Evening Star Newspaper, June 21, 1890, Page 14

14 EE" THR EVENING STAR: WASHINGTON, D.c.. SATURDAY, a, MALINE'S CONFESSIO A STORY OF TRUE LOVE AND SELF-DEVOTION. ———__ CHAPTER L VERY DISAGREEABLE. AM GLAD you have come in, Wilfred. I waut to speak toyou. Something very disagreeable has happened,” said Mr. Caringham, the master of Everleigh Grange, to Wilfred Power, his ward and private secretary. am sorry to hear that. What is it?” asked Power, a dark, good-looking man of about seventy-and-twenty. “That money you fetched from the bank this morning, I can't find it, I put it in this drawer. You know where I keep money. usuaily; and ihad some other money—French Rotes, and the lot has gone.” “Gone!” exclaimed the other. mean that it has been stolen?” “I don’t want to use a word like that,” re- plied Mr. Caringham, who was a mild, good- natured, and rather nervous man. “I should be very sorry to think the old Grange had a thief in it. But I'm almost sure I put the money in this drawe “I know you did,” answered Power; “I saw you do it. There were two roleaux of gold and some loose sovereigns—about £80 in all— and a few notes.” “I thought you were here. Well, it is gon I suppose I forgot to lock the drawer. I real ought to trust these things to you; you are so much more thoughtful than i am: Anyway, when I came in about an hour ago I found the drawer unlocked; and when I looked for the money I couldn't find it. Itis very disagree- =e repeated the other. “It isa great deal worse than disagreeable. But have you looked everywhere? I suppose you oa pul “De you Bot take the money out afterward an auywhere?” No. Besides, I have been out nearly all the hat time did you discover the loss?” About an hour ago—that would be about clock.” ‘Well. it is very extraordinary. I was work- ing here, looking into these papers ubout Meadowley farm, until lunch; and I came back after lunch and did not leave the room until past 4 o'clock, when I walked over to Meadow- ley to get some more particulars of the stock. So it must have happened between 4 and 6 o'clock. Had we not better question the servants?” ‘2, no,” replied Mr. Caringham. “I would not for the world have it get about the place that we have a thief here. Leave things alone, and, if we keep our eyes open, something will probably show where the money has gone, and then we can quietly get rid of whoever the— the person may be.” he said, avoiding the word thief. ever mind the money. I had no right to be so careless as to leave the drawer Open. It serves me righ’ “You must tell Miss Caringham,” said Power. “It will be necessary for every one to be careful.” “I'd rather not; girls do chatter so abomi- nably. But I suppose you are rignt, and that Maline ought to be puton her guard. Here she comes, I think.” A horse cantered quickly up the drive, and a moment afterward a girl's voice was heard call- ing: “Papa, papa, where are you?” The library door was opened by a quick band and bright young girl of abont twenty ran in. looking bewitchingly pretty in her habit, her cheeks flushed with rapid riding and her fair hair slightly disarranged. “Oh, papa. I am nearly out of breath. I had to ride so fast. and dear old Ruby was so tiresome and would not canter. It was all either joggle or rush. last T was obliged to let her have her head and gallop home. I was afraid I should be late. I couldn't get out till very nearly 6 o'clock, for I was in here. and that novel I was reading positively chained me down to your chair there. People ought not to be allowed to write books that keep other peopie from going for their ride at a Proper time, ought But it was very uch your fault, too, Mr. Power.” said the 1, glancing mischievously at him. “because | pak ras getin here till 4 o'clock. But,” she broke off suddenly, looking at them both, “what is the matter? “You both look as grave as deaf mutes. I'm not very late, amI? Not too late to be forgiven, am I, daddy? She said this very caressingly and went close to Mr. Caringham and put up her face to be kissed, like a spoiled child. “No, my darling. no,” he answered, smiling at ber as he kissed her, “I thonght not,” she answered. with a merry laugh, adding with assumed seriousness, “if I Was Very penitent, you know. But what is it? Has something gone wrong somewhere? Is it another of those horrid farms going to be empty? You'll teil me, Mr. Power,won't yo she said, turning to him with a pretty gesturt of supplication, “even if papa won't?" The man would have doue almost anything in the world she asked him, for in his quiet, reserved nature was a greut fire of love for the girl. But he did not reply, leaving Mr. Car- ingham to answer. “Weill,” said the latter, in a hesitating way, “the fact is, Maline, Ihave lost some money.” The girl changed’ her manner directly and went to her faticr's side and put her arm in his as she said, in a way that showed the true womanly sympathy that was in her nature and touched both men keemy: “I hope it is not very serious, dear; not more serious than we can bear together.” And she took his hand im hers and ki: “No, durling, no,” said ner father. ‘Not se- rious in amount, but disagreeable and disqui- eting in the way in which it has gone.” And he told her what had happened. “Yes, that is certainly very disagreeable and I hate to be suspicious. Are you sure you put it in the drawer at all?” “Yes, quitesure. Wilfred was here when I did so.” so. “What do you think about it, Mr. Power?” asked the girl “Ido not know what to think, and you have made the puzzle greater.” “I?” said the girl, quickly turning to him; “how is that?” “Because during the whole time since the money was put in the drawer until the time of the discovery the room seems to have been occupied first by me, then by you. I confess myself beaten.” “There must be some mistake somewhere. I should think you'll find the money, papa. But I must go and get my habit off. I will promise to be cuutious about my things; but I have always loft them about and never lost a peuny- worth of anything.” “Maline,” said Mr. Caringham, calling her back for a moment and shutting the door, “be careful. my child, also not to breathe a word about thisim the house. I wouldn't have it get about for ten times the amount of the money.” “Very well, papa,” she answere: speak of it to a soul.” CHAPTER IL “Tl not WHAT WILFRED FOUND IN THE LIBRARY. The comfort of the little household at the Grange was very much affected by the unpleas- ant incident of the theft of the money, and though each of the three who knew of it pom oi everywhere, and endeavored to find some trace of it, but no result followed. ‘Three days after the discovery Mr. Caring- bam was called away on magisterial business to r Sessions, and Wilfred shut himself up in the library, determined to finish some sc- counts which had given him some trouble. At lunch Maline told him she was going for ‘a drive to the little town near to make some few purchases; and shortly after lunch she came into the library to him, dressed ready for starting, with her purse in her hand, to ask some trivial questions about some one in the town. She stayedafew minutes, until her pony carriage was announced, when they rose to- gether and went out. Wilfred stood a