Evening Star Newspaper, August 19, 1893, Page 21

14 GOWNSOF AN HEIRESS! —— iA Bar Harbor Belle Who Has a Color for Each Evenirg. HOW WRINKLES ARE REMOVED. Beautiful Costumes for the Week All Ready for Use. ona SS ©OLORS AND MATERIALS. MFritten for The Evening Star. a)ANCY ALWAYS U\weaves a certain fas- Veinating glamour about the possessors of great wealth that captivates the imag- ination and invests them with a degree more of interest than is accorded to or- dinary mortals. We Iixe to know how they look, what they wear, ete, and picture them in our own minds as living Qn Heal existence, surrounded by every Jcxury able to gratify the most extrava- want caprices, and perhaps—sometimes—we envy them. But not for jong. That un- Worthy feeling soon passes away and we anjoy their good fortune with them. t gives us plexsure to see a beautiful girl exquisitely gowned in some wonderful for- eign fabric, with the jewels gleaming at her throat or glittering on her fingers. Dainty raiment seems a part of herself— er birthright—and we are glad it is hers. e is unassuming and so altogether ming that she disarms envy amerit- icism and wins hearts by the score Such girl one of fortune’s greatest favorites, 4s summering at Bar Harbor. er Gray Tulle—Monday. Tneonsciously she is creating a consider- able amount of good-natured comment by an innocent Iittle waim she carries out in_dressing. Not that her gowns are in the least con- gpicuous or bizarre—quite the contrary. All are in perfect taste and each successive toilet Is more becoming than the last. Peo- ple are only talking because she chooses Qlways to wear a certain color on a cer- tain day and never varies her program. Her “dressing order” ts: Monday, gray: ‘uesday, blue; Wednesday, violet; ‘Thurs- pink; Friday, yellow, and Saturday, Pale Biue Surah—Taesday. Only her evening gowns are colored. During the day she always wears white, but she has a large variety of materials to choose from. Dainty lawns, swisses, or- gandies and batistes for the warmer days @nd flannel, duck, china silk and pique when the weather is cooler. Sunday evenings she invariably appears in 2 simple toflet of some gauzy white ma- terial. Preventing Wrinkles. She has three different gowns in each of the six colors, and more than a dozen dif- erent white ones. She brought them all Europe, where she spent the early spring, in sachet-lined trunks, and has a unique way of kee @rushed or wrinkled had made seven forms modeled exactly after her own. Included in her suite of Fooms at the hotel is a large trunk room, and here stand her seven counterfeit bodies clothed in the evening dresses she will wear during the week. In this way they are kept in. perfect shape, and the rather dangerous Practice of ironing the creases out of dainty gowns is dispensed with. After she has Worn a gown her maid lays it in a trunk While abroad she and redzesses the model with another of | the same color. Violet Crependc-Chine and Velve Wednesday. Her brother is a « 4 enthusiast, and has taken her h in every” new own she has > last years, he collect reached rather alarming Proportions, but is very interesting. On a recent Monday “vening she wore an exquisite creition of silver gray. tulle # Silke Slip of the s: color. ‘The full Fe bodice was ered around the with a band of soft gray ostrich feathers. Putte bows or the shoulders held tn place some loose folds of the tulle, which w confined at the! waist and fell fre skirs. A belt of the fe to ‘ather trimming encircled her waist ani finished the bottom uf the akir. She 2 se of her gowas for the and it was a - nly @ suggestion to b@ seen to be ar Gowns for vie Wdas’s was filmy bi After I gave individually. pale blue surah, trimmed A f blue rib- had long em of the m with bou fastened to ¢ @ads that dutterea down to the us ng them from getting | edge of the! THE EVENING STAR: WASHINGTON, D. C., SATURDAY, AUGUST 19, 1893—SIXTEEN PAGES. skirt. The seamless waist was cathered in front into a belt of insertion, matching the lace. Pointed bands of the insertion further ornamented the bodice and the siceves, Changable Pink—Thursday. which were extremely full, were capped with @ doubie ruflle of lace and ended in two Marrow puffs just above the elbow. Half way up the ckirt was trimmed with Vandyke points of imsertion heading a lace ruffle and finished around the bottom with @ straight band and ruffle of lace. Delicate violet crepe de chine and a won- derful velvet, shading from the darkest, Satin Stripe Gren: e Yellow-Friday richest violet to the lightest tint, combined to make Wednesday's gown a perfect poem of harmony. The corsage was slightly Pleated a la “Vierge,” to the wide bodice of Velvet. The round, low neck and the top and bottom of the bodice were edged with a@ very full puff of the velvet. ‘The large, short sleeves were also of velvet, as were two panels on either side of the skirt, out- lined with the putting. Pale Green Crepe—Saturday. Thursday's gown of changeable pink silk was particularly lovely. The waist, made perfectly plain, was trimmed with bretelles of wide, webby lace of a faint pink hue,that fell in graceful cascades from the corsage to the bottom of the skirt. A band of rib- bon extended from a bow on the right shoul- der to a point under the lace on the left side. The sleeves were very short, full ufts. A jluced on the skirt by the lengthwise rows of lace, falling in cascades from the waist to the hem. pale yellow satin-striped Next was a grenadine,-made with a pointed basque and plain skirt. A full, pointed, V-shaped piece of plain yellow silk was ‘inserted in the | jo] and have a very. ‘Sood record. They’ be-| front of the bodice, edged at the top with a double ruffle of the same. Ratlles of very wide ecru lace fell over full sleeves of the lain silk, and bias folds of the same out- ined the bottom of basque. Around the bot- tom of the skirt was a double ruffle, be- tween which were several rows of shirring and two of narrow puffing. Last, but by no means behind the others in point of beauty, was Saturday's gown of green chiffon, extremely delicate in color. | Over the tight silk waist lining the chiffon | | was gathered very full. The sleeves wore formed of two pale green ruffles, the pat- tern worked in tn silver. Bands of changeable ribbon shading from pale green to silver were crossed in front | with a bow, while below were two pointed bands, the one around the bottom of the basque fastened under a bow with very long | streamers on the left side. A ruffle of lace around the bottom of the skirt finished this | fairy-like costume. T have noticed that her admirers, and they are legion, when they learn of this fancy of hers, wear on the same evening a cravat or | flower corresponding to her chosen color. MALL. see The Electrophons. From the St. Louls Globe-Democrat. | When the idea of the “theaterphone” was irst_mooted in Paris its feasibility was | much questioned; but a Paristan syndicate took up the project with such energy that the city has now effective service which supplies entertainment seribers numbering over 1,500, and the fi stallation ts connected with all the prin. cipal theaters. London now seeks to emu- late Paris in this successful development, and an “electrophone” company has ben organized with a very ambitious