- lous way; but it will never do in an English household. Mark my words, Daisy, it will never do.” I told her that almost the chief consideration in my engagement to Cyril was the idea that I should not be parted from my mother when I became his wife. if that consideration influences you, my dear, depend upon it you don’t care two straws for the mau,” she answered in ber horrid way, Isee a good deal of my cousins now I am liv- ing in town. They find Grosvenor square nearer the Park than Harley street, and often lavender, and I am now forma! society. and have all the right. r advantages “L should prefer the shabbiest little flat in| the cup. But, poy he ‘ativn in his own house, '| he seemed to think he might do as he: liked in ours. He seated himseif in one of the low be J in to luncheon after their morning walk. ey walk in the Row in the morning, and ride before dinner daily, as if it were part of their religion. . “And yet,” my aunt says, “I have not had one eligible offer for either of them,” I think there is something really pathetic in Gee So I tried not to] RUNNING A BIG HOTEL KITCHEN, How Edibles are Prepared for the Guests of a Great Hgstelry. IT 18 ALL A MATTER OF SYSTEM—-COOKING MEATS AND VEGETABLES BY WHOLESALE—HoW THE FOOD I8 PRODUCED AND HOW \VED—ALL TRE WAY FROM THE MARKET TO THE TABLE. WONDERFUL sight is the kitchen department of a great hotel. The large scale on which everything is organized impresses the mind, though not more forcibly than does the marvelous order of arrangement which makes it possible to serve without friction and with as little delay as possible hundreds of guests each day at several meals prolonged for so many hours as to almost run into one another, And yet, at once upon seeing it, one comprehends it at a glance, for the reason-that it is after all only an enormous edition of the kitchen in one’s own house. For on this model it is simply an expansion, with the necessary modifications that everything is re- duced to an almost mechanical exactitude of method and operation, so that one might liken it to a huge machine into which at one end the provisions are put, to come out at the other ready forthe knife and fork. A VISIT TO THE KITCHEN. The steward of one of the leading hostelries of Washington took a representative of Tue Sraythrough the kitchen of his establishment afew days ago and showed him the inside works, Roughly speaking, the cuisine may be described as occupying two vast rooms with smaller annexes, One of these rooms was oc- cupied exclusively by a long line of ranges stretching its entire length and by a line of wooden tables down the middle, enough room being left between the ranges and the tables to allow the cooks to operate. At one end of the line of ranges, which was to all intents and purposes one range with a number of grate holes blazing with live coals along it, was an iron bake oven for meats, big enough to hold and cook the cut-up portions of a Whole ox. This was for slow baking, where time was not serious object; for fast bakiag there wax a row of single ovens of no extraordinary size all along the line, Immediately to the left of the big bake oven wasa hole in the top of the range 2!¢ teet in diameter which served for cooking wafties in the ordinary sort of wafile irons, many being used at the same time. Close by was an iron disk, set into the stove top as if a portion of it, three feet in diameter and capable of producing THIRTY GRIDDLE CAKES AT A GO. With a scorching fire this suffices to supply the hotel with all kinds of flapjacks ata time for breakfast. Vegetables came next, eight or ten great holes being provided to accommodate the Blunt pots containing them, There was one hoie for boiled potatoes, another for tur- nips, another for beans, another for carrots and soon, Then came an enormous cylindri- cal brass pot bubbling away in the manufacture of soup stock out of the bones and meat which filled it, After that some smaller brass pots, though very big themselves, for the