Evening Star Newspaper, July 7, 1894, Page 19

The coming of warm weather has awaken- mothers to a state of activity over the mmer outfits, which work is, as eft over” yntil the time comes for them to be thea what a rush there fs; ani s the busy litile bousewife cuts it pieces t style or &t, and this is the excuse which is usually ¢ deve: ‘ou know; fost, “they won't be S remembers aume! own, in years gor wer dress was too long, or per- sleeves Was sev to ullow 9 big in the w and the ty should ng to her tions, and, f the mouker weil 2 or inished with one or two m two to fou é biue an ¥ y used for neck over collar of a narrow rutlie of hem, boriered embroidery there are ginghams with nds and ‘ and ‘piaids are decided tenden y to double epaulettes, biacs, tions, a sc te the en Blouse Effect for Children. For children’s wear tight-fitting bodices are comspicuous by their absence, nearly ail the w naving t modified blouse effect. This style is very shown by the first figure in the initial cut. The ma- terial is a moderate ine, inexpensive quailty of linen la te, with a pin stripe of bi. * rounded yoke is of white al rv embroidery, with a full shouller ruffle of embroidery. ‘The sleeves are very fuil, and end ia a deep puff just above the élhow. Tue sash is of ribbon, about three inc ide, end may be either black or white. The straicht, full ekirt Just covers the knee. and has for its trim- ming a full, deep reffie of embroidery. White China Silk. The second little lady is very charmingly robe! in a gown of ivory white China silk, ef which the yoke is an especially pretty featur:, the design being entirely new. The foundatica is made tn the usual square shape and perfectly plain: across this and reaching from shoulder ‘to shoulder are of palest willow green ribbon, e ribbons being in turn over- jJaid with bands of lace insertion. The jower band of this delicate trimming forms @ heading for the full blouse waist, which is gathered into a girdle of green ribbon. ‘The sleeves are very full lace ruffles, dec- orated on the shoulders by large bows of ribbon. The skirt is straight, full and un- lined. A Charming Arrangement. ‘The third dress is a charming arrange- ment of crimson-dotted pongee and biack velvet. The bodice is < from pointed yoke to graceful girdle. The g@houlder straps are of velvet ribbon, with the ends arranged in points. The ‘sleeve puffs are rather short, being just above the elbow, and the lower sle is a snugiy fitting cuff of velvet. The skirt is slightly gored in front, but very full in the back, and is finished with two rows of rather narrow velvet ribbon. The “picture hat” fs of golden brown straw, faced and trim- med with velvet. Daintily Gowned. ‘The fourth little one is daintily gowned fi Quite India linon, the bodice falling in straight folds from neck to waist, where it is held by a ribbon sash. The only decora- tions are the embroidered epaulettes and the tiny ruffles which finish the sleeve. Graceful, but Easily Made. ‘The next {illustration shows an extremely graceful dress, and one not difficult to make. The bodice has a2 moderately deep V-shaped opening, bordered with two im- mense ruffies of the dress material, which, by the way. 1s pale blue chambray. The doubie puffed sleeves reach to the elbow, or should a longer arm covering be desired | cuffs may be added. The deeply pointed girdle is of black velvet, which gives an effective point of accentuation. The skirt should be slightly full in front, but very full in the back. The foot ruffle is made of the dress material, and in style of pleat- ing or gathering must match the waist scuffle. For Evening. accompanying drawing Is a design ‘ene graceful evening dress. The original gown is of white China silk, made in the most pronounced empire fashion, the skirt falling straight and unconfined from the woke, which is drawn in slight folds from cam pitta aad Ti fy tisk, the gooit and then sews the, er with very little regard for, the Gite ones 1eTeresg we the showfiders. The yoke is left open at the throat, forming a V, at the point of | which is placed an immense bow of moire ribbon, with long floating ends. The sleeve puffs are finished with deep frilis of lace, and double knots of white moire ribbon decorate the shoulder. | | } i | | Violet Dimity. ‘The next pensiv hicchly with ¥ an é little woman wears a rustic gown of pale violet dimity, ke and shoulder ruffle of lace, and leceration of black velvet ro- as shown in the sketch. 0 of veivet,and the skirt border » the only dif- number. | Dainty and Cool. ‘The fourth cut illustrates one of the very daintiest, coolest-looking frocks I have seen | this season. The material ts pale green and white striped gingham, made with a deep. | square yoke,overlaid with white lace. From | this the gingham is drawn in very slight | folds to the waist. The epaulettes are of | lace, very wide and full just over the, | Shoulders, and graduating in width as they | |come down to the girdle, where they end in sharp points. The collar ts a niga stock of white satin ribbon, fastened with an | immense bow at the back. Three lengths of the ribbon are then placed, one exactly in front, the two others covering the edge | |of each shoulder frill, to the waist line, | where the ends are concealed by a ribbon ‘girdle, made as the drawing illustrates. | The back is decorated exactly like the