program The electrophone is practicully the tele- Phone modified tn such a manner x3 ta gerve the purpose of transmitting sount from public uildings, such as concert halls, theaters, churches and lecture rooms, to certain centers for redistribution, thence to receiving points by conductors radtat- ing from these centers or exchanges. Thus the publi ment of a small tec, can hear a portion of the entertainment proceeding at one or other of the London theaters. Specially constructed trana- mitters are placed on the stage of the theater, just in front of the footlights, from whence the sound Is conveyed over the wires of the local telephone company to the electrophone exchanges for redistri- bution to private subscribers, and to 2 system of automatic boxes fitted ap in | clubs, restaurants, railway stations, hotels | and similar places of public resort. So that if'a man is indisposed to go out in search of amusement, he can turn on the elec | phone service in his club or hotel, or even in his private house, and have immediately at his comn d practicaily the whole range of entertainment Mag on in the to connection with p amusement, ed to connect the system with es and the law courts. It fs even that it will be possible to obtain ame privilece in the house of « mons, and several members of parliarent ure sald to be strongly in favor of the | dea. A commendnhie feature of the ser- vice mnection with the prn- cipal Is free of charge, ‘so that. it be a source of pleasure and rt to the thousands of sufferers who © each year are treated in those ad- | mirable institutions. In addition to the {sound service the electrophone compan propese to attach an intellizence buresd to their centra! exchange for the con- venten. ribers. where com- | miss 1 will be carried cut | for a © bureau will be pro- vided with stenographer and typewriter | and every requisite for saving time ard trouble. A subseriber will be le to have; Y part of | the city by stmpl: ing his wishes to the central exchange. Tt ts ardentiy to be hoped that this tdeal system will | be successful in {ts entirety. The B. B. L. £xtra Session. Now statesmen mect in summer leat With wi wake: But for Butts, t How gard their be, ‘ads would ache, particularly pretty effect wa pro- | to_a list of sub- | ‘THE BAGGAGE KING. Railway Baggage Masters and Their Routine Work, USEFUL PCINS AND GOOD STORIES, How to Handle and Pack Trunks to Advantage. THE TOURIST’S INCUBUS. ITH THE RETURN of the many cummer tourists from sea- shore,iake and moun- tain an .ndividual looms up with whom they will nave deal- ings of considerable importance and for whom <cheir respect will be most pro- found. This man is the railway Lagrage master. No one con- nected with the rail- way service can occ: sion more consternation and downright pro- fanity than he. Heeyes anew trunk with ghoulish glee as it comes aboard his train on its way to some prominent summer resort in the month of May or June, but, with the tact of a diplomat, he handles it fondly and carefully and contents himself with the thought of the harvest he will have later on on its return to the city. No one represents that vulgar phrase “Let her go, Gallagher,” with more accu- racy than he, as he stands in the doorway of his car, trunk in hand at the head of an empty ‘baggage truck. It {s° said, with how much accuracy cannot say, that that slangish sentence originated’ with him. Picture in your mind's eye a trunk pack- ed to bursting; an empty trunk, say with a fall of six feet; an assistant perched on the handle of the same and as everything 1s ready yelling out: “Let ‘er go!” There are lots of Gallaghers in the railroad ser- vice and that one of that family should be a baggage master would only be in the usual line. What more likely than that his name should be coupled on to that reckless phrase and a now almost obsolete slang sentence should be completed. ‘Of course, like everything else, the good is mixed with the bad, but temptation is so persistently thrown in the baggage mas- | ter’s way that the latter class undoubtedly predominate. Their work is hard and with the heat soaring among the nineties one can hardly blame them for giving a par- ticularly bulky trunk an extra twist as it goes on its way to the receiving truck. The readers of the daily papers of today seldom come across the stories of the baz- gage smasher, such as were current 20 or | 30 years ago, which carried with them con- siderable interest, not to say individual concern, It might not be easy In a paragraph con- clusively to assign reasons for the decline of the trunk story. Certainly the baggage | master is as powerful as ever, and surely he cannot have lost in the comparatively brief period of twenty years that fine sense of humor that once prompted him play- fully to drop a trunk and break it open. It seems more probable that he has shared i i j advancing refinement of methods which {has marked our progress in recent vears— that he Is not less humorous, but only less boisterous than he was, and it may be, too, that the fact that trunks generally are made stronger than they were has some- thing to do with it. In past years the bug- gage master had little hoy of advancing to the lucrative position of conductor; now he can reach that goal by strict attention to business, and the less number of com- plaints ‘ainst him hastens this end. This may be the real cause of his reformation. Desiring to giean some mside t8 8 to the manner of handling baggage an Even- ing Star reporter corralled one of the fra- ternity in the depot restaurant and over a hearty meal the following convernation took place: “Considerable nonsense and fabrication is indulged in at the baggage master’s ex- pense,” sald the reporter. “Won't you <ell Mme something of your every day life and avocation ? The Baggage Maste: Story. “Well, the reporters’ stories don’t hurt me in the least,” the baggage master replied, “and they generally make good reading. The only thing I don’t like about them is the belief they create that we smash bag- gage out of pure deviltry and take no pains to see that boseage Teaches its destination in good shape. If a poor trunk is broken through the most careful handling we al- ways hear of it, but when we tie a trunk together and in every way try to save its | owner from loss nothing is heard trom tt, and if there is it is an even wager that our | endeavors are misconstrued. Not long since | received a trunk out there In the shed that | my experienced eye told me would not last | the Journey through. I hunted up a plece of | stout rope and wrapped it around the trunk several times. At the Union depot in Bal- tmore one of the local men shatte: the | hinges and but for my rope e contents of that trunk would have been scattered all over the platform. The owner 9n recetving his trunk made compiaint to the proper | authorities and demanded damages. I have been with the company a considerable per- | Heved my story and told the owner to do | his best In a legal way and they would mect (him halt way. They never heard of him afterwards. Had that been a new bagyage master a slice of his salary would have been lost or, perhaps, a suspension would have followed. “The tendency toward large trunks is what breaks my heart. Many people do ot stop to think that