different kinds of soup. These pots are comparatively small, because it does not do to make too much soup atatime. To keep it cooking along in- definitely spoils it, Soit ismade in small quantities and fresh supplies are tarned out every little while, it being an affair only of a little while—say twenty minutes—to turn out a new pot of soup. All that has to be done is to bale out the necevsary quantity of stock and the vegetables aiready mashed and cut up into oun or otherwise for use, and let the mixture 0. NOW COME THE MEATS, each of which, supposing that boiling or stew- ing is to be done, has a hole for itself, blazing like all the others witha mass of fiery coals. In one pot are a dozen fowls boiling, in another four or five legs of mutton, ina third a huge piece of beet a la mode, and 80 on, The meats and vegetables that are to be baked, it goes without saying—and the same thing applies to rousting—are cooked in the ovens a‘oremen- tioned. This concludes the work of the ranges, In an annex room apart there are steam ovens for parboiling such vegetables as sweet pota- toes, egg plants and cauiitlower. SUPPLYING THE WAITERS, Now, when these meats and soups and pan- cakes and vegetables are done they are brought by the cooks from the kitchen proper just de- scribed into the other great room, which is de- voted exclusively to the dispensing to the wait- ers of the edibles thus produced They are placed in covered receptacles along a table in @ given order—tke meats in huge covered dishes, the soups in big brass receptacles, also | covered, the vegetables in similar vessels and likewise with the other things. Frequently in hotels the approaches to this table ure divided ff by little part.tions, so that the waiters shall not mix .p their dishes or become confused in any other way. Here the pampered workors for fees too oft begrudged come to procure whatever their orders from the guests call tor. As the waiter, arriving from the dining room with his order, enters the kitchen departunent he goes at once to ‘A CURIOUS-LOOKING STACK OF SHELVES, which is really a steam heater, each shelf being in fact a hollow slab of iron with steam pipes connecting. hot dishes, of which he takes what he needs for his present purpose, and. going up to the long table, applies for whatever he wants. In a corner of the room to the left isa gentleman of color engaged in stabbing oysters with light- ning rapidity. From him he procures as many of those toothsome bivalves on the shell as are requisite. Ona table close at hand he fimds a few dozen soup tureens, ot which he takes one or two, maybe, and hus them filled by the per- son in charge of that course. Supposing that he wishes to procure fish or meat, he simp! goes to the long table and asks oue of the car- vers who stand in line on the opposite side to serve him, If it is a question of ice cream, puddings, pies or cukes, they are obtainable over the same table, being supplied originally by the employes who devote their professional attention to freczing the first-mcntioned of these articles and by others who bake the re- maining three. SKILLFUL CARVERS. It is worth saying that the men employed as carvers are of necessity very skillful in their art and correspondingly well paid. It might be supposed that waiters who showed pro- fi ould be elevated from time to time into ank of carvers; but such ix not the ci Carving is an oceupation—in fact, a trade— itself, and. like any other trade, requires along apprenticeship before the novice traus- is formed into un adept, There is such a thing, too, as a genius for carving; all men are by no means alike in their capacity for it. The tigst thing to be learned in the trade of carving is that brains, and not wusele, is the cesential requisite. Have we not seen such a fowl asa duck—itself the most difticult of birds to dis- sect gastronomicaily—fall apart uuder the dex- terous manipulation of aslender-Landod woman, while auothcr like it would be seized by a brawny man Unekilled in