short time by the little car- Fiage, while a suggestion of his was carried out—that, as Maline was going to drive, one of the ponies should be put on the curb instead of the snaffle. And then he watched her as she drove away down the nue. The first thing that caught his eye when he went back to the library was the purse that the girl had left on the table. He picked it up and ran out, thinking to call her back, but one of the maids, standing in his way in the hall, rather clumsily hindered him and the carriage Was Ket when he reached the ste) He carried the purse back into the hbrary ‘and tossed it down on the table, in a burry to get op with his work. The catch was faulty snd the purse opened as it fell, one or two of the coins rolling out. He picked them up to replace them, and g as he did so into the purse. To his amazement he saw two French 100, franc notes, clumsily foided, lying in the purse of one of them was on the top, and he could not help reading it. It was the number of one of the stolen notes. He knew this because Mr. Caringham had given them to him to enter when they hadbeen received some weeks before, and after the theft be bad referred to the entry. Be closed the purse and plssed it where it had been left by the girl. Then he sat downto think. What could it mean? Ear came the stolen Rotes in the giri's possession’ He could do no work with that thought in bis mind. More than that, he could not bear to be im the room when she returned for the purse. He hurriedly put his papers away and Went out into the air. Could she have taken the money? He tried his best to put the thought away from him as he hurried on as fast as he could walk along the roads, but it kept recurring with every corroborative circumstance that seemed to grow out of the strange discovery. He was so absorbed that he noticed nothing; and, as he turned a sharp twist in the lane, he would have been ked down if he had not sprung quickly to the side when some one called to him out of a carriage which was being driven swiftly toward him. It was Maline, and she pulled up sharply. “Why, Mr. Power, I thought you were going to be at work?” He looked up quickly and saw, or thought he saw, signs of anxiety in her face as she con- tinued: “Ihave left my | agree at home, somewhere, and have to drive all the way back to find it.” “Why, would they not give you credit in ey?” he asked, trying to make his voice natural, but failing so much and appearing so constrained that the girl noticed it. “It is not that; but there is something in the purse I particularly want—some patterns, and | s0 on. And again the man thought he could see that he was very anxious, You left the purse in the'library,” he said, looking at her. ‘I saw it after you had gone and tried to catch you with it, but could not. You will find it there now.’” This time he was certain that her manner showed confusion, as she gathored up the reins of her ponies and drove off, suying: ; “Then I must make haste and fetch it, Good-bye.” A fierce struggle raged in the man’s mind as he continned his walk for some hours through the woods and lanes and when he reached the Grange just before the dinner hour he was dis- quieted and agitated. He saw Maline in the drawing room a few minutes before dinner, They were waiting for ir. Caringham, who had come in later then usual, and he said to her: ‘Did you find ‘your purse all right?” “Yes, thank you,” she answered; but in a manner so completely different from her usual tone that he looked at her in astonishment. She returned the look steadily enough; but she seemed so serious and grave that he was startled. “Tam glad of that,” he ssid. “But Lam afraid I disturbed your papers.” she said, not looking at him, but staring out of the window and speaking in a voice that trem- bied. “I knocked your blotting pad onto the floor and scattered the contents, but I tried to put them back, as far as Iconld, in the same order.” “It is not of the least consequence,” he an- swered. And then they said no more until Mr. Caringham came down and they all went to dinner. During the whole of that night Wiltred Power did not sleep. All the facts of the rob- bery—as he knew them and as_ they were col- ored by the light of the day's discovery —were reviewed by him time after time. The sight of the notes in the girl's purse, her evident anxiety to get back quickly from her drive to secure the purse, and her manifest rouble and agitation when he next saw her and. asked her about it—a condition of mind that had lasted the whole evening—perplexed and confounded him. ‘Try as he would he could not get away from the conviction which, though it at first had seemed impossible, had afterward gathered weight—the conviction that she had, for some reason, taken the money. Then he tried to think what must be the con- sequences to her of discovery. What would the father think of the child he almost idolized if he had to know her as a thief? This thought pained him beyond measure. He loved tne girl with all the* force of his nature, and the father had been to him as a father; had taken him when young and friend- less, educated him, and treated him just as a son. Could he do anything to avert the blow which he saw must fall upon Mr. Caringham if once the fearful truth were known? Out of this thought grew a resolve that was quixotic but quite characteristic of the man; he would endeavor to draw upon himself Mr. Caringham’s suspicion, and so shield the girl. He thought long and anxiously of the best means of doing this without actually stating that he was the thief. And he decided to tell Mr. Caringham that he must go away, and to tell him in such a manner as to make him con- nect the departure with the thett. He rose in the morning looking haggard and ill after the night of struggle, but firm in his resolve. * “I don’t understand you, Wilfred,” .was Mr. Caringham's first comment, when thg other told him he wished to go away. “What is it? What's the matter? What do you want?” “I want nothing except to go awa} “Well, but—my boy, I can’t do without you. You are just like my son—the dear lad whose place you have taken, Do you mean you want to go away for good and all and leave the old Grange? Tell me, my lad, why?” ‘L can’t tell you why, Mr. Caringham.” “Can't tell me why, Wilfred, not after all these years?” “No; I can't tell you,” answered the other, keenly touched by the old man’s words, “But it’s so sudden. Can't you wait awhile— give mea little time to prepare myself? It will be like a the lad over again.” ‘Then he paused and added: “-Are you in any trouble, my boy? I mean have you got into any kind ot scrape? Tell me and I'll doall I can for oto a “No, Mr. Caringham. I have a trouble, but none you can help me through,” answered Power. “Is it—is it anything to do with Maline?” asked the old man. ‘This was a home thrust, and made Wilfred wince. “I thoaght you were such friends, and I hoped—but there, what's the good of hoping? Have you quarreied, you two?” he asked. “No, Mr. Caringham. It is nothing of that sort.” “Then, what is it? There must be some- thing. It isn’t—but there, I won't hurt you by even thinking that you are leaving because of this confounded business of the theft. You're not the iad to leave a place because there is a bit of slur somewhere about it.” “Unless it were better that I should be away from it,” answered Power, at a loss how to make the other suspicious of him, “But it isn’t better. Surely I know pest about that. Why, if you were to go now, and this business were ever found out, people would say—by heavens!