human beings will have to handle their baggaye und as a consequence will buy a trunk that, with its contents, will weigh all’ the way from 300 up to 509 pounds, Now to let these trunks down easy is an impossibility. If they are made of leather it is all right, but if they are constructed of wood and sheet tron it 1s all wrong. The first trunks out of a car are the ones that suffer the most, as they will have to fall the farthest und serve as @ buffer for those that follow. All we baggagemen ask is that a little common sense be displayed when a trunk is pur- chased and, also, when it Is packed. Heavy articles should never be placed the top or bottom of a trunk, but directly in the center if possible. Tuis prevents the sharp contact which is usually so fatal to a ma- jority of well-put-together trunks. Let me Say a good word for trunk manufacturers, The average traveler will save a pretty enny by investing in an expensive trunk in the long run it will be cheap. ‘Commercial drummers and theatrical folk always use the best trunks. This should be an object lesson to all travelers. No class of people travel more and there is none that we dislike as positively. This is on account of the extra amount of work created by both. Ordinary travelers will carry one or perhaps two trunks, but it will indeed be a poor drummer who pos- Sesses only two, and a theatrical perform- er will be in hard luck that can boast of less than four or five. We all look forward with dread to going out on a Saturday night run, as it is more than even chances that the baggage of one and very [requent- ly two and three theatrical companies will have to be handled. A majority of the companies have regular men to handle their scenery, but the baggage men have to wrestle with their trunks and, as they generally foot up in the neighborhood of | thirty, it can be readily seen that the task is not an easy one. As I have sald before, these trunks are of the best and the work is lightened considerably, as no great care is required in handling them.” The Check System. “How about your check system?" inquir- ed the reporter. “Very few trunks appear | to go astray and a lost trunk is seldom heard of | “Phe system on our road Is very near perfect,” replied the baggageman, “and the Post office register jetter system is al- most an exact copy of it. Many years back, when railroading was in its in | the local baggage master placed a check on a trunk and gave a duplicate to the owner to be presented at the end of the journey. No account was kept of the transaction and it was several years before a dishonest baggage naster revoluuonized the system. When this t fellow had gated the sys nd discovere: ness he resolved to profit thereby. inves its weak- ‘One day him as being particu mediately after the off the check an Vas cover and in place substituted a cover of his own that jhe had secre provided. Is) placed ja tag on it an Philadel- phia unloaded it. When the owner of the trunk reached New York and demanded his trunk it could not be found and an in- vestigation was set on foot. Hundreds of pleces of baggage had passed through the hands of the men on whom suspicion fell and that particular trunk, of course, was lost sight of. “The only way to locs had been stolen, and th finally concluded it was, was to shadow man. This was done and the unsus- pecting thief was captured while trying to dispose of several articles that were in the trunk and had been described to the de- Now, everything works with clock-like | precision. A record is kept of every check and a signed receipt is given by the bag- e the trunk if it railroad officials | with the rest of mankind in that steadily | gagemasters. Should a trunk go astray it can quickly be traced to the last man hand- ling it, and that is the best any system will do. When the quantity of baggage handled is considered the small percentage of losses is something remarkable.” “Incase ‘of wrecks,” inquired the re- porter, “I should imagine your situation to be anything but pleasant.”* “Your, i ton ten | | subject," replied the baggagemaster, with a sorus of his | is unpicasant phase of raiiroad lite, aud ia our case our dunger almost equals that of the engineer and fireman. If you have ever seen the inside of a baggage car you may have noticed an iron rod running along the side just over the doors. In case of a sud- den run-in that red is our oriy hope, ‘Tue Wreck may only be a slight one, say the smashing of the cowcatcher of the. engine. but the sudden jar produces havoc in our ear, and the tons of baggage is thrown to- gether with so much force that to be caught in the midst of it would be almost certain death. This fact continually confronts u: and on the instant the danger siznal is sounded we make a flying leap for that rod. I could cite over a hundred cases in which ‘ In Case of a Wreck. | “The inside of a baggage car after such | sight run-in is worth going a considerabie distance to see. There is generally a space, say about three feet wide, in the middle of the car, in which we do the little writins necessary, and in the fraction of a second this space Is transferred to either end 23 the case may be. I have seen pet animals crushed to death in this movement so quickly that their yelp or ery of alarm Would be halted before fully uttered, while the baggage master would be grasping the rod for dear life, and his body flying in the air outside the ‘car. There is no way to improve upon the packing of baggage i the car, as the space is too valuable, ani every inch is brought into requisition. A person not acquainted with our surround- ings would naturally think that the best thing for us to do would be to jump from the car and take our chances, but the odds against us in such cases are at the ratio of 3 to 1. Take, for instance, a pitch-dark night with the rain falling in torrents, The doors are about half open to let in fresh air. Your eyesight will fail you a foot out- side the door. All at once the danger sig- nal ts heard from the engine. The train 1s running at the rate of fifty miles an hour, and cannot be brought under control in less than 100 yards or more. Before that time the crash may come. We cannot tell on the instant what we have to contend against outside the car. It may be that the train is on a bridge; another train may be running by in an opposite direction; a steep bank may be there that will hurl'us back under the wheels, or a nice soft mound of earth may be the particular spot on which we may alight, but, as T have before remarked, the chances are 3 to 1 against it, so we grasp the rod, and the percentage of safety ig turned in our favor at 2 fe about the same “One of th of fifteen yes e strange things of my career “ars on the railroad is the fact | that although I have been in several wrecks | | the sum and total of my experiences have | been a few bruises. For this reason I can- | not tel! you any stories that have harrow- ing details to them. But here is one that might strike some people as being humo! ous, although to me at the time it was quite otherwise. My first years as a bag- gage master were put in on the Pittsburg division of the Fennsylvania railroad, the | division that takes in the Allegheny moun- tains, My run was on a local train, or one | that stops at all stations. The car. had doors at each end, besides the two large _— (ae are young and careless in hose days, and it frequently hay ned that | the end doors were left unlocked. A Drunken Miner. “One dark night in October at about 9 o'clock, just after pulling out of Johnstown, @ crazy-drunk miner bolted into my car, with a large revolver in one hand and a larger knife in the other. Both the side | doors were open, and on the instant I took one step toward one of them to jump out, but stopped and decided to face the music. The miner was not out for money, but, as | he put {t, ‘for bloody blood.’ I tried to coax him into a peaceful frame of mind, but he. was obstinate. Several men on the train | had seen the miner come into my car, and they tried to enter to help me out of my | trouble, but one or two shots fired in their | direction kept the door closed and left me jto my fate. When the crazy fellow saw | | that he had me safe he began to mumble | | Something about giving me three minutes to Say my prayers, at the end of which he | declared he was going to fill me full of lead and then cut it out with his knife. “Scared? Not a bit; simply paralyzed. I would have taken a leap from the car door but for the fact that we were running alongside a ravine, the sides of which | sloped down the mountains fully 600 feet or, more. “The miner stepped to the middle of the | car slightly toward the right door, and I noticed that it was with difficulty that he kept on his feet. I forgot to mention the | fact that he had cut the signal rope with | | his knife on entering my car, so that the | | engineer knew nothing of my predicamen’ | and consequently the train was running ai its usual high rate of speed. “My would-be assassin was on the point | of raising his revolver on a line with my | head to ‘carry out his threat, when the | train struck a sharp bend in the road. The r lurched sharply to one side and Ike a flash my unwelcome visitor disappeared through the open door. I had ahout de- cided ‘to rush in upon him and take my chances in a hand-to-hand strucgle when he disappeared, and I at once went to the | door and leaned away out to ascertain what had become of him. Half way down | the steep embankment he was still rolling, } carrying the loose gravel with him and, | | with the usual drunken Inck, missing the | few trees that lined the sides thereof. The |Rext instant we struck another bend and he was out of sight. “Three days later that same miner came to my car at a little station called Mine | | Run. He was swathed in bandages and | presented a sorry sight. As he held out is hand to me he said, with a smile: ‘Old | fellow, that was a lucky curve for you, | | but I'm glad we struck it’ And I knew he meant it, as when in his sober senses no | better man trod the coal regions, but while | in iNguor he was a fiend incarnate, That | | rol down the hill would have knocked the \Uge out of almost any sober man living. | Ever since that adventure the end doors | of my cars can always be found locked. I | take no more chance -see An Age of Copper. From London Tron. M. Berthelot, the French technicist, in a recent communication to the Academie des | Sciences, states his belief in the sometime existence of an age of copper in addition to the three recognized archaeological eons of stone, bronze (copper and tin) and fron. He bases his opinion chiefly upon an analysis of a plece of copper which had been found by M. de Sarzec in the course of antiquar- ian investigation in Mesopotamia or Al Je- zira, as the Arabs designate the famous stretch of country between the Euphrates and the Tigris. The fragment thus chemi- cally determined proves to have neither tin nor zine entering into its composition, there being simply traces of lead and urseni Water and the atmosphere had made ra' ages into the specimen,which was practical- | ly a suboxide or a compound of protoxide and metallic copper. As the ruins from which the piece of metal was taken are authoritatively considered to be more an- cient than even those of Babylon, M. Ber-| thelot does not hesitate to promuigate the | theory that an age of copper preceled the | bronze and iron periods, especially as the examination of the component parts of a portion of a metallic scepter which, it is alleged, belonged to a_ Phareoh’ who reigned in Egypt some 30) years before quae showed no signs of the presence of tin, ++ Midsummer Pleasures. From the Chicaro Record. “In some respects the people of this coun- try know no distinctions of wealth. “How's that?” “Tam @ poor man, but through the whole month of August I am as free from care as = the price of coal as any plutocrat could | +0- At the Blackville Games. From Puck. “Say, Mistah Judge, am dere any objections for my man to carry "bout fibe pounds wid him in dissher race?” | The Judge.—‘“Cert'ly not, if you's fool | ‘nough to ‘low him to run dat way.” Backer of the “Unknown” (as his man leads down the stretch). ‘o’ de lawd! Ise knowed | he'd doit, Dat's de way he got his trainin’. | | folloy | to you and Julia, the daughter of his third | MONICA. The Duchess in Temple Bar. © ANY ONE COM- ing direct from all the luxury and heau- ty of the old Court above, naturally this little cottage room looks amaf and pov erty-stricken; yet there is a pathetic tenderness about it, | too, born of a we man’s hand-a touch of gentle refinement that shows iiseif in the masses of old world flowers, care- lessly and artistically put together, that adorn the one table and the two brackets, filling all the tiny apartment with their sub- Ue perfume. The windows opening to the ground are thrown wide open. Qutside, the garden les panting in the sunshine. There is the sad Jowing as of many cows In the far distance. All the land lies quivering in its heat. A faint useless little breeze comes lazily into the room, ruftling the ancient curtains that are drawn ciosely together in a Vain effort to exclude the sun, Poor Mr. Norwood, with a praiseworthy determination to seem quite the contrary, is looking the very picture of misery. “He las | been dragged from his sanctum nd lis be- | loved “Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs,” to inter- | view, or rather be interviewed by, a fashion- able’ young man fresh from town, who, though his nephew, is to him an utter strun- ger. Conversation for the last five minutes has been growing mere and more languid. Now it threatens to cease altogether. The host {s at his wits’ end, the fashionable young man Js looking distinctly bored. It is there- fore with a glance full of rapture, and a nobly suppressed sigh of extreme relief, that Mr. Norwood hears a step upon the gravel outside, that comes quickly ne. It ts—it_must. be—Monica, to the rescue! Now one of the windows 1s darkened: a figure, stepping airily from the bright sin- shine ‘beynd to the room within, parts the curtains with both hands, and gazes inyuir- ingly around. As her glance falls upon the strange young man, it alters from expectation to extreme surprise—not confusion, or embar- rassment of any kind, but simple, honest surprise, visitors at the cottage being few and far between, and as a rule exceedingly M11 to look at. ‘The strange young man returns her gaze with generous Interest, and a surprise that outdoes her own. For a full