Evening Star Newspaper, October 28, 1893, Page 14

THE EVENING STAR: WASHINGTON, D. C.. SATURDAY. OCTOBER 28. 1893—TWENTY PAGES. SATOLLI’S NEW HOME The Bradley Mansion, Where the Papal Legate Will Live. A DWELLING WITH A HISTORY. Where Stephen A. Douglass Heard of His Nomination. INTERIOR OF THE HOUSE. The Bradley mansion has become the of Catholic church, and hence- the residence of Mgr. Satolli, to the United States. The stated in The Star, was $35,000. wit i imaocent of architectural attempt. It is tome of history, bound in brick and mor- Its walls have echoed with the foot- the voices of famous men and wo- about the year 198 three United Senators became filled with domestic and concluded each to build a home. Being bound by strong ties of friendship, they decided to build their homes in a row. The projectors were Senators Stephen A. Douglass, J. C. Breckinridge of Kentucky of Minnesota. Senator Douglass at that time a potent reason for wish- home. He had proposed marriage and been accepted by Miss Cutts, a belle of whose house stood just across from where he proposed to build. selected was at the northwest 24 and I streets northwest. Then the most fashionable section of the even though the tide of fashion westward set, the locality in question retains its dignity and character. The cor- mer house was to be the property of Senator He BB Hi PEPER daealt yee Foes i Mgr. Satolli's Residence. ator Rice and the third to the eminent Ken- tuckian. In due time the mansions were completed. The marriage of Miss Cutts and Douglass came to pass in a blaze of glory at St. Aloysius Church, the groom in defer- nce to the opinion of the bride having pro- fessed the Catholic faith. After the cere- mony came the reception in the new man- ston. The great rooms were musical with bridal mirth; toddy and champagne flowed and sizzled; stringed instruments gave out melodies of wedding tunes; silks and satins Fustled, slaves hustled to and fro and hun- @reds of tongues wazgged in a riot of gallan- tries and congratulations. After the ball ‘was over and the tones of the wedding bells had died away, the couple took up their abode in the corner house. It was in the Feception room at the right of the entrance that the Senator liked most to sit and chat with his friends. A story is told by an authentic teller that on the night of the ‘Charleston convention Douglass was seated in this room with a group of party spirits. During the early part of the evening dis- cussion had been rife, but as the time for the convention news to come in approached ‘The Main Stairway. talkativeness waned. The excitement was | too intense for talk. Finally a messenger arrived with a dispatch. One of the men/ esent seized the missive and tore it ope! ere was a moment of awful silence Then he read: “Senator Stephen A. Dou: lass is nominated fo> the, presidency. Douglass, who had been standing during the scene, smote the marble top center ta- bie a mighty blow with hi t and in a de- termined way exclaimed, “This means dis: lution.” During those times the Senator's sons by his first marriage were gay young fellows and they caused a good deal of society to ebb and flow through the portais of the house. The Douglass family lived here till about the time of the waz, when the property was bought by Marshall Brown and Mayor Richard Wallach. They €ontinued its owners till it was bought in @3 by Justice Joseph C. Bradley, who had Just then been appointed by President Grant to‘a seat on the bench of the Su- Preme Court. Judge Bradley continued in oassession till his death, and a few months is commanding in appearance ¢ ago the property was bought at public auc- tion by Mr. Thomas Kerby, who resides in the Rice residence next door. The price he paid was $32.00. The house was sadly in need of repair, and within the past month the owner has expended about $6,000 in im- provements. Two doors below is the Breck- inridge house,which was presented to Grant on his return from the field by merchants of Philadelphia and New York. After his pro- motion to the presidency the same property was purchased for and prevented to Gen. Tecumseh Sherman. Here the general lived for quite a time, and here his daugh- ter, Minnie, was married to Mr. Fitch of the navy. The future home of Mgr. Satolli is a large square built red brick, faced with brown stone and capped with a heavy cornice. It is surrounded on the front and the east side by a well-shaven lawn and iron fenc- ing. Along 2d street a heavy brick wall shuts out the rear gardens from the pub- Ne view. A broad stone walk leads from the street to the brown-stone steps at the A Bed Room Corner. main entrance. Then the visitor passes through heavy oaken doors, well carved and highly polished, into the vestibule. The floor of this is finely tiled and the walls and ceiling done in Indian red. The double doors that divide the vestibule from the central hall are a harmony of white, gold and glass. On the right of the hail is the historic reception room. Two of its win- .] dows open on I street and one on 2d. The ceiling is high, after the fashion of the time, and the walls are papered in white ana gold. Gold moldings run around the room at easy intervals. There is an open fireplace under a white marble mantel, and brilliant new gas fixtures. At the far end of the hall is the dining room. This is ca- pacious and richly decorated. Behind this is the pantry, fitted with tiers of glass-in cased shelves. A large dumb-waiter con- nects this part of the house with the kitchen. On the right of the main hall, as you enter, is the great double parlor. The same style of decoration prevails here as in the other parts of the house. From the rear parlor, you step into the. library. ‘Twenty thousand volumes may be accom- modated here. A wide veranda, which runs along the east side of the back build- ing, has been roofed in and added to the library. The shelving is lined with Mor- occo. The main stairway leads up from the hall, between the reception room and the dining room. A mahogany balustrade