—I don't know what they wouldn't say about you.” “Still, it might be best for me to “How on earth could that be, lad? “Suspicion might fall on some one—and rightly.” he added, in an undertone. “Maybe; but not on you. my boy. Eh! what? What do you mean by that look? Speak out, boy; speak out,” eried the old man, growing terribly eager in his anxiety at the other's manner. “I cannot speak out. Even after these years Idare not. But I must go, and I must go without an explanation and leave you to think what you will.” “Don’tsay any more now. Wilfred, unless you want tokill me outright. I don't quite know what you mean me to think; but you have aroused such horrible thoughts that I can’t bear any more now.” “Try not to think too hardly of me, for the sake of old times, and tell no one,” said Power, as he went out of the room and closed the door gently behind him. The old man laid his face in his hands as soon as he was alone and murmured to him- self in broken tones: “A thief! A thief! He had rushed, like many people, from th one extreme of the impossibility of ‘holding a suspicion to the other of absolute conviction. je sat alone a long time and then rang aud sent a servant for Wilfred. She returned and said Mr. Power had gone out, but had left a letter. fle opened it with trembling bands, “Before I go away, finally, I should like to see you once more. I shall return to Ever- leigh in three days for this purpose, and this purpose only. ‘Try to explain my absence if you can, and grant my request for one more interview. Iam going now to Overton. W.P.” CHAPTER IIL WHAT MALINE TOLD HER FATHER, The day on which Wilfred Power left the Grange was a very gloomy one, and both Mr. Caringham and Maline were low spirited and depressed. Maline plied her father with ques- tions as to the cause of Wilfred going, but he did not tell her, and i reasons which only ha her still more thoughtful and uneasy yp even “pay previous evening. a asked Mr. Caringham plainly whether the cause had anything. to do with the lost irom having her own reasons for the ques- tion, but he had replied by question, another qiking in his tarn how that could possibly be than she put this question to her father. The next day was as gloomy as its predeces- profane dinuer peeiors. she —— their thoughts, ve Then, Ii true woman, she opened her battery suddenly. The two were in the library, where, as it was chilly, a little fire had been lighted; and Maline carried a footstool to her father’s feet and sat down, resting her head on his knee, and began: i “Daddy,” she said, caressingly, “‘did Mr, Power go because that horrid money was lost?” Mr. ‘ingham started at the direct ques- tion, “I told you before, Mal”—he only uses this abbreviation of her name in moments of deeper feeling than usual—‘“that such a thing was impossible.” “No, dad; all you did was to ask me whether I didn’t think such a thing impossible. I have been thinking, and itseems to me most probable. Did he, daddy? Do tell me?” i “He er not say precisely why he was going ‘Didn't he say anything more definite than that?” “What he did say was not definite, I'm not at all sure that I understood him, either”—adding under his breath, not for his daughter's ear, “and I'm sure I hope I didn’t understand him.” But she was quick and caught the words, “Why do you wish you didn’t understand, dad? Was it something very bad?” “He did not wish me to say why he left,” an- swered Mr. Caringham, you mustn’t ques- tion me, Mal.” “Then it must have been something very bad,” she said, not noticing his last words. “What was it, daddy? Do tell me; I’m so mis- erable.” He stroked her head thoughtfully before he answered. “It would only make you more miserable; my darling,” he answered, and spoke with a deep sigh. The giri altered her weapon. “I know it had to do with that money, papa.” She spoke so earnestly and seriously that Mr. Caringham was off his guard directly. “How can you know that, Maline?” “Did he tell you who took the money, papa?” “I would rather not talk about it, Mal,” said Mr. Caringhain. ell, perhaps I won't bother you after to- night any more about it,” answered the girl, looking up and smiling sweetly, “but you must let me haye my own way tonight. Do you know o, my child.” ‘Because—because,” and she paused a long time and then kissed her father’s hand and laid her soft check upon it as she said, “I am going to tell you something that nobody knows, dad, nobody in all the world, and _per- haps every will know, but you and me, and it will be our secret, won't it, daddy darling, our very own?” “Yes. Mal, if you wish it. trust your old father.” The girl got up and sat on her father’s knee, puther arms round him and kissed him fondly, but did not speak. You are crying, Mal,” he said, very gently, “and your tears hurt me. The girl hid her face on his shoulder and whispered: “T love him, daddy, with all my heart, and now I've lost him forever, i drove him away, and oh, dad, my heart is broken.” ‘The old man felt the teers coming into his own eyes and could not speak; all he could do was to press her hand and gently pat the head that lay on his shoulde His grief was that he could give her no hope. Presently she grew a little calmer and said: “You'll tell me now, daddy, won't you, why he lett?” “Yes, darling; it was about the money Did he tell you who had taken it, dad? 0, Mal, but he hinted it.” He didn’t tell you out plainly?” She was very anxious to have this quite clearly told to bh I think you can . Mal, he hinted, and only . little one.” all I tell you out plainly who took it? I vaguely “No, Mal, no; no, don’t tell me. Besides you can’t know.” And he grew suddenly afraid that the girl was going to put in plain words—what as yet was only suspicion, aud then ask for Wilfred to be brought back. “But I want to tell you.” “No, child, no, I don’t want to hear,” “But those who are innocent may suffer. Listen, daddy, and don’t be too angry. Let me whisper it: I took the money, darling, and I'm so wretched.” “You took it!” cried Mr. Caringham, starting so violently in his surprise that he almost sent her off his knee, “Yes, dad, I wanted some money tu—to—to pay some old bills with, and I didn’t like to ask you.” “But, my child, Maline— he began; but she would not let him finish, stopping his mouth with kisses, “Don't scold me tonight, dad, dearest; I can’t bear it, I've been so miserable. 