half minute she stands with the curtain held back in either hand, and then she advances slowly She is dressed in a gown of Oxford shirting—very plain, very inexpensive, it has a little, full, baby body, that somehow suits wonderfully the grave, childish face | above it, with its frame of light brow hair so like the color of an unripe ches! nut. Her eyes are blue as the heavens above her; her mouth, a trifle lars? per- haps, but very serious and very sweet. ‘Come here, Monica, and let me make you known to your cousin, George Nor- | wood,” says her father very proudly. The | ride’ is all concentrated in his daughter. This soul he deems a king would be hon- ored by such an introduction. At this, she comes closer, and places a small, slim hand in her cousin's. “T should have known, of course, says, as though following out a certain train of thought. “I heard you had come to the court.” “You must be good friends with him, Monica od, nervously, “He *—she is smiling now—"we shall be of course!” Then more directly to the man who 1s still holding her hand, as though he has actually forgotten it {3 in his possession, “As my father likes you, it | that I'shall lke you, too.” says George Norwood, with an an- swering smile that renders his face quite beautiful, “then I owe your father a debt | of gratitude I shall not easily repay. ®Mr. Norwood has been getting nearer and nearer to the door by fine degrees. Monic: without seeming to notice this, says gentiy: | “Go back to your books, papa. I will take care of—of—my cousin.” At this Mr. Norwood beats a thank: treat, leaving the two young people I re- one, u “Why did you hesitate just now?” asks George suddenly. on a very ancient sofa, and him thoughtfully. “When?” ‘Over my name.” “Because I didn't quite know what to call you. Your being my cousin does not prevent your being a perfect stranger—and a stranger, I, suppose, ought to be called Mr. Norwood.” “If you call me that, T shall be unhappy forev " says George Norwood, “Besides, y you know, because I shall cer tainly never call you anything but Mo- | She has seated herself ig regarding “Oh! at that rate,” says she, smiling again. resently as he stands upon the hearth) rug he lifts his eyes and fastens them upon} a portrait that hangs above the chimney piece. What a charming fact a complexion—and eyes! “Yes, it is lovely! Lt is my grandmother. ‘ou think the mouth and nose like he says. “What = ! a He doesn’t think it plainly expects him to say it, he does his uty like a man. “It is a perfect face! But} the eyes—they are your own, surely. “Are they? Do you know I never look at that plcture without feeling bitter!’ She! laughs as she says this, in a way that pre- cludes the tdea that acrimony of any sort | could belong to her, “It was the only thing my grandfather left Pee He inwie a par- ticular point of it in his will, that it should | be given to him, When he had carefully | cut him off to a shilling, he bestowed upcn him an oil painting. Wasn't it munificent? ‘The eldest son's portion to be a mere por- trait! While the second and third) son's ¢hil- dren should inherit all!” Then, as remem- brance comes to her, she redderis and grows for the first time confused. “I bes your pardon,” she says softly; “I had forgotten | you were the child of the second son. + “Don't mind about that,” says Norwood. “In my eyes too it was wmost iniquitous will.” “Papa was very glad to get this port of his mother,”says Monica nastily. “He/ adored her. She did ail she knew to make | grandfather destroy his first will, and leave | everything, as was only right, to my father. | She gained her point, too, but when she | died fe forgot his promise and everything, and betrayed the dead, as you can see.” She | makes a mournful gesture toward the room that so painfully betrays their poverty. “My father as the second son was badly treated too,” says Norwood, anxious, he hardly knows why, to create a feeling of sympathy between ‘them. ‘Not so badiy. By leaving the property trait | son, on condition you marry each other, he | provided for both the children of ‘the | younger sons. For me he did nothing. He | never forgave papa’s marriage. You will | marry Julia, of course She is regarding him seriously, and he laughs a little and colors beneath her gaze. “T dare say,” he says Nghtly. “It would seem a pity to throw away ten’ thousand a | ear, and if I refuse she gets all, and I am in the cold, As I am heart whole, T may as well think about it; that is, if she will have the goodness to accept me.” ‘She will,” says Monica, with a certain meaning in her tone. “If ‘she refused, she would be left penniless, too, it would all | e to you, and she is fond of—" sne pauses. Mt dare say you will get on very well to- gether,” she continues hastily. “And as you are heart whole, as you say, it really cannot much matter.” hat can't matter?” ‘Your marrying for money.” ‘And if I was not quite free—t¢ my heart owned another tie—how then?” asks he, with an anxiety to know her opinion that astonishes even himself. “Then it would be disgraceful of you, and contemptible.” returns she seriously, but without haste. Perhaps she thinks she has Spoken too severely, because presently she smiles up at him very softly and kindly. And then, after a little bit, he says good: | bye to her, and goes out Into the gleaming sunshine, and all the way up the grand old court (that may, or may not, be his as hia will dictates), and into It he carries, not the face of the ‘cousin who reigns there and | whom it is expedient he should marry, hor | & soft vision lad with eves that shine like sapphires, and sunburnt hair, and a smile | rave and sweet and full of heaveniy ten= jernes: ° eh eee ee It is a month later. Thirty days—; el ly short as days will ever be where Nanol. | ver hess reigns supreme—have taken to thems Selves wings and flown away. t is now high noon; already the - | ging to wane. The god of” lent ord | Weary. ‘Tired Nature halts.” The siream- | lets are running weariiy, tigued with the exertions of most past. “It is the the bee flags in his de ony.” sh Ti he day, sow al- earth's slesta—even ep-and dull monot- All the morning George Norwi - ed assiduously after his cousin siete has followed from greenhouse to consemy tortes, from conservatories to orchards, the woman he has been taught he must marry, | if he wishes to keep up his good fellowship with the world to which he has ong been known. Now, when evening ta ope sending. he has. escaped, fe and has flung himself with deepest g sest rellef at the feet ‘of the woman rs ought not éo marry, with whom ind mar- riage will mean social extinction, He met her buf an hour ago in this tle shadowy vaitey, om his duty, | ut- Where the dying sun- | beams are playing at hide and seek ameng the branches of the trees, and where a tiny | rivulet is sping and stammering as tt runs | lazily over its pebbles, | that ‘thouent, | lutely, but with evidene difficulty, having thrown aside ber huge . 