fol- lows it to the top. The first flight ends at a wide landing, from which a window opens up a view of the city. The room which the papal legate will use asa sleeping aparment is at the southeast corner of the sec$nd story. It is similar in shape and decoration to the reception room immedi- ately beneath it. Across the hall is a suite of rooms running the depth of the house, and at the end of the hall is a luxurious bath. The walls and ceilings are finished in a tawny yellow that cheers matters up remarkably. The same condition of things prevails on the third floor, and on the fourth a chapel is to be fitted up. This will be one of the costliest in the country, as all the churches and parishes will be eager to contribute to its adornment. The base- ment is given over to fuel bins and store- rooms and the kitchen, with a range great enough for an ordinary hotel. Dr. Pap, the secretary, and Mer. Sbarretti, the audi- tor, will be quartered on the third floor. The rear garden is a picturesque and se- questered spot. Its walls are overgrown with honeysuckle, while a grape vine here and there struggles for life. A few strag- gling rose bushes grow at irregular inter- vals. A pump dispenses clear well water. At the end of the garden fs the stable. The furniture has been ordered and will soon be placed. All the arrangements have been made by Dr. Garrigan of the Catholic Uni- versity. The date when Mer. Satolli will take possession of his new home is not known. AN ITALIAN HEROINE. She is Working in the Mines to Fetch Her Parents Over. From Good Housekeeping. In the summer of 1890 a bright Italian girl came to New York and secured employ- ment as a servant, having in view the eav- ing of money enough to pay the passage of her parents from Italy to this more favored land. A brief experience showed ner that at the low wages she was able to obtain it would be a long time before she could hope to see her parents here, and she decided to adopt the garb of a man, in or- der that she might obtain a man’s wages. She did so and readily found employment on a railroad which was being built in Pennsylvania. Despite the blistering of her hands and the hardships of the labor she toiled faith- fully for months, living by herself in a small hut not far from Hazleton, and as much as possibie avoiding association with her fellow laborers, by whom the supposed effeminate young man was not held in high esteem. She had nearly accumulated the amount of money necessary to bring the parents to America, when a former neighbor of the family in the old country was given em- ployment on the railroad, and placed in the same gang with the strong-hearted young | woman. He immediately recognized her, and the fact of her disguise was reported | to the foreman; but the latter, on hearing | her pathetic story, did not order her dis- charge. He simply consented that she should go on with the work she had been | pursuing, and at last reports she was mor- | rily wielding the pick and shovel, happy in the assurance that her parents would son be with her. see Beautiful Things for Invalids. From the New York Advertiser. One must be an invalid or a convalescent te appreciate the value of having beautiful things in a sick room. The delicate stomach requires delicate morsels of food temptingly served, and the sense of sight is delighted by the use of pretty pieces of china, glit- tering glass and silver and snowy Hnen. The eye longs for beauty. A rose, an il- lustrated book, a bit of familiar scenery, a piece of color in stuff or paint, any grace- {ful form or artistic object may be more | helpful to the restless and helpless patient than medicine or friends. Flowers are al- ys soothing. | Toses and lilies breathe forth, may not be ble to all persons, but there are and rest for the eyes In a pot of \ growing ferns, a bunch of rose geranium r a cluster of white and purple asters. | The prejudice against cut flowers in a sick jroom is unfounded. The poisonous gas | supposed to be given off by a bouquet of flowers in three days, or as long as the Dlessoms live, will not equal the carbonic acid gas that escapes from a siphon of mineral water. soe A Crying Exception. From Truth. “A house divided against itself cannot | stand." “Can't, eh? How about the United States Senate? It’s so divided against itself it doesn’t seem able to move.” Strong odors, such as tube- | DOWN THE ROAD TO THE EMERSONS. BY MARY E. WILKINS. = “I'm afraid you won't get ready for meet- in’, father, more’n nothin’.” Hiram Goodell was shaving around his mouth, and he could not speak. Not a mus- cle of his face moved, still he looked iras- cible. He stood before the kitchen glass and shaved cautiously and slowly. He was always afraid of cutting himself when he shaved. ~ Hiram Goodell was a very cautious man. His wife stood by and held his vest ready for him to put on. Her hands twitched as she watched him wipe his razor painstak- ingly with a bit of paper and then hold it up to the light and squint at it to see if it were clean enough. She felt like snatch- ing the razor and shaving him herself. “For mercy sakes, father, don’t be so long-winded!” said she. She was a sandy- and lean. Her blue eyes were weak, and she narrowed them and wrinkled her brows when she talked. Hiram carefully scraped around his mouth and held his lips firmly pressed together. It was quite a time before he spoke, then the words came out with the added impetus of repression. “I wish you'd lay down that vest, an’ go ‘long ‘bout your work, mother,” said he, “an’ not stan’ there watchin’ me.’ | “Stan’ here watchin’ you—I'd like to know if you'd ever get anywhere, father, if I didn’t foller you up. I’d jest like to know what you would do.” “The bell ain't tolled yet.” “The bell ain't tolled! That's jest the way you talk, father. What if it ain’t, you can’t walk down there under twenty minutes, an’ you know it. An’ it’s time for it to toll now. This clock’s ten minutes fast. But there you Stan’ as deliberate as if you'd got a week before you.” The old man muttered something. His wife laid the vest on the table and the but- tons rattled. “Well, you can swear if you want to,” sald she, “a man as old as you be an’ pro- fessin’ what you do.” She turned herself about with a majestic alr. “I wa'n't swearin’. You say pretty hard things, mother.” The old man’s tone was suddenly humble and conciliatory. “I know what I hear. I’ve got ears.” “If it’s got so anybody can't speak with- out bein’ told they’re swearin’, I guess I might as well keep my mouth shut all the tme. I think you go most too far, mother.” Hiram now went to the sink, and washed his face long and thoroughly; his wife had turned the water into the tin basin for him. She eyed him sharply when he had dried his face on the roller towel. ““Stan’ round here, father!” said she. She dipped a corner of the towel in water, and dabbed energetically at his ears, The old man stood still with his face screwed up, finally he made a break away from her. “As fer standin’ this, I ain’t goin’ t said he. “I dunno what you think I'm made of, mother.’ = He glared at her resentfully. She emptied the water from the tgn basin, and put the soap back in the dish. “I guess you ain’t hurt very bad,” she re- turned. “I'd lke to know what kind of a figure you'd cut to the folks that sit behind you, if I didn’t look out for you a little. You don’t have any more thought for your ears than if they didn’t belong to you. Now don’t stan’ round any longer, father, for mercy sakes! Your greatcoat an’ your hat are on the settin’ room lounge, an’ I've brushed em. Seems to me the bell’s tollin’ now.” But the bell had only just begun to toll when Hiram Goodell had left his own yard and was fairly out in the road. The long bell tones came sweet and clear through the frosty air. It was very cold for the season. and there was no snow on the ground. The road was frozen in great ridges. The rough ground hurt the old man’s ‘tender feet, and he stepped gingerly and toed in to save them. He was large and lumbering, and could not walk easily. The church was half a mile away, and the Emersons’ a quarter of a mile. Before he came to the Emersons’ he passed the house where the Lord sisters lived. It was a square white house with four windows in front. Two belonged to the sittingroom and two to the parlor. At each of the sittingroom windows a head, with a black lace cap and spectacles, was visible. The heads were bent down in a peering attitude so as to clear the obstruc- tions of the sashts; the spectacles them- selves seemed to squint curiously. The old man, passing close under the win- dows, looked up and bowed gravely and stiffly. “Always a-peekin’!”’ he thought to him- self with a slow masculine disapprobation of curious women. Hiram had never in his life looked out of a window to see who was. passing, so far as he could remember. Down the hill, and beyond the Lords’ with no house between, was the Emersons’. That was a one-story house, targe on the ground but very low. It had been painted white, but it was row gray, the roof was lurchy with loose shingles. In the wide side yard were a straggling wood pile and an old farm wagon. Hiram did not look squarely,but he took it allin. As he passed, he held up his head quite high, and toed out firmly, in spite of the frozen ground. He did not apppear to be looking, but he saw quite plainly a figure come to one of the front windows, then start back; he saw the ao pa open a little way, then close with a jerk. “They saw me comin’, an’ went back,” he thought to himself. When he was well past the house, the door opened again, and an old man and a young woman appeared. They came out of the yard and proceeded down the street, behind Hiram, who clumped along with solemn deliberation. The bell had now nearly stopped tolling,and the Eme-sons felt in haste. They sat well toward the front of the church, and were abashed when they went in, if it were late. But they could not quicken their pace without overtaking Hi:am, and they did not want to do that. Foster Emerson had a weakly, nervous gait. He walked with alacrity, but when he swung himself forward his knees ap- peared to weaken under him. It was al- most like a slight lameness. His daughter Fanny walked like him. Fanny was thin and sharp-featured and pretty. She had a lovely color on her cheeks, that deepened as she went on in the frosty air. Her stiff black beaver coat hung straight half-way to her knees; there were shiny lines around the seams, where she had tried to remodel it. She held her hands in a small old-fash- jfoned fitch muff, and walked soberly on be- side her father. Hiram in front of them never quickened his pace at all. The bell had quite stopped ringing when they reach- ed the church, and there were no people in the vestibule; even the sexton had gone in. Hiram opened the door and tiptoed up the aisle; his boots squeaked. The Emersons did not enter until he was fairly seated in his pew. Then he did not appear to watch them, but he saw them quite plainly. He even noted a little red feather on Fanny Emerson's black straw hat, and wondered how much it cost. It was so bright, he thought it must be expensive. The Emer- sons were now very straitened in their cir- cumstances, and the Goodells watched them narrowly, and appraised jealously every- thing they had. There was a feud between the two families, a New England feud. There was no blood shed; there would never be any breaking of orthodox trammels, but the Goodells and the Emersons had hated each other stiffly and rigidly, after the true manner of their puritan blood, for the last ten years. There had been a piece of wood- land, whose possession was disputed. The question had been carried to law, and Foster Emerson had won the suit, while Hiram Goodell had to pay the costs, as well as to lose his claim. He had considerable property, but he was elose with it; it was an awful thing for him to pay his hard- earned dollars to the lawyers, in_addi- tion -to giving up his own will. Hiram Goodell was a New Englander of New Eng- landers. He could