1 won't do it again—I won't, really. And tomorrow T'll come to you and be scolded ever $0 much; because you mustn't forgive me without scold- ing me, and you mustn't scold me without for- giving me. And—and you'll send for Wilfred re come back, won't you?” she asked, in very low ton “This is a very serions thing, Maline,” said Mr. Caringham, “and I-—” But she would not let him continue, throw- ing her arms around him and kissing him, and actually smiling, until the good man could hardly look grave. “No; but, Maline, tell me, where is the money?” “The money,” she said, biting her lips, “the money, oh, I paid it away, dear, for the bills, you know.” “But the French notes, pay those away.” “No, dad, I couldn't they must be u more tonight, serious.” “But it’s such an extraordinary thing for you to have done, my child. If you had come to me——” {Don't be angry tonight, dad,” pleaded the girl. “I'm not angry, Maline, but I'm afraid I am terribly grieved. ‘Then she put ber arms about him and ca- ressed him fondly, trying to comfort him with many winning, affectionate ways, “I'll tell you all about it some day, daddy darling, and then you'll see I'm not so much to blame as you think.” “Well, my child, T'll wait for that day. Try and let it be soon.” “And Wilfred will come back, won't he, daddy?” “Yes, child, certainly, Xshallsend for him tomorrow.” glad I told you.” And she child—you couldn't pay those away; they— stairs. Don't question me any d, please. And don’t look so “Then I'm so kissed him again and smiled, and then slipped off his lap and went out of the room, leaving the old man completely puzzled what to make of her words in view of what Wilfred had said to him betore, CHAPTER Iv. THE TRUTH. Wilfred Power was greatly surprised to re- ceive a short note from Mr. Caringham asking him to return atonce, But he did s Mr. Caringham explained the matter to him liter- ally, interpreting Maline’s action as a freak, and asking Wilfred not to go away, at any rate for a time. Maline’s reception of him was curious, and there was something in the girl’s manner he could not understand. If he had not seen the | hg of her act and known of her confession @ would have thought that she seemed rather inclined to take credit had done, to herself for what she and to receive him as if he were Pear # returned prodigal. She was so very gentle and tender that he was puzzled, Matters were not, therefore, quite on the same footing as they had been, though no one made any reference to the lost money, On the second morning after Wilfred’s return Maline was alone in her room, when one of the oe servants, who had been her nurse, came to er. “If you please, miss, is this yours?” asked the woman, holding out a small, blue paper to er. hat is it, nurse?” ‘don’t know, miss, quite, “Where did you find this?” asked the girl quickly, coloring with excitement as she ex- amined it. It was a French one-hundred-franc bank note. “The laundry maid, Susan, and told me she had found it am clothes—she thought mong yours,” she said. Alehes her to come up to mé at once,” said faline. When the girl came Maline questioned her closely and discovered that she had really found the note, wrapped up in one of Maline’s handkerchiefs, and placed in the pocket of a dress belonging to one of the maids, who had been oaly a short time at the Grango and was under notice to leave. a me sent for, a ere ou get this, Rachel?” asked Maline, facing the girl, and eyeing her keenly, The l, taken quite by surprise, at first hesit and colored, and then denied all hed bes ie id the brheane mevectea n found, an wert of forgiveness, ¥ fe prom: confessed with ears that she had taken the money, Maline was as much surprised as the girl had n. one of these in Mr. notes pad for us to find it there?” ” answered Rachel, gave it me, miss, f the i as if it hadn't been touched, I took the notes ro again, and put one of them in Mr. Power's otter.” “You put two of them in my purse, you say? When was that? “On Monday, Miss Maline. Islipped into seeing you to the room while Mr. Power was the carriage, and I saw the purse on the table.” ‘The girl's answer was a revelation to Maline. She now saw, as by an inspiration, that Wilfred Power had gone away on her account, think- ing she had taken the money, thus had tried to shield her by drawing suspicion on himself. AB is the money? Fetch what you have of it.” ave it all, miss, upstairs,” Why did you do this, Rachel?” For a long time the girl did not answer. ‘Then she confessed that she had a friend who was in great distress for want of money; when she went into the study at lunch time on the day she had heard of the trouble she saw the money in the table drawer, and the sudden temptation was more than’ she could resist. What she had afterward done was merely to keep away suspicion from herself until the time for her to leave should arrive. She had thought that Wilfred Power would be most likely to be suspicious, and so she had first tried to draw his thoughts on Maline, and thinking she had failed. as the purse did not seem to have been opened, she tried to fix sus- picion upon him. ‘You are a bad, wicked girl,” said Maline. “Go ond pack your things and leave the house at once.” Mr. Caringham and Wilfred were both in the library when Maline entered, “Is this the money you lost, papa?” she asked, quietly putting the gold and notes down on the table. “Good gracious, Maline!” cried her father in amazement. “What does this mean?” And then she told him. Wilfred aud Maline had a further and much longer explanation in the drawing room after dinner that night, when Mr. Caringham was ssieep in the library. At the end of it Ma- line said: “And so, sir, you thought I was a little thief, did you, when you saw the notes in my purse. and'tried to shield me by pretending you had done it?” “Not more than you thonght I was one when that note tumbled out of my blotting pad, and you confessed to the theft, But you were a ae thief after all, for you stole my heart, fal.” “Then we were both thicves, for you took mine away ever 80 long ago.” And the lovers’ amen closed the dispute.—- All the Year Round, o—__. —— se. HOME MATTERS, Seasonable Hints and Practicable Sug- gestion to the House Keeper. Wuotr Croves, it is said, will exterminate the moth. PowpeRep CHALK AND Vinzaan are good for aburn. Arter Ecos are Broken they should be covered until used, Brass Work Can Be Kept Braprirciyy Bricur by occasionally rubbing with salt and vinegar. Wasuive Fioors anp Suetves with strong pepper tea, or hot alum or borax water, will destroy ants and roach Fixe Suavrvas From Sorr Pixe wood make a pleasant pillow. They have special curative virtues for coughs, asthmatic or lung troubles, Wuew Actp or Axy Kixp gets on clothing, spirits of ammonia will kill it. Apply chloro- form to restore the color, A Lirrre Borax Pur ry rae Waren before washing redor red-bordered table cloths aud apkins will prevent their fading, Satt as a Toorm Powprr is better than almost anything that can be bought. It keeps the teeth brilliantly white and the gums hard and rosy, Ip A Cectan Has 4 Damp Swett and can- not be thoroughly ventilated a few trays of charcoal set around on the floor, shelves and ledges will make the air pure and sweet. Broken axp Crooken Canrrt Tacks clean bottles very nicely. ‘They are better than shot, for the sharp edges clean off all the stains, Keep them ina box for use in cleans- ing bottles, Take Brack Court Praster, moisten enough to make it stick, and mend the small cracks and holes in your silk umbrella by pressing it on the wrong side with a warm iron over a thin paper. Tue Stmrcest Way To Fumiaate a Room is to heat un iron shovel very hot and then pour vinegar upon it, drop by drop. The steam arising from this is a disinfectant. Doors or windows should be opened that it may escape. Ham Brusues Seoutp Be Wasnep 1x Sopa and warm water or ammonia and cold water, dipping the bristles frequently downward into the water, but Rechte the backs as dry as pos- sible. When the bristles look clean rinse the brush in cold water, shake it without wiping the bristles and set it in the air to dry. Soap should not be used, for it softens the bristles, Cram Cuowper.