4s sitting on a litte mound, with her back against a beech tree. She has taken her knees into her embrace, and just now is looking at her cousin from wider heavily lashed lids,that seem barely able to support themselves, so tanguorous is the hour,and so contented her spirit. Her companion can scarcely be said to be looking as free trom care as she Is; ther a slight suspicion of weariness in his eyes, his manner is somewhat tinged with a de- pression very foreign to it, which as a rule is of the debonair order. “Anything the matter with you?” esks Monica at last Say them all over—it will Suggests she sympatheti- s—at least, not for many It would bore you; it wouldn't laugh, “my worries are of the Kind difficult to put into speech.” ‘That means they are nothing but fan- ‘Does it? Then leaning back, and plac- ing his hands behind his head, he turns his eyes slowly upon hers. “I ‘wish I had fever come downrhere,” he says deliberate- What!” cries she, leaning toward him. “Has Julia proved unkind? or is it kind— Won't she marry you? Or will she?” 5 Norwood gruifly. “I wasn’t thinking of Julla.” ‘No? ‘Then why are you sorry you came to the Court?” Norwood at this regards her fixedly. “I wonder,” he say's, in a curious tone,‘wheth- er you 'reaily don’t know, or wheiher you are an accomplished coquette!” “Don't know what?” ing her large earnest eyes to their fullest, and Jooking at him with such sweet and honest surprise as awakes within his breast the deepest self-contempt. How could he have doubied her, for even one short mo- ment. “To be a coquette,” she says in a littie dignified tone, “requires, I believe, practice. There 1s nobody down here ex: cept the rector and Sir John Frere, ‘Sir John Frere?’apprehenstvely. Yes. He is toothless and seventy-five. ‘The rector is hairless and sixty-one!” With {is she very properly turns her back upon im. ‘Thank dness!” says Mr. Norwood devoutly. He feels affection: te toward both these old men—in spite of their ab- breviations, and m spite of the fact that he has never seen either of them. “I beg your pardon very humbly,” he says, after | @ pause full of eloquence. No reply. ‘Monica—speak to me.” “T will not," says Monica, giving herself the Ile direct. “Oh! but you are speaking,” declan “I'm awfully sorry I sald that, bec: was as absurd as it was unpardonable. he. ‘AS you acknowledge it to be unpardon- able, you can't well look for my forgive- eae Nevertheless T do,” exclaims he boldly. “Well, quette. “Certainly you are not. You are an ang: You are all you ought to be. You are- “That will do,” says Miss Moniea, with a mischievous glance, “you will overdo tt, if you go on any further. And now don’t tus quarrel any moze. Tell me what you were doing all the morning.” ‘Lounging after Julia.” ‘Happy man! I do so love that old Court, and I suppose she took you through the gardens. If only my grandfather had be- haved properly, and left it to papa! In- stead of which here we are, playing second where we should be first.” “Well, it’s nearly as bad for me,” says the man moodily; “I was brought up in the belief that, as your father was not in it, I to be the heir. And see now where I then, say at once I am not a co- am. “You will be all right when you marry Julia,” says Monica, with the friendliest encouragement. But this encouragement falls through. “Oh! I dare say," says Mr. Norwood un- gratefully, and with inc:easing gloom. “But you can’t be badly off. You must have money now, too,” says his cousin, with a swift glance at his clothes, which are irreproachable. “Not enough to keep me decent! mother left me seven hundred a year, “Seven hundred a year!” says Miss Nor- ‘I think no young man could possibly require more than that. You have only yourself to think of—no other expensesno grown-up daughter to dress eep.”" yell, I could hardly have that, you says George Norwood apologet- Won't be twenty-six until next hundred a year, how i be!” ‘No—you would instantly want more.’ “I am sure not. That would give him all he requires—‘a house full of books and a garden of flowers She makes her quo- tation with a sweet wistful smile that goes to his heart. “And you—what would it give you?” he asks earnestly. “Me! Oh, I should be happy enough in his happiness,” replies she lightly. “The sarder. of flowers, you see, would be as much mine as his. Now,” she says with a little irrepressible sigh, ‘he hasn't even enoneh money to buy 8 which his soul deligh waat are U Y 1 mean their names?” “I was thinking of papa—if he had seven appy we should both asks he eagerly, too eagerly! She raises her soft eyes to’ his: there is gratitude in | tern resolve, too. | * she says. “Remember what moment since—your income is hot sufficient for yourself. You shall not waste it upon us.” “I don't think it fs quite @ civil thing to remember every word a fellow says,” re- turns George reproachfully. “Well, we won't go into that,” replies she quickly: Then as though some hidten force compels her to return to the subject, she says: “Tell me*how you get on with J ‘Very well,” impatiently. “She will look all that is satisfactory at the head of one’s table. ‘There is consolation, no deubt, in as," bitterly, “I suppose I must marry her.”” “Oh, why say must?” gently, and with a glance at him from under her long lashes. “It is not a hardship, surel ‘Perhaps I, shouldn't hi & month ago. ‘She is young, handsome; that ts all one requires, is it not? “Not quite! There s something else, I think—many other things; but above and beyond all, the essential grace that makes life—that js, married life—sweet; I mean sympathy. “She hardly knows you yet,” says Mon. fea, deep but suppressed pity’ in her eyes “Ry and by it may be different.” Knowledge of Julia makes her confess to her secret soul that smali hope for him Hes in a nearer acquaintance with the cousin he needs must marry. “In six months more it must al tled,” says the young man ré la up to that time has every then depend upon me wheth have everything or ont: ‘You are sure she will accept you?’ Tam afraid—I mean,” <oloriag notly at his mistake, “I think she will do me the honor to be my wif You think rightly. She will not resign the property. Only yesterday she told me she could not live without it. In months, then, she will still have everything, and—you into the bargain!” Almost as these last words es-ape her she repents them and growing pale to her very lips, turns her head aside and becomes painfully anxious about an insignificant tear that a straggling briar has created in her gown. “I am not so sure of that,” says Norwood thought it so - It wil ‘will still she unsteadily, “Monica, look at me. Nay, Zou must.” trying to compel her to retura is gaze, which has grown impassioned. He has taken one of her hands in his, and ts trying to draw her nearer to him. “Release my hand,” she says in a low tone, yet with so much authority that he at once obeys her. There is a strange flash in her beautiful eyes that warns him to dare nothing further, and yet makes his pulses throb madly. What a strange proug glance it is, and yet what grief, wnat anguish it contains. 