not carry on a southern vendetta, but he could walk hand-in-hand with hatred with an fron grip. Today he seemed as bitter toward Foster Emerson as he had been ten years ago. The one thing that could have served to ameliorate his wrath had apparently not yet done so: that was Emerson's ill-fortune. It almost seemed as if the law suit had been decid- ed unrighteously and so brought a curse with {t. Poor Emerson had the disputed woodland and bad luck had seemed to ‘ly out of tt in his face like a bird. The wood was standing ready to be cut when it came into his possession; the week after, !t had burned to the ground. In ten years’ time it had grown again, this winter he was to have cut It, but the summer hefore, it had been burned for the second time. The Emer- sons had dark suspicions, but they never mentioned them. Indeed, they were not well founded. Hiram Goodell was not cap- able of setting fire to his enemy’s wood He would never think of such a thing. However, the night when the wood had haired woman, tall and broad shouldered | | burned, he and his wife watched the red glare on the sky, and neither of them was sorry. His wife spoke with a certain stern triumph like the psalmist, “I can't help thinkin’,” said she, “‘that it’s a judgment on him.” She and Hiram rather regarded 1 Emerson’s misfortunes as judgments. and there had been a great many of them. His son, whom he had depended upon for the support of his old age, had died, his wife had been delicate, his stock had gone down with the cattle-evil, his crops had failed, and his house was heavily mortga; ed. This year the strain to meet the in- terest-money had been terrible. It had been whispered about town that Emerson would fail to do it, and lose his place. But it had been done, although nobody knew with what difficulty. The Goodells had speculat- ed a great deal as to whether Emerson would pay it. One day Hiram .ame home with the news that he had. “It’s so,” said he. “I got it from young Simmons, an’ his brother’s in tne bank.” He half sighed unconsciously. He had an undefined feeling that this time the chaft | of the Lord had missed his adversary. | eS S'pose it must be so then,” rejoined his wife. She would not have recognized her own sentiments on the subject nad she ceen them. She was not a hard woman, but, like her husband, she had that grim «lutch at a resentment that came from her blood. Then too she was fond of money, and she dwelt constantly upon their loss. ‘She liked nice things in her house, and nice clothes. and she had stinted herself lefiantly ever since the affair of the woodland. “I could have a new black silk dress every year, and a new parlor carpet, if we hadn't been cheated out of so much money,” she was wont to say. She expressed her mind upon the subject quite freely to the ord sisters. They had a shrewd way of lead'ng her on, and Mrs. Goodell, for all her 4ecision, had at times an innocent unconsciousness that she was being led. The Lord sisters, one | or the other, or both, ran over nearly every day, and sat down a few minutes for a little talk. Thanksgiving morning, some balf an hour after Hiram had gone to church, Jane Lord came over, She brought a white bow!. She wanted to borrow a little suga-; she feared they had not enough to sweeten ine cran- berry sauce. . “I’m ashamed to come borrowin’ Fugar Thanksgivin’ mornin’,” said she, “bat we didn’t neither of us know how to go to.the store, an’ we didn’t think of it's bein’ quite na near say “You can have it jist as well as not.” said — Goodell. oe ‘ter the bowl was filled with sugar, | Lord sat holding it for quite a While. | had something on her mind that she ed to say, and she led up to it delicate’ “I see Mr. Goodell goin’ to meetin’,’ remarked after a little. “Yes, he went,” returned Mrs, Goodell. “Well, there ain’t many to go in this neighborhood, Thanksgivin’ mornin’. xou have to stay to home to get the dinner, an’ Rachel and me do. We ain't | neither of us fit to get it alone. Then there's the Emersons—I dunno but Fanny an’ her become go.” “I dunno whether they go cr not,” said Mrs. Goodell, in a stately and indifferent manner. She was on her way to the oven with a spoon to baste the turkey, Jane Lord sat holding the bowl of sugar and pursing her lips softly. She was sal- | Ps er = nas was a sad droop to her features. Her voice was unex, and strident. parler “Speakin’ of the Emersons,” said she, “I was down to Mis’ Silas Grant’s the other day—you know she’s Mis’ Emerson's cousin, an’ she was tellin’ me how dreadful bad off they was. They've have to rake an’ scrape every cent they could lay their hands on to pay that interest-money, to keep a roof over their heads, an’ —- Jane lowered her voice, she leaned forward confidentially— ‘Mis’ Grant said—I don’t s'pose she thought twas goin’ any further, but I’m goin’ to tell you—that—she didn’t b'lieve they had enough to eat knees be- Mrs. Goodell was down on her basting the turkey, the sav- Jane She vant- she fore the oven, ory odor steamed out into the room. “Well, I wouldn't tell it if I was Mis’ "said she, “her own cousin, an’ Silas je hy don’t she give ‘em “Folks ain't always so fond of givin rejoined Jane with asperity. “An’ there ain't no use in givin’ to some folks. Fos- ter Emerson's bound to lose every cent, an’ always was. He ain’t got no judgment.” Mrs. Goodell went back to the table with pose spoon. She had resumed her indifferent ir. “I guess they're got enough to eat,” she remarked; “you can’t make me believe they ain't.’ “Mis’ Grant says they ain't, an’ what's more——" Ji Daused moment, added she impressively. Mrs. Goodell stopped and looked at her. Jane continued with a gadly triumphant air, “I was in there myself a few days ago, an’ I see a few things.” “What?” “Oh, I kept my eyes open, an’ I see. It was supper time, an’ Mis’ Emerson, she wouldn't set about gettin’ supper ‘cause she hadn't nothin’ to put on the table, an’ she was ashamed, an’ I wanted to borrow a spoonful of ginger, an’ 1 followed her into the buttry. She didn’t want me to, she kept sayin’ she'd bring out the ginger, but I was bound I would, an’ 1 did. Mis’ Good- ell, it's the livin’ truth, that there wan't enough in that buttry to feed a baby.” “I guess she had some things put away.” “No, she didn’t. Mr. Emerson he called her out a minute, jest before I went home, an’ I jest slipped in there again, and I peeked in two or three jars, an’ the flour barrel—There wan’t nothin’. “Well, it's awful thinkin’ of anybody not havin’ enough to eat,” said Mrs. Goodell. She was frowning deeply as she went about her work again. Jane Lord con- tinued to expatiate upon the sad case of the Emersons. “An’ that ain’t all,” said she, eyeing Mrs. “They ain’t got enough Goodell sharply. to wear to keep ‘em warm this cold weath- er, ‘cordin’ to my belief. You ought to see the clothes they have out on the line. Of all the patched-up flannels, an’ so thin you can see the light through ‘em—an’ the clothes they wear outside ain’t hardly de- cent. Mr. Emerson's great coat is all threadbare, an’ it’s a bright green across the shoulders, an’ Mis’ Emerson’s looks as if it came over in the ark. An’ Fanny ain’t no better off. Mis’ Grant says she had to take every cent of her school money to pay in toward that interest. I don’t be- Heve she nor her mother either has had a new dress for three year.” Mrs. Goodell was still frowning. “Well, I dunno, I'm sure,” said she. “Well, I dunno neither; but it seems pret- ty hard lines to think of folks a sufferin’ right amongst us Thanksgivin’. I ain't no idea they’ve got a turkey nor a puddin’, Well, I dunno what folks can do. If men ain't got judgment, they ain't, an’ I dunno whether it's the duty of them that has to support them that hasn’t, or not. I know I can’t afford to. Well, I must be goin’, or Rachel ‘ll think I'm makin’ sugar.” After Jane Lord had gone, tripping shiv- eringly down the road with the sugar, John Goodell, Mrs. Goodell’s son, came. He lived in a town some fifty miles away, the rail- road connections were not very good, and he could not reach home much before Thanks- giving noon. The young man entered the kitchen door, and a gust of fresh cold air came with him. He set his valise down on the floor, and shook hands with his mother. He did not kiss her. The Goodells were not demonstra- tive among themselves. “Well, mother, how goes everything?” said he. “Pretty well,” replied Mrs. Goodell, look- ing at him with a kind of repressed delight. “Father gone to church?" “Yes.” The son strongly resembled his mother, only,he was better looking. A certain blonde harshness of feature, that did not set well upon her, was quite attractive in him. Peo- ple called John Goodell a very good-looking young man. He took off his overcoat and hat, and sat down in the kitchen with his mother, and watched her work, and chatted with her. He had not seen her for some six_months. He inquired after the neighbors in a fur- tive fashion, as if he were stepping on de- batable ground. “How are all the neighbors getting along, mother?” he asked. He picked up a raisin and put it into his mouth with a carele: air, and chewed it absorbedly, but his ft began to flush, “Well, I guess they’re gettin’ along "bout as usual,” his mother replied guardedly. “How are the Lords?” “Pretty well, I guess. this mornin’.”” “How are—the Emersons?” “Well, I dunno.” ‘The young man tried to speak in a jocu- lar way, but his face was very red. “Well,” said he, “I guess I'll find out. I think I'll go down and call on Fanny some day while I'm here.” His mother was stirring some butter into a dish of squash. She stopped short, and surveyed him. “John, you ain't goin’ down there, when you know how your father an’ I feel about them Emersons?” “TI ain’t been down there for quite a while, because I knew how father and you felt, mother.” “Ain't you goin’ to keep on?” “I don’t know.” “I don’t see for my part what you can see in that Fanny Emerson, little, thin, peak-nosed thing. There’s lots of girls “I should pick out before I should her, if I was a young man,” John straightened back his shoulders. “That hasn't got anything to do with it, that I can see, Za he; “I don’t Jane was in here see why she doesn’t look as well as the oth- | er girls. But we won't talk any more about it now. It’s Thanksgiving Day, and I’ve come home to have a good time; we don’t want to get to arguing over anything or anybody. Ain't the turkey most done?” “You ain’t goin’ down there to see her, John?” “I tell you, mother, I won’t talk any more about it. Here’s father coming.” Goodell dropped the subject then. When it came to an argument with John, she never wished for any assistance from her husband. She had always punished him herself when he was a little boy, and she had felt fierce at the idea of any one else touching him. Hiram Goodell had a sober air when he entered; even the meeting with his son could not dispel it. He had walked home from church with a neighbor, and the two men had stood talking together for quite a little while at Goodell’s gate. Presently, when John left the room for a minute, Hiram turned to his wife. = come Bs ta? a pretty bad box this time, an’ no mistake.” “Jane Lord’s been in here talkin’ about it,” returned Mrs. Goodell. “What did she say?” “She thinks they ain’t got enough to eat an’ keep "em warm. I dunno, but it does seem as if a man might contrive to get along, an’ have enough to eat, if he had any judgment at all." “He ain’t got any—Foster Emerson nev- er had a mite of judgment. Well, I dunno. When you goin’ to have dinner?” “Jest as soon as I can get it on the ti ble. I want you to go out to the well en’ draw me a pail of water before you take our boots off."’ *Sthe Goodells generally dispatched their meals quickly. They were thrifty with time as with everything else, but today they were a good hour at the table. There was plenty to eat; all the homely richness of a country Thanksgiving feast was spread out on the table. The turkey was very large and brown. After dinner, Mrs. Goodell cleared away the table, and washed the dishes; then the family sat down together in the sitting room. Hiram had his religious paper, John a city one, that he had brought with him. Mrs. Goodell sat quite idle. She never sewed on Thanksgiving Day. Her con- science seemed to grow abnormal excres- cences in some directions, and this was one of them. From her childhood she had helt the firm belief that it was wicked to sew cn Thanksgiving Day. She did not talk much; the two read, and she sat thinking. The sitting room was scrupulously clean; there was not a speck of dust anywhere. There was a fine gilt paper on the walls, and the wood work was very white and glossy. ‘The fire in the air-tight stove crackled, the air was soft and warm. About 4 o’clock John got up and left the room. Pretty soon he passed the window. “I wonder where John’s goin’,” said his mother. Hiram sat near the window and he looked out. “He's turned up the road,” said he. ess he's goin’ up to see the Bemis boy.” “I shouldn't think he'd go off Thanksgiv- ing Day.” The Bemis house, low and red-painted, with a smoking chimney, was visible up the road across a wide stretch of field. Hiram turned again to his paper; his wife rocked, with her feet close to the stove. Presently Hiram also arose, and prepared to leave the room. “Where you goin’, father?” asked Mrs. \e' “TI ain't goin’ far.” But he didn’t return speedily. Mrs, Good- ell went to the window, and saw a figure that looked like his plodding up the road. “For the land sake, he ain’t goin’ up to the Bemises’, Thanksgiving Day!” said she, “I should think they was all stuck on the Bemises.”” 2 She looked vexed and frowning. She sat down again. Presently the fire got low,and she went out for more wood. On her way, she stepped into the buttery and looked around. “There's that other chicken ple,”said she, nd I could cut a plateful off that tur- key, an’ nobody’d know it,an’ there’s twen- ty mince pies, an’ ten apple, an’ eight squash—no there ain’t—why, I don’t nee through it. I knew there was twent}r mince an’ I can’t count but nineteen, an’ there ain’t but nine apple, an’ seven squash. For the land sake!” She counted over and over » but she could make no more of themn. She ‘Well, there’s enough, anyhow,” said she. ‘I could carry ‘em three or four, an’ a plece of my plum-puddin’, an’ not miss it, nelaer I dunno. I dunno how they'd e it.” Mrs. Goodell stood deliberating. Then she put a stick of hard wood in the sitting room stove, packed a basket full of pro- visions, put on her thick shawl and hood and started. When she got to her own gate, she stopped and looked up the road cautiously; she had put on her spectacles, but she could see nothing of her husband or son. Then she braced the basket against her hip, and went down the road to the Emersons’. The Lord sisters were at the window; she saw them with a quick side- flash of her eyes, but she did not look up. She went straight on at a pace; the basket was heavy, but she was muscular. When she reached the Emersons’, she set the basket under a lilac bush at the corner of the house, then she kept on to the side door. She stood before it and knocked. She heard a Was a stout woman, with a pretty, child- like face. She flushed when she saw Mrs. Goodell, then she became quite pale. Mrs. Goodell herself was pale, and she looked scared, but she spoke first. “Good afternoon,” said she. “Good afternoo! returned the other woman with a kind of stiff timidity; then she added: ‘on’t you come in?" Mrs. Goodell stepped in. Mrs. Emerson led the way to the kitchen. “I'll have to take you in this way,” she said feebly; “‘there ain’t any fire in the set- tin’ room. Fanny's in there now. Some- body came to the front door; I dunno who; I'm afraid they'll catch cold.” “I'd jest as soon go into the kitchen,” re- — Mrs. Goodell, with anxious affabil- ity. The two women sat down in the large kitchen, Mrs. Goodell noticed that there was no odor of Thanksgiving cooking in it when she entered. Mrs. Emerson did not ask her to lay aside her hodd and shawl. Both women were afraid to and they hardly looked at each other. Still Mrs. Goodell had a distinct purpose in view, and that gave her more eelf-; ion. “It’s a pretty cold day, ain’t it?” said she. “Yes; it’s been pretty cold,” Mrs. Emer- son admitted shyly. Mrs. Goodell turned her eyes on the oth- er’s face. Mrs, Emerson’s hair was quite curly over her temples; she used to wear her hair in long curls to her waist when she was a little girl. Suddenly Mrs. Goodell re- membered them and how pretty she had thought her. They had been schoolmates when they were girls. ‘Seems to me you look kind of pale, Nancy,” said she, Mrs. Emerson looked at her; then she put her hands up to her face. “Oh, Lois!" she sobbed; “you dunno what I've been through lately!" Mrs. Goodell sat immovable in her chair, but her eyes suddenly became red. “Don't take on so, Nancy. Mebbe the worst of it’s over,” sald she. “I dunno how the worst of it’s over. Foster ain't got a thing to do this winter, an’ we ain’t got a cent of money. Fanny's had to put in all her poor little money to- wi interest. Oh, Lois, it’s been dreadful!” Mrs. Goodell had out her handkerchief. “Lcok here, Nancy, there's something I want to say. I s'pose you've been feelin’ hard ‘cause I ain’t been in, an’ I know I've had hard feelin’s myself—an’ I'm willin’ to let it all go now, an’ go back an’ forth jist as we used to, if you are.” Mrs. Emerson sobbed so that she could hardly speak. “I guess I’m_willin she said. “Oh, Lois, you dunno how it’s wor- ried me, when we used to be so intimate! It’s been a dreadful trial to me. I've told Foster, time an’ time again, that the wood- land weren’t worth it. An’ I wish Mr. Goodell had it this minute; we've jist had it to pay taxes on this ten year, an’ that's all it’s "mounted to. I wish the lawyers had decided the other way ‘round.” “There ain't any use talkin’ about that,” said Mrs. Goodell. “We'd better tet that all go. There’s somethin’ I'm goin’ to ask you, Nancy, an’ you musn’t be offended. How are you off for things?” Mrs. Emerson's