ornithological anatomy and rendered hmb from limp amid th of grav: the lady next to him? Great experience, well as aptitude, is necessary to the bh: carver, who must make every joint and roast go the longest possible way, cutting thin slices and otherwise contriving to get the greatest available number of helps out of a given num- ber of pounds of flesh. AS FOR THE BREAD AND PIES AND CAKES These shelves are covered with | | hew west side are also to to market. It is the Spor y walneal rem the Center market each day and buys whatever in the way of fresh meat and vegetables will supply his immediate needs. He does not pur- chase of wholesale dealers usually, as might be supposed, nor does he buy whole sheep and oxen. On the contrary, be patronizes re- tail men, who appreciate the custom of the hotel so highly that they are glad to give bim of their very best, and, buying im such quantities. he is always able to secure a consid- erable discount. The loin and ribs, which are the parts he wants. are cut out for him. As for the vegetables, he picks them out in the same way by the quantity. Many other things. such as hams. bacon. salt pork and canaed good, the hotel procures from firms in Baiti- more and New York city with which corre- spondence om the subject of supplies is con- stantly kept up. THE QUANTITY of provisions consumed by a big hotel is, of course, enormous, as might be imagined when one considers that four hundred guests have to be fed at least three times every day, To be gin with, the daily consumption of beef and mutton alone is 500 pounds, This necessarily | includes what is used for soups and m other such ways, Other meats. euch as pork, veal and game, are in proportion, Add to this 5) fowis of the barn-vard variety per diem. So far you have the pieces de resistance provided for. Among the lighter foods it might be worth while to mention 75 pounds of fish daily, 8 or 10 bushels of Irish potatoes, one barrel of sweet potatoes and other such trifles im cor- responding amounts. Tomatoes, corn and peas are mostly bought canned, save during the brief season for them, and of canned vege- tables in general 50 cans are disposed of each twenty-four houra, In the same time from three to five boxes of oranges are consumed | aud half a box of lemons, as well as two bar- rels of Malaga grapes, two bunches of bananas anda barrel of apples. Other things corres- ponding!y, Probably in the culinary d ment of this typical hotel are employe: hundred servants, Apart from its kitchen and dining room quite one hundred and fifty addi- tional domestics ure retained. a NEW YORK NOTES, Echoes of the Week From the City of | Hurry and Bustle. THE PR g@SED BaIDGE acnoss THE NoRTH RIVER— THE YROTESTANT CATHEDRAL AND 1TS PROS- PECTS—PHOSPECTIVE IMPROVEMENT OF STREETS A MODERN BLUE BEARD AND HIS BRIDE. New York, March 8. Having lost the world’s fair, though there are intermittent signs of a kind of posthumous agitation in this matter, New York has settled down to projects of unusual magnificence. One of these contemplates the throwing of a suspension bridge over the North river at an expense of $16,000,000 for the structure itself and 33),000.000 more for its approaches. The scheme is in intelligent and responsible bands, and it is said that the 16,000,000 for the bridge itself has already been guaranteed, A novelty of the construction will be a span of 3,000 feet in length, or nearly twice that of the Brooklyn bridge. The longest bridge span in the world up to date is that of the great bridge of the Tay, just opened, which in its widest span is 1,720 feet between piers, Mr. Baker, who a few days ago was knighted for his work in the construction of this great bridge, is said to be under engage- ment with the North river enterprise and to have already assured its promoters that it is entirely feasible. Perhaps the hardest part of the problem will be in getting down to the street grade after the water is crossed, To ac- complish this object an immense amount of | tw valuable land must be condemned and some very hard problems in engineering solved. Another of the great works of the city which has taken a fresh start since the world’s fair excitement blew over is the Protestant cathe- dral. Notwithstanding the disappointment caused by the lack of any bequest to this object by the late John Jacob Astor the trustees are now pushing the enterprise with fresh energy and are evidently very much relieved that thoir plans are not to be interrupted by a temporary | occupation of the cathedral site Ly a fair. They gave their consent very relnetantly and ouly after a good deal of pressure was brought to bear upon them. They cun now proceed with their vast project without interruption. Already we begin to anticipate the benefits of the sancwary in the neiguborhood, as it is proposed to widen 110th street, make it one of the principal boulevards of the city and call it Cathedrai avenue, THE DAWN OF CIVILIZED STREETS. In that case the avenue would doubtless be paved with asphalt, for after years of wearying delays New York is actually to have some stretches of civilized streets. In this connec- tion Washington has of late been often on one's lips as a model city and its influence will soon be seen and felt in the metropolis, The au- thorities adhere, however, to the stone block for districts where the traffic is heavy. Broad- way is to be entirely repaved from the Battery up to 32d street, 0 that the ‘demon of — discomfort holds high carnival in.our streets and whose quiver is full of such woes as gas maina, sewers, horse car tracks, electric couduits and other horrid street nuisances ouce more gloat over our devoted isle, Broadway has just had a terrible wrestle with this monster in connec- tion with the subway. Not to speak of the infi- nite discomiort this interruption to business traffic must have cost the city’s trade at least | a million dollars, aud now chaos is about to come again. Eighth avenue from 13th street to the park is to be paved with asphalt, and as a long stretch of Madison ave- nue is already paved in this manner there will be a smooth aj proach éo the park both ou the east and west side from the lower part of the island. A number of the pleasant streets in the be halted, and as some of them are ajgo ornamented with park- ing the effect in some localities is quite Wash- ingtonesque. These are sigus of promise, but as a matter of fact the streets of New York will rema.n for many years yet a bye-word anda hissing among nations, WHAT POOR PEOPLE READ. Yesterday afternoon an interesting meeting was heldof the New York free circulating library. This is one of the benevolent institu- tions in which the city has a just pride. It aims to furnish the best reading to the very poorest clusses of the community and its success is phenomenal. Aithough for the most part its patrons belong to whatare commonly regarded as the very lowest stratum two features of the library's work stand out in encouraging relief. while 400,000 volumes are yearly, and that with only commonest precautions, losses from elessuess are almost un- I believe lust year that the books un- ited for numbered something like nine- teen or twenty. The other encouraging fea- ture isthe high quaiity of the literature in demand. In the record of popularity in each of the four siations of the society “Uncle Tom's Cabin” of course stands highest. After that come the classics in fiction and history, with of course au occasional work of transient — ity like *Lookiag Backward” or “Ben Hur.” THE LATEST CURIOUS MARRIAGE IN “HIGH LIFE,” ‘The gossips of the town are mad to know the is that circulated the spattering | mystery of the sudden and curious marrage finally landed, perhaps, in the lap of | of the much-divorced Mr. Yznaga to the pretty ahd interesting young Miss Mabei Wright, Mr. Yanaga is credited with Bluebeard peculiari- ties, except that he divorces his wives instead of hanging them up in a dark closet, He also improves on the primitive and lurid