—Boil a peck of clams in a quart of water. When the shells open take out the meat, strain the water and boil in it six potatoes, sliced. Slice an onion and fry in pork. When the potatoes are nearly done add the onion, a few crackers soaked in milk, salt, Pepper, ® spoonful of butter, and last the clams. Add milk as needed to thin it. Boil fiftcen minutes and then serve. Banana Snort Cake.—One cup each of sugar and flour, one-half cup of sweet milk, three eggs, one teaspoonful of baking powder. Bake in two or three layers, Filling.—One pint of milk, one egg, one tablespoonful of corn starch; flavor with vanilla. When cold spread with sliced bananas on each layer of filling. Ir rae Feerane Tirep on Patnrun after long standing great relief can be had by bath- ing them in salt water. A handfyl of salt to a gallon of water is the right proportion, Have the water as hot as can be comfortably borne. Immerse the fect and throw water over tho legs as far as the knees with the hands. When the water becomes too cool rub briskly with a flesh towel, This method, if used night and morning, will cure neuralgia of the feet. Tomato Bisqve.—Into two quarts of any kind of soup stock put one quart of ripe tomatoes, boil up 10 minutes, strain through a fine strainer, replace in the kettle or stew pan ana add one quart of cream or rich milk afid bring toa boil, when add @ large tablespuonfual of corn starch well smoothed in milk, stir until smooth and creamy, and just before serving add half a teaspoonful of soda, Season to taste. Serve with large crackers that have been split and browned in the oven. Serve one on each plate. 4 Home-mape Ick Cream.—Ice cream as good as any confectioner’s can be made by the fol- lowing receipt: Use pure cream, unmixed with milk or water, so long as the cream is not un- usually thick, and fresh fruits. If you want to make strawberry ice cream, take a full quart of strawberries and a quart of cream. Mash the strawberries, put some sugar on them and let them stand for an hour or two. Then mix them with the cream and sweeten to taste. Put the mixture into a freezer, turn the crank and when frozen the ice cream will be perfect. For orange water ice take the juice of a dozen oranges and three lemons and put with it as much water as there is juice, with sugar to suit the taste, then freeze it. The reason why home-made ice cream is nearly always a failure is that housewives will put milk or even arrow- root into it. ————+e0______ Some Curious Changes in Names, From the New York Tribune. Rotten Row, as every Londoner knows, is a corruption of Route du Rot. The Bag o’ Nails, a well-known inn in that same city, was, in classic day, the Bacchanals. In the West Indies there have been some strange alter- ations in names, The Bog Walk in Jamaica, one of the prettiest river chasms in the world, was called by the Spaniards Bocca d’Agua, The present Wag Water, in the same island, a stream that fertilizes some of the best sugar and tobacco grounds in the world, was known to the Spaniards as the Agua Alta. Turneffe, a e island spasvampy paradion of the mosquito, g off the coast of British Honduras, isa corruption of Terra Nuova, while Belize, the capital of the colony, is de- rived from Ballice, a small settlement first founded by the celebrated buccaneer Wallace, who subsequently became governor of Jamaica. Montreal in Canada is a corruption of Mount Royal. In Africa the most common name for rivers is ‘Don’t Know.” The explorer asked some native the name, and in the dialect of his tribe the man at last said, “Don’t know.” The wanderer, eager for information, put the answer down asthe name of the river, and Keith Johnstone li it on his mapa. —_——eo——————— A Pass for a Bridal Party. From the Savannah News. ‘A pass issued Wednesday to a bridal party over the Jacksonville, St. Augustine and Hali- fax railroad, gotten up especially for the occa- sion, read as follows: Then the “What fools these mortals be!” a AJ. Asbo from Atier dfvoree.” JUNE 21, 1890-SIXTEEN PAGE ABOUT WAITERS AND TIPS, The Fees Raise $8 Per Weck Wages to $20 and $25 in Good Restaurants. From the N. Y. Sun. There is an impression in the public mind that the waiter earns a very small amount of money in comparison with the wages of the skilled mechanic or the ordinary clerk. This is true in relation to the menemployed in the cheap restaurants and in the coffee and cake saloons, but it really has no foundation in fact so far as the waiters employed in the second and third class hotels and restaurants are concerned. A little observation will con- vince any one who is in the habit of frequent- ing restaurants that the waiters carn consid- erably more money than the average dry goods clerk, that his place is far more agreeable than that filled by many men who hold themselves of vast importance, and that he has frequently more money at his command than the cus- tomer who bosses him about with a high and lordly air and then pays him for the privilege by generously feeing him. A waiter in the restaurant of an uptown hotel on Sunday night had five tables under his eye. He was exceedingly attentive and liberal in his “yessira.” At one tublo sat a gentleman and his wife, at another were three Young men and the other three were taken up with three gentlemen with young ladies. The waiter knew his business and was suave aud apologetic when anything went wrong or he suspected that he was not on hand at the mo. ment he was wanted. He had the prosperous faculty of convincing each one of those whom he was waiting upon that he was the object of his special care, The result was that from the five tabies he reaped just an even dollar in tips. This money was earned by him in less than an hour. As fast as these customers left the tables other customers took their places, The waiter was asked how much he earned in a week, and he replied that his wages were $8 and meals. Then he was asked how much he earned each week, counting in tis. He politely intimated that he conidn’t figure yery close on the amount until he knew what he would receive on the present occasion. He received 25 conts on the “present occa- sion,” which not only aided him in his figuring but loosened his tongue. “Weil, you see, sir, it’s like this,” he said. “I have a good many steady customers who seem to like the way I serve them and who always sit at my tables. If nothing inter feres with their coming here punctually J earn more than when I have to depend upon strangers. My regular customers have a regu- lar system of paying. If one of them comes in alone my tip is 10 cents; if he brings a gentle- man with him, it is 15 cents; if he is accompa- nied by a lady, it is 20 or 25 cents. It always happens that when there is a lady with the gentleman the tip