tears seemed to sud- denly stop flowing; her pretty face grew very red. “Lois.” said she with a certain dignity, “we're dreadful poor. It's much as ever we've enough to eat an’ wear. “You wait a minute.” said Mrs. Goodell. She hurried out of the kitchen, and pre- sently returned with the basket. She set it down on the kitchen table, and turned toward Mrs, Emerson. “It kinder makes me think of the times when we was little girls an’ used to have some of each other’s dinner, to school,” said she. Mrs. Emerson looked at her and the bask- et. The tears were streaming over her cheeks again. Suddenly she took a step forward, and the two women had their arms around each other, and were erving on each other’s shoulders. After a little they drew anart with a shamefaced sir. Mrs, Goodell turned toward the basket. and began taking out the articles ft con- tained. She hed them all soread out on the table. when the door onened and Foster Emerson and Hiram Goodell came in. They had been out in the barn tall Hiram cne set in another. Mrs. Goodell made spring forward. A she cried, Bed a sake, father!” “if you ain’t set the y ¥ mince ples right into the squash!” ~ a a my still _. eyed the pies du- 3 leclare thi it that, ee never thought about it as much as a man knows,” said “Tt's 3 MShe helped Xt je helped Mrs. Emerson set the pies to rights. The two men stood by and watched, Foster Emerson's nervous face, gTay-beard- ed and delicate-colored as a girl's, was radiant. His deep-set blue eyes were full of delighted excitement; now and then the mvscles around them twitched. All at once he heard a murmur of voices in the sitting- room, and opened the door. Then he made an exclamation. The others all looked. There stood Fanny Emerson and John Good- ell in the middle of the floor. John had gone to the Emersons’ in the same way that his father did. They had both gone up the road past the Bemis house, then turned into a lane, and struck off across lots behind their own, emerging from another lane, just above the Lord house, into the high road. ny and John were both blushing. When John saw his fathe> and mother, he looked abashed for a minute, then’ he stepped forward boldly. “Hullo! you here?” said he. “I’ve been making a little call on Fanny.” He surveyed the table and the array of food swiftly, then he placed some chairs near the stove for himself and Fanny, and they sat down. Presently the others did also; it seemed like an ordinary neighborly visit, By-and-by it was growing dusky, and Mrs. Emerson brought out the teapot. Mrs. Goodell helped her spread the table, and the two families had supper together. It was bright moonlight when the Goodells went home. John walked on ahead whist- ling, and his father and mother followed more slowly. Now they were alone to- gether, both felt somewhat stiff and embar- rassed. It was not until they were past the Lord house that Hiram spoke. “I ain’t told you what I told him I'd do, have I?” he queried. “No, you ain't.” “Well, I told him I'd give him a job cut- tin’ wood for me all winter, if he wanted it, an’—I've "bout made up my mind I'll buy that woodland of him. He can part pay up his mortgage if I do. The wood won't be ready to cut on it for another ten year, an’ there’s the taxes, but I dunno but I'd bet- ter.” Hiram’s old face in the moonlight had at once a rueful and heroic expression. “Well, mebbe you'd better,” said his wife, with a sigh. It was quite late when they reached home, but late as it was, Jane Lord came over again. She had a cup and she wanted to borrow some yeast. She did not sit down, but she stood hesitating at the door, after the cup was filled. “I want to know,” said she, “if I see all goin’ down the road to the this afternoon.” Mrs. Goodell drew herself up. She looked quite frigid and stately. “Yes,” she replied, “what of it?” “Oh, nothin’.” Jane Lord looked injured and crestfallen. “I jist wondered if I See you.” John put on his coat again, and walked home with Jane and carried the yeast. She did not allude to the Emersons again. When he returned, he paused at his own gate, and stood for a minute looking down the road. It was like a broad track of sil- ver in the moonlight. It seemed to him as if all the Thanksgivings of his life would Me down the road to the Emersons’. — SCENE OF MANY DUELS. The Island Set Apart for Settling French “Affairs of Honor.” Paris Letter to Chicago Herald. Your correspondent paid a visit the other day, accompanied by a friend, to a famous restaurant in the island of La Grande Jaate, opposite Courbevoie, where almost all the duels that take place near Paris are fought. The waiter asked us what we would order, and as we hesitated a moment, he added, “Perhaps you gentlemen have come to ar- range about a duel?" The writer winked at his companion and answered “Yes. Please fetch the proprietor.” The waiter rushed downstairs and began shouting at the top of his voice, “M. Martinet! M. Martinet!” We followed and were looking over the estab- lishment, which comprised a ballroom, sev- eral dining rooms and inevitable cabinets de societe, and a number of rustic bowers, when a jovial-looking individual, just about d fifty, with a long, fair mustache sprinkled with gray and trained downward, joined us. “Ah!” he exclaimed at once, “ for a duel. Well, there is the ground behind the swings; twenty meters of splendid ground, quite smooth and hard. Beautiful trees and shrubs; plenty of shade; quite quiet and private, you see. Over there on the quay, bordering the narrow branch of the Seine, is where the carriages stop. M. Dehayuin and M. Jacques Lebaudy fought there only the other day. M. Lebaudy received three centimeters of steel in the middle of the chest. Would you like more open ground? Here you have it. What beautiful air. How freely one breathes here. How inviting this fine sand is. Last month we had an unusual affair on this very spot. A duel between ladies, and smart ones, too, I can tell you. It seems they were actresses. One belongs to the Varieties, but I do not know where the other