methods employed by that famous bridegroom of Dick- ens nursery tale, the redoubtable Captain Murderer, who, in’ spile of his warning natae, used in the hotel, they are cooked im a great | bad no difficulty in depopulating the vicinity bake oven, which occupies half of another an- | 0! nex room close by the kitchen proper. Two bakers come every evening early and work v: til 3 o'clock in the morning, turning out the necessary number of loaves and other bakable things for the next day's consumpzion. kins and cutlery, with tabie cloths and silver- plated things, sre supplied to the waiters they require them from still another an: room adjoining the dishing-ont apartment, Nuts and fruits, by the way, stand in dishes on a (side table, ready to be picked up as they are wanted. The waiter, onserving a fresh course takes away the soiled dishes and, fetching them: down stairs, hands them through a bole i: the partition to another annex yet. where severai men and maids are employed continually in washjug them. After they are washed they are carried out and laid on the steam-heated shvive: already spoken ‘of, ready to convey other courses as fast as they ure needed. Such is, in | brief, the manner in which the kitchen depart- ment of a big hotel is conducted, HOW PROVISIONS ARE OBTAINED. A word should be added, however, with rein. | ¥ tion to the manner in which the provisions which supply a hotel of tne marriageabie young ladies, it will be that the he Cap- remembered, insisted oung = =woman should tain, only know how to make pie crust and on the wed- ding night, when the bride had rolied out the + *¢ | crust, she found, too late, that she furnished Nap- | the meat, Instead of such simple methods Mr. Yznaga calls in his lawyer. His wooing, how- ever, 18 quite in the style of Capt. Murderer, mex | who sougnt his bride inaconch and six. We have the cuthority of an old English classic thut this pian has its comforts even if love is absent or love's illusions fade: “The Joys of wedlock with ite woes we mix, "Tis best repentine in a coach and #ix.” Perhaps it was merely this commonplace con- sideration which induced the ambitious Miss Wright to take ber turn at this fickle bride- groom, or possibly, like Scheberezade, she in- tends fo defend her sex by her superior fasei- who | the small blizzard and the most howling swelle who brave the ocean in March are treated with no more polite consideration than if they went | an the steerage. All New York held its breath on beg | | morning with a vivid recollection, which wii ‘ not die out during ahis gencration, of March day of the blizzard. Whe York woke up last Thursday the deep sno ad large | the air filled with swiftly falling fakes whirled about by the wind looked very suggestive of | that ominous day. and many « business man | went down town with his plans all laid in case | of a blizzard. * mach of the morning watching t! Bat it turned ont to be only a hard ow storm and the blizzard of °SS still holds the belt. Hewry R. Exit0" ME GREAT TEND THE No j TRACK. | STERL RAILS. ~ NEO. 3. PROM STATION, TSAS FOLLOWS: 0 Limited Eapress ‘Z and 5t Colunbus Pitsbure tou to Larei Cars Harrisbury to St Cmeimati, and nt oui. Want: Bleeytue WI, COMME TEE A Blecpers tor Lauisviile 3" Bren, Pam daily. for Pitisbury etal the West, bi wart Slenper to Pittsburg, and Pittsburg BALIIMOLE AND PULOMAC KAILROAD, For Rave, Cousadaicua, Rock aud Niswaca Palle x D, ester daily: for Bat. i and Rec 1 1000 pam, | wetou to hiecheater, j wrt, Lock Haven and Liuura at 10.50 daily, eactpt Sunday bats Riort dual, 220 pm HLL NEW Vo 0 wud 114 1K AND 10) Liew 11.40 a.m, ui. Limited E Patierae S 40 su Reept Sunday, and 4.00 pa Cally with Dining Car Fon ei ADELPHIA ONLY. cat » pau. every day, meh traius coufmect at 4 Livoklyh annea, aftord: Fulton street, avoiding Dew Lurk City, AU Rte. Week day T1e 8:00, 9:40, 10.50, SU, B42. Bod, 4:40 8210, 10:00 Wt, 103, "10:04 400, 4:10, G00 1-00 a.m., aud 4 20p -eacert Suiiday. Sunday Yd way 410 AND FREDERICKSBURG RALL- ALEXANDKIA ANY WASHINGTON NDTA AN 10.57 ey ay at di > S208 aud | eaiativn foF Quantico, 4d the South, 4:30, 10-57 am and <i, daily. “Accommodation 4209 p.2a. Weel * the office, x "1 si tors cath be lett tus MOND AND DANVILLE B ALLEOAD CO. hecule a elect MARCH 2, INO, Stations be: Atlauia, B ist Pulnuah steei 1 Danvil uta be- aud Dauville, Greeusboro’, Kaluch, te, Columba £ Atlau ‘Texas iow to Atlante New Uriesti-, wand Augusta. Puli inmati via C. aud QO, b.m.