is larger. I have tried to figure this out, and all I can make of it is that the gentleman always appreciates attention more when he has a girl with him than when he isalone. Good waiters understand this, andare consequently very fond of the ladies. It is always a sort of speculation to serve a chance customer, If it happens that he isa stranger in town and comes from some place up the river where tips are unknown he is pretty sure to be an unprofitable customer to the waiter. You can’t teil anything about the character of aman from pearance. providing his ap- pearance is at all ordinary, but an old waiter tell pretty nearly whether a tip is likely from the order he gets. If a man comes in who looks as though he had undergone a long journey and was very hungry, and who asks for a cup of coffee and a plate ‘ot bread. you can bet your life there is no tipcoming. If. on the other hand, he reads the bill of fare ina famished and thirsty manner and orders a good square meal, and shows a desire to feel at home, there is pretty certain to be some- thing in store for the waiter. Well, sir. to get down to your question, I think I can safely say that I earn $20 a week.” “Isn't that rather a low estimate?” “Not for the summer, sir. Of course I earn much more during the winter months when there are a good many theater parties and nearly all the liberal people are in town.” *-How long do you work?” “The time of service varies, but on an aver- age I guess I don’t work longer than ten hours aday, although, when there comes an une: pected rush, I usually work as long as my ser- vices are required.” In a French restaurant down town the waiters id no stipulated wages, but they receive 7 per cent of the total amount of their checks. The result of this svstem is that the restaurant is liberally supplied with waiters, who show an unusual interest in the comfort of the cus- tomers. A sale to them, whether it is dccom- panied by a tip or not.’ yields a profit, and many aman is induced by their blandishments to cer more money for a meal than he in- tended to. The patrons of this restaurant are pretty steady, and all of them have their favorite waiter. An old customer is never mistaken forcommon prey, and he is permit- ted to reach his favorite seat without having a chair banged out for his accommodation or a waiter standing over it bowing obsequiously. One of the old, favorite waiters said that his net sales average about $50 a day and that his tips amount to about $2 more. This is good pay, but the hours in this restaurant are long and the work hard, for the kitchen is down a steep flight of stairs andthe dumb waiter is never used, except for salads and occasionally for dessert. Time was when the Frenchman was the waiter par excellence, but the possibility of earning a good living by waiting is rapidly changing this, and there are now in many good restaurants Irish and American waiters, who are certainly as good as need be. They are, in many respects, better adapted for service in this country than Frenchmen, for they are more familiar with the tastes and habits of Americans. Many an American has been driven away from a French restaurant because the French waiter on duty there finds it difficult to under- stand that there are persons who can dine very well and enjoy their dinner much better with- out wine than with it. A French waiter is apt to be too fond of officiously thrusting the wine list in the face of customers,and if it is once re- jected he has no hesitancy in presenting it a second or even a third time. A party of young persons were made very uncomfortable in a well-known French res- taurant a few nights ago by the waiter posi. tively refusing to understand that they did not desire wine. He insisted upon keeping the wine list in an awkwardly conspicuous position, and when it was finally made clear to him bya few sharp words that the party needed no sug- gestions from him concerning the extent of their order he grew lax in his attentions. When at the close of the meal one of the party requested to be served with nuts he raised his eyebrows haughtily and said “Nuts!” in an extremely offensive tone. Even this waiter gota tip, not because he desorved it, but in leference to the prevailing custom. A waiter of any other nationality would probably not have been so persistent, for he would have understood that here and there a person may be found who objects to wine on temperance or physical principles, but who is nevertheless partial to a good dinner, and perfectly willing to pay freely for good service. “Do you want wine, sir?” asked a French waiter of a red-headed man in a ta few days ago. “No!” was the reply. Bf drop of claret, sir,” insisted the waiter. The red-headed gentleman was alone, and he quickly corked the waiter ap eae than any wine was ever corked by a burst of that was as fiery as the gentleman's hair. There is one restaurant in town where a dinner with- out wine costs more than a dinner with it. The apparent reason of this is that the prietor desires only wine-drinking customers and adopts this method of keeping the other kind away. ———_-+o+_______ An Enchanted House. Paris Correspondence of London Telegraph. A house in the Avenue de Saxe at Tyons is just now exercising the minds of the more superstitious section of the inhabitants to an the building, which they contemplate with curiosity not unmingled with awe, and its tenants are | anything but a happy life. The house is acquiring rapidly repu- tation for being haunted, or, as people call it, “enchanted,” since at intetvals the sounds of mysterious rappings and tappings—which A CHRISTIAN SCIENCE MIRACLE. Why a Number of Her Lady Audience Laughed Aloud. From the Boston Transcript. There was a fanny incident oat in ome of our intellectual suburbs which did not &0 far to help on the Christian science doctrine. The Occurrence was in this wise: A prominent ex- Positress of the doctrines of Christian science was invited by a number of Indies in one of the j Suburbs who had become interested in these | doctrines and wanted an authoritative exposi- tion of them to come out and talk on the sub- | Jeet. She came and began her address in a small lecture room. “Ladies,” she said, “I wish to impress upon Four minds the fact that nothing existe as it appears to us to exist, All matter is unreal; it is a delusion, a hallucination. Nothing is mat- ter—all is mind. And this trath does not apply merely to what ix called disease and its phenomena. The most ordinary things about Us are as much hallucinations ax socalied dis- ease. I will give you a striking illustration esterday I was engaged in housework and | 1 had occasion to cut up and prepare a namber of quinces. Now, you all know how terribly stains made by paring qu worked over these quinces y quartering, handling them. fs foolish, now, to suppose that these unreal, un- substantial, non-existent things should stain Well, as I ¥, paring, not siain my hands and that I would not look at my fingers until my work was over and then would find them perfectly clean. Well. ladies. not only did I/ —_ and quarter those quinces, bnt’ after I ad completed them Ihad occasion to cat and prepare a number of tomatoes, and you know how dreadful