plays. Love was the cause of the dispute, and they fought like tigresses. give in. She will have to keep her bed for at least a month.” “But,” the correspondent ing @re not present at the duels?” “Oh,” he answered, reproachfully, “most absolute solitude reigns here on those occasions. All the doors are bolted and the waiters are shut up in the cafe, I remain near at hand, behind one of the bushes, for example, to give assistance if needed. My clients need bring nothing with them but their arms. 1 supply everything except the doctor and his instruments, of course. Two salad bowls full of carbolic acid and water to wash the wounds, bandages, lint, cotton wool, in fact, all that is required for the first dressing. In a word, you are just as comfortable as if you were at home. But you have not seen all. The ground I have just pointed out to you would not do on a rainy day. In bad weather these affairs are settled in the ball- room, which has a beautiful smooth, even flooring as you will see. Just like a salle d’armes. It was there that the Mores-Meyer duel was fought. M. Clemenceau, who is one of my best customers, will never fight anywhere else. He was here a few weeks ago to settle an affair with a deputy, but the commissary entered by one door, m} customer went out by the other and did the business in Rothschild’s park, where M. ‘Clemenceau had all the time he required to put two or three inches of steel into his adversary’s ribs. When M. Clemenceau ts not here others are. I generally have from twelve to sixteen duels a week.” “And what is the fee?” “Oh, a mere nothing—$i0, service complete. If it were not for the refreshments, it would not repay one the trouble. When the affair does not terminate badly, the gentlemen often lunch here.” “Then it is still customary to shake hands and lunch together when the duel is over?” “Oh, no; that is not considered correct now. One of the principals lunches with his two seconds and his doctor in one arbor, the other with his friends in another, fifty meters apart. But the dejeuner that is the most curious and profitable is that which is given a day or two afterward. A duel natu: ally makes lions of the principals, who ai talked about by their friends, and when it has not had an unhappy issue, one or the other of them, sometimes both, but at dif- “you ferent times, return here with a party of ladies and gentlemen and fights his battle o’er again—in words. The ground is in- spected and everything minutely explained. The hero is applauded by the@nen and ad- mired by the ladies, who give utterance to suppressed shrieks ‘and exclaim: ‘So you wounded him, mon cher, did you? Well, it was very chic, anyway.” Then they cuddi and kiss him, and you can easily imagine what a set-out there Is after that. There- upon the proprietor bursts into a fit of laughter. When his hilarity had somewhat subsided he exclaimed: “And now, gentle- men, if you will name your day and hour everything shall be at your ——_——_+es Better Days. From the Indianapolis Journal. Hungry Higgins—“Madame, I useter have as good a home as anybody till misfortune overtook me.” Mrs. a And what was the nature of the trouble?” lungry Higgins—‘‘My father-in-law lost his job.” Benefits Not Confined to the Wealthy Classes. Result of Highest Medical Skill im Reach of the Poor. The Value of Health Greater Than the Value Money. Invalids know the vaine of health as Ho _ Jape dia penniless Pain and sickness knock at the door of the high and the low, but not until recently has there been. & medicine great enough to win the hearty recom- mendation of the entire medical profession and yet Temain within the reach of the most modest homes. ‘The hundreds of testimonials from some of the ‘Most eminent people in the country, that have re- cently been published, recommending Paine’s ceb ery compound as the remedy that has made them Well, show how far superior it is to ali other reme- dies. But if Paine’s celery compound, undoubtedly the highest product of the medical knowledge of this century, is good for the rich and the famoas, it ts also good for plain. common, every-day people, and from them come thousands of testimoniais that when life and heaitn have been at stake, it has made them well. Paine’s celery compound, the discovery of which is due to no less a scientist than Prof. Edward B. Phelps, M. D., LL.D., of Dartmouth. makes new, pure blood, nourishes the tired, shaken, badly fed Rerves and cures those ailments which result from ‘one or the other. Sound sleep, a gain in flesh, and new strength are the words that come underlined im the many Jetters received from grateful men and women in all callings of life. 'W. Alien Hubbard, M. D., 70 West Cedar st., Bos ton. one of the Hub’s best physicians, writes of cases where he has had most satisfactory results in prescribing this remedy, and says. whet bupdreds of other physicians have said before: “I do not nesitate to indorse Paine’s celery com pound.” Took ’Em All. ee 13,000 Prams OF Men’s Pantaloons. The entire stock of a New York manufactarer- ‘Who needed money—was compelled to have it—be got the casa. WE GOT THE PANTALOONS At about oue-half the cost of material. This & Pow on sale at a price wot only astonishing, but ~ $2:98 Are the figures we name fer ans pair of them. NEXT $6.00, You can judge very easily what the retail pricer Would be, but that's of mo consequence. We've got the pantaloons—you need them—ane you shall have them at $2.98 A PAR. Now, don't all ccme at once—please—there are plenty of them—break into squads take it leisure- ly, apd ther: by avoid overcrowding and confusion. VICTOR E. ADLER’S Tex Pex Cexr Crormsa Hovsr, 927 Axn 929 Tre St. N. W, CORNER MASSACHUSETTS AVE STRICTLY ONE PRICE. Open Saturday until Jl p. m. ec18-3m the other in hair cloth. We devote entire floor to Parlor Furniture—suites in Brocatelle, Tapestry, Wilton Rug, Gilt, &c. If you need a Bed Room Suite, ours commence way down at $13--solid oak, MAMMOTH GREDIT HOUSE, bit, NUL, BS TE ST bET. HAND ola eS WE CLOSE EVERY EVENING aT 1.