1 am tired,” says the girl wearily. will go home—yes, you may come with me; but for the future”—she pauses and reso. herself to look at him—"for the future you must promise me never again to forget— “I promise vou faithfully,” interrupts he quick}; shall never forge She sighs. Presently, turning to her almost as they Teach the Cottage, he says, “Are you go- ing in the bali at the Grange tonercow e ing?" Nov But you told me you were asked.” “So I was. 1 am not going, neverthe- les: ‘There is terrible Why? in his tone. If you must know," ‘it is because I hav enough.” “That dress you wore at the court last evening— 1s a fossil—almost an heirloom, The Whole county knows It by heart by this time. No! pride forbids my exhibiting my- self in it again.” “it you ask your father” “I should have one at once—at the ex- disappomtment she says gently, not got a gown good | pense of his being even duller :han usual for a month afterward. He would give me every penny he possesses, would probably sell Some of his dearest possesslims—-bocks— | to get me a few yards of muslin, in which to enjoy myself for an hour or two. Do you think I should enjoy those two hours, nowing that? What purgatory they would mean.” “They would, indeed!” he says reverently, gazing at her fair, loving face with unaf- fectel admiration. ' He does her full justice, and understands perfectly the loyai affec: tion that could find no happiness in a plens- ure secured at the expense of a beloved ob- ject. Then he wonders why Julia, who more money at her command than she quite knows what to do with, has had no thought for the poor ttle cousin in the cottage; and then I am afraid he thinks bitter thoughts of the woman he ought to marry. You must come to see me the day after the ball and tell me ell about it,” she saya ome of the books in | | is | comes on a) | lightly. “Second-hand to hear of it will be better than nothing.” “Yes, absently— pi hts are roaming, and that he is thinking of something iat removed from the soft evening scene that surrounds him. . . . The morrow passes; the day dies. Night ace and Covers everything. At the Grange the fiddies are sounding, bright forms are moving to and fro; the air is heavy with the breath of dying Mowers. It is 11 o'clock, and the ball is well degun; the music grows sweeter, fainter; fans are wav- ing gently. inown in the cottage a girl ts standing the still haze of the summer nig! Yes, he is there, of course: ment. self, how dearly she would like to be there too! She glances at her gown, and telis herself that almost she might heve gone and then she shrinks within nerself, and refuses to confess even to her ow eart that it would have been agony to her to have appeared badly dressed before—be- fore—oh! many people! She sighs impatiently, and the tears gath- er in her eyes and blot out che sights enin- ing gayly so far away; they blot out. too, a dark figure that, advancing rapilly through the few shrubs, enters the second open | window and, crossing the room, 3s at ber side before she has time to recotaize bi It is George Norwood, of sourse—a Title flushed from his run, and with ie hair slightly ruffled, and with the gladdost Ught possible in his handsome eyes. Monica, moving backward, involuntartly seizes the curtain with one hand and stares at him almost affrightedly. Her attitude reminds him of that happy moment when first he saw her. Before ne nas time to | Speak she recovers herself ani says, with @ poor attempt at coldness: Vhat has brought you here?” ‘You know,” replies he calmly; “an cver- powering desire to see you—1o aecr your voice again. Your face was in very vor- ner, smiling at me—your voice was clearer than the band, and ‘called ime incessantuy. I have come!” He sinks into the chair with all the air of a man who intends to make it his Text- | Ing place for the remainder of che evening. “Where is Julia?” asks she, reproof im her voice, unmis' glaioess m her great gleaming eyes. She has a heavy spray of scarlet geranium in the boson of her white gown. It rises and falls ner- usly as she stands before him, trying vainly to be stern and angry. “I don't know—I don't care. Dancing, I suppose.” “Go back t her. I won't nave you here. rat once.” “I won't.” says Mr. Norwoot. “But I desire you,” exclains she, with a little stamp of her foot. “Of course, if you turn me out, I shall inu but 1 certainly sha’ had enough of Julia.’ Monica’s breath comes a little quickly; she lifts her hand to her soft rounded tnroat. “You ought to be with the woman you mean to marr} She says siowly “i enurely agree with you,” says Nor- Wood with the utmost that wouldn't drive me back I shall never marry Julia’ “You don’t know what you are saying, says Monica, shrinking sull farther irom 1 do. Quite well, I ought to have said it before, but tonight I have made up my mind. If you refuse me, 1 shall never marry any womau—never! ay darivg, don’t shrink from me; say you love me, Say it—Monica, say it.” ‘No—no. You must be mad,” says the girl, as, white as death, with both hunds she keeps him away from her. “It is ten thousand a year. You shall not do this thing. In the morning you will think-—’ “As 1 do now,” 1 thought yesterday mormug, ind every seeded hen) — past love you ter than my Wi lite—to nothing of filuhy lucre. aK =| ‘The pressure of the hands that repulse him is not so strong now. Smvvidened wy this sign of coming weakness, he goes on with renewed spirit: “We shall be poor, you know; bat you said once you thought seven hundred a year quite enough to live on. You can't 60 back of that now. You suid also wat it would bea disgraceful and contemptible act on the part of any man to marry ot Woman when he loved another. You can't get ou of that, either, and 1am not going to look either disgraceful or contemptible in uite reasonable from his chest yours, whether you like ‘ou must try and make the best tion to depart; "t go to Julia—t the only eyes I worship.” ‘The hands have grown now, and indeed have sit to his shoulders. “Monica, I am it or not. "¥, you till death us do part “Do not talk ef death,” she whispers tremutously. “No? Shall we not pray that we may die the same day and be buried in the same grave? But, living or dying, my own dari- ing, every thought of my heart will be yours.” ‘The hands have slipped a lttle higher up, nd now, with a faint but heavy sigh that is almost a sob, she twines them round his heck and lays her soft check against b's. (You must imagine a good many aster- isks here, and then we go on.) “How was Julia looking?” asks she pres- ently. They are now sitting close together —very close indeed—upon the patriarchal Sofa that certainly has seen better days. But if it were satin and down, they could not be more contented with it. “Very handsome,” replies he with the most Satisfactory indifference.