they are supposed to be. I pared my tomatoes, cut them and slieed them, hi ling them freely ail the time, and when Iw done with both I rinsed my h atthem and they were perfec white, with not a stain upon them When the “scientist” had reached the stage of the tomatoes the women of the audience be- gan to look wonderingly and siguiticantiy at one another, and when she announced the mir- acle handkerchiefs were stuffed into mouths all over the little hall and chests were heaving with suppressed laughter. Being in consider- able part housewives, the la knew that in the nature of mere material things the juice of tomatoes will wash away and uiterly remove the stain of any other fruit whatsoever, and that after cutting up tomatoes not a vestige of the quince stain could have beeu left upon the woman's hands, Christian science or no Chris- ence, dd looked clean and —_—_—_—+9e—_____. Mr. Orth’s Begging Constituent. From the Philadelphia Times. Benton McMillin retailed a story which he said he had heard from the lips of Godiove 8. Orth, formerly a weil-known Representative from Indiana. Soon after the beginning of the war an old Hoosier, who lived iu his district, wrote him a letter. It began thus: “Dear Jedge: I take my pen in hand to let you know that we are all well an’ hope this will find you are enjoyin’ the same blessin’,” He wrote that he had a wite and a boy that was mighty smart. He said that he had voted for the “Jedge” every time that he had been a candidate, and he thought it was about time he got somethin’. He said that he understood that the governement had lots of guns on hana, and be wanted him to send him by express, right off, a double-barreled shotgun for his boy “Get a breech loader if you can,” he contin- ued, “and if you can't git a breech loader send ona good muzzle-loader, stub and twist bar- rels. The boy is jist thirteen year old, an" he kin shoot like ole Dannel Boon. After you send the shotgun please to send me yer Intest report on agriculter an’ a lot ei garden seeds for my wife.” Mr. Orth hesitated awhile before replying to the letter. He finally wrote that he was very sorry he could not send the shotgun. because the government was in need of all the guns that it could get to put down the rebellion. He took great pleasure, however, ia sending his latest agricultural report and the garden seeds for the man’s wife. Four years afterward, when the war had closed, Orth picked up another letter one day with the same direction: “Honribel Godless 5. Orth, House of Rips, Washington, D.C.” In this the old man called his attention to the fact that the war had just ended and that the government must hay “heaps uy guns on hand.” He therefore wanted him to send by the first express double-barreled shotgun, “breech-loadin’,” for his boy. “The boy is now a goin’ on for seventeen year, an’ he is the best shot in Injeany. Git him a good gun an’ git it quick, for the hollerday shootin’ is a comin’ on an’ he wants to kill somethin’ for Chris’mis.” In conclusion the old Hoosier said: “I want you to send me the latest copy of your agricultural report, an’ my wife wants sum more garden seeds.” Mr. Orth wes ina quandary, He had given a good excuse for not sending the shotgua in his former letter, but now he was stuck. He thought over the matter for some time and finally concluded that there was only one way out of the difficulty. He boughta second-hand shotgun, breech-loading, and sent it to the old man by express. At the same time his latest agricultural report and the garden seeds were forwarded. Mr. McMillin says that he afterward heard that Orth was avenged. One day, as the old man was trying the power of the gun. it ex- ploded aud killed him. But MeMilim does not say that “Godless S. Orth” told bimthia —— sb Something About Friendship, From the London Saturday Review. The talk of making friends is largely a mis- use of language. Friends are found, not made. They are a discovery, not a creation. For any friendship that is worth the name isa pre- destined and foreordained affair, It is not at all a matter of rational choice nor of well-con- sidered reason, but rather of magnetism and temperament. We make good will as a mental asmosphere surrounding us, and whether we have this or not depends very largely on our- selves. We make pleasant acquaintances and well wishers by exercising certain quaiities of self control. generosity and courtesy, but a friend 18 found, not made. No observance of polite form, or even the deeper influence of noble qualities of mind and heart can determine this, nor hardly can the lack of these change that friendship which is simply recognition. It is unchanging and eternal in its very essence, It can bear everything of friction, trial, annoy- ance or pain and vet spring up again with even new vitality. Such friendship is a gift of the gods and it is not commonly found. People talk lightly and carelessly enough of their friends, when:they do not know the meanin; of the word, when they are not themselve: the stuff that friends are made of and know no more the strength and devotion and infinite sacrifice that the word comprebends than they do of the emotions of the inhabitants of Mars. To exchange calls and dinner invitations; to be members of the same club or the same church; or to have views in common regarding the Wagner operas and Ibsen dramas is by no means friendship; although many relations, even more pupericlel than these, masquerade under that name. There are plenty of people, fitted out with a relay of sub- stantial qualities and pleasing attributes, who fill weil the place of that extensive outer court of acquaintances. Society requires, for its cohesion, polite conformity, cultivated taste and powers of selection and self-control. Of friends, in any genuine sense, one can in- evitably have but few. Even one is quite enough to make life beautiful and redeem it from materialism. And even one is more than perhaps the majority of people possess, although they who least know the higher pos- sibilities of friendship would be the first to is assertion. That life is rich which cide a rfect friendship, in which mutual sympathy is almost mutual ‘clairvoyance, and in wi sacrifice would be a personal luxury, if done for the good of one r. Trust and tenderness are the two factors of this finest and most sweet of social relations. Yet itis a relation for the most part that defies analysis, defies explanation, defics all known laws of the chart of polite society. But ite strength is the one great stimulus of life; it is inspiration. We can do for our friends that which we could not do for ourselves; we can rise with him, or for him, to heights other- wee miner Important to Druggists. ‘From Texas Siftings. A New York druggist who spent the winter ima Texas town for his health was asked by the genial clerk of the hotel: quinces are supposed to stain and blacken the hands. For days and days, under the old | thought, I have worn upon my fingers the dark my hands,’ and I resolved that they should | EPISODE OF TRE HAT. How a Pretty Woman Won a Vote fi Thanks in a Philadelphia Theater. From the Philatelphia Presa A stately and handsome example of the welly bred young lady attended a theatrical fire