front, | with the exception of the girdle, which is in front only. | trimmed In Cotton Sta of cotton stuffs ure made for} small children so that the gathers will draw out quite flat, so they may be easily | | washed, ironed and then drawn back into | their original shapes. This device must | have been invented by a mother who had ‘several little ones to keep in order and | was anxious to find a comparatively simple | way of doing so. Flannelettes, a compromise between wool | land cotton, are excellent for children’s wear, as they wash well and do not shrink. | They are in single colors as a rule, but |may be obtained with daintily colored figures on pale grounds. | Smock'ng Is still fashionable for the deco- | ration of children’s gowns, cloaks and aprons. It should be done in an easy, elas. tic fashion, so that it will not draw the gar- ment or constrain the active movements of the tiny wearer. b. V. K. Sa ee An Ideal China Closet. From Harper's Bazar. It should be built between the dining room and the kitchen, so that it can be entered unobserved when guests are at table. The shelves should not be more than four- teen inches wide and about nineteen inches | apart. Where they are wider than this the | tendency is to pile too many dishes upon | them, and they are apt to give way. There | fg ne reason why we should cling to tradi- | tion and cover these shelves with white | paper or muslin. Why should not corru- gated rubber, such as has already found its | way at the side of kitcren sinks, be intro- | duced? There is a slight odor about this material, but chir™ does not take it, and the chances of dishes slipping or breaking by falling upon the shelf would be de- creased 50 per cent. ‘A serviceable device for use when plates | are stood on end is to use a rope instead of | a cleat to hold them, and to fasten it at the corners and in the center by double-headed tacks driven down tightly into the shelves. Being slightly yielding, the plate is less apt to fall over from a sudden jar or slight blow. | Where possible, glass should be stored by | itself. In the most modern houses cabinets | are built in the dining room for this pur- | pose. The narrow side shelves found in | | most chira closets are best for glasses. All| | drinking glasses should be arranged in | grcups, ard far ercugh apart so that there will be no confusion or mistake in bringing them out when needed. AN OCEAN INTERFERENCE ee From Harper's Weekly, by 1804, by Harper permission. Ccpyright, & Brothers. “EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, JUL’ thing in the world worth having. For very shame of her past misdeeds she would stoop now to no wonian's coque: to win @ new avowal if he stili held her dear. She was very humble in her mind if not al- ways in her method; but Stuart, finding in this new seriousness unexpected charms, worked harder, and avoided her more than before, till at last the doubt in her mind The afterncon was overcast, and the| became in time a certainty too painful to thoughts of Archibald Stuart were like-| dwell on. A restlessness took possession of wise wrapped in gloom, as he hurried up the street from the Hoboken ferry to share her, and when her aunt proposed this trip she was to take with her two boys, Edith Joyfully acceded to it as a relief from her in that outwardly hilarious and inwardly | present misery. agonizing practice of seeing a steamer off. He feared he was late, unavoidably so,| two bo; for he had been already once before into Jersey that morning in quite an opposite direction—to go over the site of some houses for which hé was to draw up the plans—too big an order for him to trifle with in the present condition of his affairs— and although he had allowed plenty of time under ordinary circumstances, cars, boats, trains, everything had seemed dia- bolically possessed to delay him. He glanced at his watch once again as he tore along, 1d found he would be in time for at-least a glimpse of the face that it would not be his to see for months to come; a@ chance to bid godspeed to the woman who just now complexioned the world for him. He put the thought shud- deringly aside that these months might mean forever. When he reached the long deck it looked quite vacant; all of the passengers were aboard, and all of their friends with them, to judge by the tightly wedged mass crowd- ing the deck. It was easy to distinguish the travelers, hard to find just the one he was in search of. He looked up and down the deck, but could not see her, plunged a moment into the stifling-per- fumed dining room, where, although he did not notice it, a small table had been entirely devoted to extravagant expressions of friendship for Miss Edith Kccleston, and then sought the deck again, to make @ compiete cireuit of it. He was begin- ning to be anxious, and yet he had time to notice aft a poor old couple sitting hand in hand, the tears streaming down their withered cheeks; of these he could not tell which was to go, but he envied them the consolation of their frank grief. At last he found her, with the rest of her party, an aunt and two boy cousins, sur- rounded by a mass of other relations, girl friends and adorers. She was a radiant young creature, tall, stately, gowned with exquisite neatness, a girl perhaps a little on the young side of twenty-uve, with such beauly ot coloring in her brown