“ ‘Icily reg- ular, splendidly ‘null’ sort of business. No soul and too much fiesh. My angel, you have saved me. To think that only for you I might have married her; Should, to a moral certainty, you know, as I' didn't —, i love meant then.” At this juncture there is no mistaking he knows what love means now. “If you should ever be-sorry about this,” says Monica nervously. ‘Nonsense, darling; you «now you are miles too good fot me. I hope you will never be sorry, that’s all; Monica”—wist- tully—“are you certain, positive, that you really love me?” “am as sure of itas that veare sitting here,” says Miss Norwood solemnly. A further demonstration that they now really know what love means ‘Do you know I’m awfuily by says George presently, without the stnallest shame or recollection that reople in novels never eat anything when filled with the tender passion. “Are you? Do you know so am I, but I to say it,” confesses che didn’t quite lke naively. “The servants ate im bed, T gm afraid. but there is cold chicken in the pan- and—' ‘Let us go for it ourselves,” says George. “AS we are going to set up housekeeping on a limited scale the sooner we learn how fo, lay, @ table and help ourselves the er. “I don’t believe there is any sherry,” says Miss Norwood, blushing usly, “but there is”—with considerable hesita- tion—“beer.”” one thing on earth I Jove it George Norwood. murmurs =he repsoachfally. “And just this moment you told me you loved only me.” “And so I do, you and you only,” declares he fervently. More asterisks! “The key of the beer is always kept be- hind this picture,” says Monica, pointing to the oll painting of her grandmother be admired on the first day of hie arrival. “That's a good thing to know,” returns he, laughing. “Well, take it down for me now; it will be a lesson. You will know exuctly where to go for It next time.” She laughs, too, as she says this, and drawing him up to the chimneyplece points to where the key hangs behind the picture, ‘Was it fatality, or was it awkwardness? As he puts up his hand he touches the painting, and the string that supports tt Snapping suddenly, the picture falls heavily to the xround—so heavily that the back parts from it, and leaves it rather a dilapli- dated object on the hearth rug. But something else ts on the hearth rug, too! A piece of yellowish parchment, tigh' ly folded, has slipped from between the pic- ture and the frame. George an4 Monica. both stooping to pick up her grandmother, sce this paper at the same instant. She, be: ing the woman, is naturally the most cu- ri it jous, and therefore the swiftest to xnatch she says fayly, putting It behind auhat do you nay it i9—a legacy or a hundred-pound note, or mere padding to keep the portrait steady?” ‘Then they stoop over the lamp, and exam- ine {t cautiously. When Norwood has opened {t, and read two or three lines of the writing It con- tains, he utters an ejaculation, and turns to Monica with eyes bright with excite- men What was the date of our grandfather's 12" he asks eagerly. “I mean, how before his death was it written signed?” “Three years,” says Monica, gazing at him in wonderment “And this is dated six months before his death,” says he, with something in his tone that resembles ‘awe. “This is nother and a later will, Monica, and it begueaths all to your father: . . . . It was quite true. 1 suppose the old man when feeling sickness come on him—that | first attack of paralysis that suggested te him the possibility of death—had repented him of the betrayal of his promise to the wife, dead and gone for seven long years, but green still in his memory. To leave ali to the son of her heart—the first, and there- fore the dearest babe that hed lain pon her bosom—was r. And < er, though estranged ‘this con for many interrupts he. “And as) week—that 1) in a white gown at one of the open win- | est son, dows, and is gazing eagerly and with sad | it should be given inte straining eyes at certain lights that two | in such wise that he miles away can be seen distinctly through | better br it. a” happy | dium. and regardless of everything but the mo- | back and the pictur It ts most natural, is it not? What | hid the will that-vexed | is there else for him to think sf? She her- | document that suited “tn have to go." saya George Norwood, with | aid out showing the faintest sympiom of an Teasons too numerous to menzion here, ha@ succumbed as a husband shoald to the love of his youth, and bad sworn to her thag Justice should be done. ‘et it was gall to him, she doing of at Gladiy would he have got out of th> yrome given to the dying womxa, wut even though the grave had closed upon ser. she had @ hold over him, born Memories when spring was glad with flowers, sun shone, and al And yet the gull after a bit, so strong about him’ for g way t Yo the dead and yet worl He would make a new « obeyed, pour soni! rose to the it chat 2 hoon fulfil Als prunes his own desins, —so far ghe wi jeaving ail 10 tne elie whom he so deeply detested, ang his own honda, but should ne none the His mother's porcran wo: Behind it, in a his pride he @ codicil leaving or convaaled and all, to his elies Yet Pate is strong, an@ Time things to pe Julia, when matt her, took it all ver: orings all car te iy. €008 income of her own, impleer Eble temper to "be somfurt ypt or Tangiers, ce ow be marrivd to @ for all I ‘now. snarried her lover, T saw her was teaching het little son to “Ride a cock-yorse to B-bury Cross” on his grandfather's knee. oe POOR RICH ME, and went alroa somewh swarthy prince Pretty | M: What is Spent for Clothing and Press ents—Strezgle With Debt. From Oncea Week. I was chatting the other day with a rich young “income” member of the jeunesse @oree. By income I mean one of those fax vorea scions of wealthy parentage who inherits a sufficient income to never be compelled to bother about earning nis own living. Until within. a few years there were comparatively few of this class in this country, though there is a community of such in all the Buropean cities. My young friend, who is a pink of fashion and quite @ well educated and agreeable fellow, was lamenting the fact that he could not sibly make both ends meet at the of the year on his income of $15,00. I expatiated on the fact that many men married and maintained families snugly on less than $15,000; that the amount sented 5 per cent on a small fortune, and that he must simply be recklessly extravar gant who not only could not live weil on it but run in debt. He answered me that his bachelor chambers were quite modest and his club bills very moderate; that be- absent so much Visiting his frienis he not keep either a valet or an equipage. He admitted that his clothing and. per- Sonal outfit cost him more than his lodgi or his club. I wondered how he manag: hen, to spend his income so that he was ys in det at the end of the year. He then explained that while he spent sv much of his time visiting bis fashionable friends in their country homes or on their yaches, the outlay in tips for the servants Presents to his entertainers was far greater than living “at home” and bis club would cost him. When he added that his wedding pres- ents alone the past year had cost him 6,000, I could appreciate the force of his statement. Just think of it, how many families could be happy and wealthy on OW per annum. Yet this scion of wealth 5, | is in a continual struggle with debt, which is far more wearin: day than the struggle of honest voll toy dally“ bread. Struggle of honest toll for From Pock. Mrs. Hicks—“There is a burglar @own stairs; you'd better go down.” Hicks—"You don't want me to stain my hands in human blood, do you?” Mrs. Hicks—“No; but—" Hicks—““Then je: the cook kill him and Ti sty right here, where I can prove an 0+ Appreciating the Mosquite. ‘From the Boston Courier. Applicant—“There is one more question I would like to ask before Geciding to take Up my quarters with you. The conditions climate and fare are favorable, but what about mosquitoes 7” Mrs. Catskill—“There! I was going to speak of that. I can assure you, sir, that & mosquito is @ very, very rare thing in ved all this section.” “That settles it. I've ii a 3 Applicant. my life in New Jersey, and I really up a home feeling See diverting little mee American Folk Lore. A New Jersey Fairy Tale.