night last week and occupied. with ber escort, seats in the third row of the orchestra, She was so fair to look upon that « large share of the andience watched her as she went down the aisle and settled gracefully in a chair, | It was then observed, with much interest, that she raised her arms and detached from her head the fashionable hat that became het sowell. Her hair was bright golden and under the lights it fairly flushed in its beauty. The old geatioman sitting behind her settled | bavk comfortably in his chair and congratae lated himself th ‘l been placed behing such a thoaghttal creature, for now he could not only seo the stage, but a splendid bead of - - hair as well, | Presently two or three young women in the | immediate vicinity quietly oved their hate, having noted the admuirat 1 that the origi-, excited road until hatle raole all ew t the circle, | nator of the scheme hs n is the moveme ds were ¢ en to the rear on | Between the acts a paper n to circulal | among the people in the ¢ tra snc ntieman, as he received it, rea 0 t rd Vritten on it an then smilingly signed his name. after whicl he passed it to his immediate urighbor. few moments the paper cane back atieman that inad starte | the o! travels, Bendiag forward be po! the golden-haired girl, handing to her a | Same time the paper. She rend it, aud aashe ai ! leop blush and a smile crept over hor face, | per wasa vote of thanks, signed by/ thirty or more of the male spectators, Its text Was as follows “We. the undersigned, respeetfu sire to express our admir for a most beautiful a | considerate young lady, name not known, w | by her hat from her bright gold head has set the fashion for others. th ereby rendering it possibie for a delighted audien, to witness th ails of a stage performance. The pretty gir t# radiant smile over her shoulder at the fentloman behind, and, folding the paper, tucked it into the front of her dress by the side of a bunch of pansion, And everybody was very happ THE SPARKLING WINE, Champagne, How i is Made and Whe Discovered It. From the New York Tribune. Champagne, as everybody knows, was in- vented—that is the word to use, for the wine » certainly was not a discovery—by Dom Pe rige non, & Benedictine monk, in 168%. Being ap- pointed to the post of cellar-man at the Abbey of St. Peter, in the village of Hautvillers, on the Marne, some five miles from Epernay and fifteen from Reims, he co ed the idea of “marrying” various wines, The product of one vineyard was noted for its fragrance, another for its generosity, a third for its color, 8 fourth for its preservative qualities, and so on. By judicious “bleading” Dom Perignon produced a grand wine, a sparkling wine that burst from the bottle and overs flowed the glass, Moreover, it wus white, ugh made from black grapes. It so far exe celled ali other wines that it quickly won the first place and took the name of the provin Champagne. Vast improvements have been made im the manufacture of champagnes since the death of the monk in bat the princi les he introduced have never been abandoned, The newly expressed juice of the grap the first fermentation in casks, is cony the cellars or “caves” in the chalk r after a brief period it is r muking the “cuvee,” which con ing” or mixing the wines of various vineyards together in such pr pertect wine. skill, art, © » produce a er to msure the greatest unifor xing a done m gigantic vats, containing from 60,000 to 75,000 bottles. The wine is then returucd into casks and at the proper time in May or Jane bottied, securely corked and laid away for at least two years and a half in th ars. Soon after bottling the second fermentation takes place, which produces the effervesc and formes| ® sediment. When the wine is ripe for use it is shaken sharply ral times a day for om three to eight woeks by skilled workmen c: remneura.” I order to detach the sediment from the botth and get it to rest on the cork the bottles bein, racked neck downward. Then comes the wor: of the “degorgeur,” who carefully loosens the cork, which flies ont, carrying the sedimen' with it and a small quantity of the wine. Thi makes room for the “dosage,” which is pre pared according to the market for which th wine is intended. This “dosage” is « liquev compounded by each manufacturer after recipe of his own, consisting mainly of old wine of the best quality, a dash of the best and some pure candy. It determines toe great extent the character of thy wine, whether it shall be dry or sweet, light or stro After the “dosage” is added the bottle is recorked and the wine is then ready for warket. Only new bottles are used, and the greatest care is exercised to secure sound ones. Because of the pressure which the gases of the wine briny to bear upon it, the chumpagne bottle as one o} the strongest and heaviest made, weighing nearly two pounds, Its sides must be of uni- form thickness, the bottom solid, the neck por- fectly round with an even and gradual con- vergeuce, the inside smooth and polished and the elements of the glass such as will not mix with or act upon the wine. It costs at whole- sale about 6 cents. The aim in bottling cham- pagne is to fix the pressure at about five aimose pheres. When it has five and three-quarter atmospheres it is known as “grand mousseux,” and if above that there is extreme danger of its bursting the bottle. Notwithstanding the utmost care there is cot erable breakage by the imprisoned gases. The average loss ranges “ from three to eight per a The Kissing Spot on Note Paper. From the Chicago News London Letter. A fad in writing paper is what is called lover's stationery. It is fine note paper delicately tinted, the most fashionable shade being light pink. The water mark, to be detected by hold- ing the sheet up to the light, isa blending of two hearts pierced by an arrow. In the iower corner of each fourth page (or reverse of each second half-sheet) appears what at first sight looks like a blemish. But this is the charming feature of the novelty: itis the kissing "pot, | for here the correspondent presses his or '}ips, and thus asalute is wafted to the absent |lover. ‘The kissing spot is about the size of » shilling (twenty-five-cent piece) and is covered with a thin aromatic gum that impart to the lips a pleasing odor and taste. A more ine genious bit of maudlin sentimentality could it is of jus the joy of b From the New York Ledger. Little Tommy was entertaining one of hig sister's admirers until she appeared, “Don't you come to see my sister?” be in- quired. “Yes, Tommy; that's what I come for.” ‘ou like her immensely, don't you?” “Of course, ladmire her very much. Don't you think she's nice?” “Well, I have to, ‘cause she's my sister; but she thumps me pretty hard sometimes. But let's see you open your mouth once. Now sbut it tight till I count ten, There—I knowed you id do it!” on sid I couldn't?” ter!” “Why, Tommy, who “Oh, nobody but “Well she ‘schd yen, hadn' enough to “Well, id you t sense keep your mouth shut, and I bet her two appies you had, and you have, haven't And you'll make her stump up the apples, ‘won't you?” The young man did not wait to see whether she would “stump up” or not, Not the First to Appreciate Her. From the Chicago Tribune.