—Duily, except Sunday, for uly atid lutefiuedsate statuonas” enpsccers Lynchburg, Bristol and Chat- Vestibule Sleepers Washington to heuce for all Arkansas Expres# daily tor ville, Lowsville, | Pullman Vescbuie train Washineton "to Cine: With 4 Pulimay sleeper tor Louisville. 11:00 p.m.—Southorn Express daly for Lynchburg, ainteville, “Chariocte, sabia, + Dauviile to Coiumi pots Wasiiuxtou to Mashiturtog to ue, NOC. via Sausoury. Also Washineton to Augusta via Dauville and Chariotte. Traius on Washinston and Ohio division leave Waxh- imeton 9-00 a.m. daly except Sunday and daily: arrive Round (fill 11-30. and returning Jeave Kound Hill 6.00 am. daily aud 12-26 Pa daily except sunday, arriving Waskiticion 8:30 5 209 Py us from the south via Charlotte, Dan- nx arrive iu Washington 7 o mnt | | , Lickets, sleepine car reservation and furmsbed. and vagace checked ct wfce, syiVauls ave. Bud at Pusmenger stauon, | railroad, Gth aud Us sty j _mhd Jan L. TAYLOR, Gen dass. Agent | | Barnore Axo Ouro Rainoan Schedule iu efect Dece 0, USO. Leave Washingtou fou station corer of New Jersey : aveLUe abu C street For Chicugy aud Nortuwest, Veatibuled Lismited | exprempuaiiy 11 2y 9-200 pau. pe Cicrisunta, express » express St Lottie amd lus yaa, uy, S210 and 1 P Por Pitus Cievelapd, Vestibuled Limited ex) ress daily 11:20 a.1u, and exproms 8:40 pau. sungton Bud Luce Stations T10 SU au TAMU We For Luray, 5:40 p, For Buitiinore, week $250, 9220, oto) ¢ 3 mabe, TOU pt daly. days, 4:00, 5-00, 6-40, 7:20, 00, 100, 9 ulutites ai, 1, 2:30 143 witeuien 5) 0290, O iv 11:30 pau ‘Sundays, 4-00, |. mal, > aussiutes), 1°15, 20h WW ido Lud ULeE), 2b, 48S, O20, 71U, Tt 20 aud 11:30 p.m. ay Stations between Washinton end Balts- 200, 6290, 3:30 am, 1251 dy Oo -m. Sundays 6.30 om, ae Waslington, week day: Oy d:04, B30, U:LS aw emer ets! Eos ae ges tations, 1700p. ‘achington on Sunday at 1:10 on Metropoutan Brauch, % alts antertuediate 200 p.m |e Giurdh train Leaves W Pb. ping at all st For Freaerick, 10-40, Thy 20 ka TY Te Bi, Sundays, 1°10 pam For Gagorstown, 111-20 am. and 15:90 p.m, Truius arrive trum Chicayo daily 11:49 4mm. and 06 Puiu, ; trom Cinchuusl aud St. Louis daily 3:40 ed iw. and 1.5U pam. ; from Pie 740 aa, God Pen. daily. Ni YORK AND PHILADELPHIA DIVISION, z York, Bhzabet Gay iittaete at 330, "4 abe Car 0} Philadies iplua, Newark, ¥:20, "42200 a, Adences by U Othees, 619 aud 1361 da. ave. aud J. 1) ODELL.. c 430 Gen. Manager. |POTOMAC RIVER BUATS, | FEXO NOLFOLK AND BURT MONK ‘HE PU a AK | SHE OLD FavGuuik sibam SPLEDY. Bark. Mr Appointments firsi<cias. Table upeaceliad State Tidateentvecthcers ‘Thueowes dich bee oe aivensive ot aes Trou 7th-steeet Whur! MONDAYS, WEDAESDASS. and FRIDAYS ot 5).m ‘The on y s\eamer janding at Bowtou whart. Norfolk, and tue oul) ue having exclusve comuection with BOsieN Ad’ | LUVIDENCE SA LAME. MAKGH 1, 1s¥0, the fare to N Commencing the fad Vid Poms whi. be as tose FIRST CLASS. T Ak GORGE LEARY, DUMP ok Lats. Ad. 6.9 and 1351 Penbsylvania ave; wid F b.w., aud Kunoa's Exp Ponsy Who ' will chock Laxkue irom hutels and private rest, dences. Lelephone du, 7. WA. 2 WelCH, Supt. aud Gen. Agt. roo 20ta a nly ORFOLE, FOKTLES® MONKOE AND THR NN Sctuliete 91-00. On and atter MONA he Zeuuber, 1S, 188M ts Lady of the Lake, laviog | been repaired and newly turidsied, will street wharf, terminus 7a and wth stivet cars, at 3 Yltey euesday, 1 and | deave Olyde’s Whart, Norsolk. foot connectious tur New ¥. South, For state ete routs ac! infor INd COMPAR. yo VERNOR aie, Steamer W. W.