eyes, hair and clear brunette skin that one forgot if her features were good in outline, and when one rememebered to look for that, a peculiar sweetness of ex- pression again diveried the attention, Just now her arms were full of roses and lilies | and violets, and a large bunch of the last she had pinned to her coat. As she caught sight of Stuart she put out her haad eagerly. you would not get here, after all,” said. While greeting the others, he ed his way to her side. here beture. It is too bad you have not a better day for sailing; but you will be in Warm weather very soon. How do you do, Mrs, Eccieston?” He had to lean across two or three of the relatives to shi with the departing aunt. “Well, Georgie, you lucky boy!” this to one of the cousins. ‘Then straightening up, his ey: flowers she wore, “I am so much obliged for the Miss Eccleston then’ added “but how did you know these were she gently push-| from the very effort; but she could alw: I could not get see his eyes, that were gray ang gentle, an { As she stood leaning against the rail, the joined her, and rallied on her evident dolefulness. They were her favor- ites of all her many cousins. Arthur, the elder, had once been in love with her for a month, and then, though she still com- dg his admiration, he had transferred is affections to a long line of successors, which still at the age of twenty-eight he was constant at least in adding to. George, just out of college, for whom the trip had been planned, was her slave, and in return she had an honest fondness for the big blue- eyed boy, whom she had alway: tted, and whose devotion amused he! for he took no pains to conceal that his happiest moments were those passed in the society of his worldly-wise cousin, who had seen several seasons, and not in that of the little girls who had danced through college with him. She could talk to him, and, what was better, understand what he said to her. He stood sympathetically beside her now, and walked with her when e was tired, routed her out again, and insisted upon her watching them drop the pilot. When the burly fellow slipped from the ship into his own boat, the same sudden anguish that Sturart had felt in stepping off the gangplank came to her; she felt this was the breaking of the last tle of home, and that there was now no word to be said and no going back. After this George tucked her up again in her chair and left her gratefully alone, to join Arthur in looking up the many friends they had on board. She was glad to be left there awhile to think undisturbed. Her aunt was safe in her berth. Mrs. Eccieston had retired to this refuge as soon as they reached the Narrows, in order that she might become gradually used to the increas- ing “motion of the ship before it was too late to avoid unpleasant consequences, She had a theory, which she had proved satis- factorily to herself years before, that by remaining perfectly quiet in a recumbent attitude for two days the circulation by de- grees became thoroughly accustomed to the unusual stirring it was subjected to by the ocean, and she triumphantly explained that in consequence of pursuing this method she had never been ill, although George declared she would not have been ill, any- how. ‘The twilight came down on the sea, and Miss Eccleston was still lost in pensive re- flections. People passed her now and then, walking for ameusement, their appetites, or their livers; but as most of the pas- | sengers found it too cold and damp to sit quietly, she was quite alone. As she went over the past in her mind, the pain in her heart became greater. She could her only a few hours ago—tall, spare, thoroughbred, with thin straight featui and the lines about his mouth and eyes “{ was so afraid! that she used to criticise as too sensative for a man. She brought this infage sistently before her that its clarness per- acd ys which at times had shown the hurt she had done him though he spoke no word. If he still loved her, why had he not sald so once before she had gone? He could not ake hands | care. And yet what had he meant when he had asked her if her thanks were all she could say? She went over every word that es tell on the | had passed between them that afternovn, but could draw slight comfort from them. Tt he was too proud to speak aj » he realiy could care but’ little, after all. She tried to taunt herself into a state of in- difference. Was she going to be as wre*ch- e Stuart as he had stood beside | “I did not know; I only hoped they were.” | ed as this throughout the whole of this trip “They are perfectly exqupisite,” the girl for pleasure? She still wore at her breast said. and buried her nose and chin a mo-| the violets he had sent her. She unpinned ment in their purple freshness. She had | them, and held them to her face. He must turned a litite away from the group about | still care a little, but would he care all the her, which had been there some time, and | while she would be gone; would she find for a moment, as she raised her eyes to his him unchanged when she returned,or would from the flowers, they seemed quite alone | the old passionate love grow less and less with each other. “Is that all you can say to me?” he whis- pered. She smiled up at him, with the tears rush- ing into her eyes. “No, no; I have a thou- sand things to say and kindnesses to thank you for, but not now. I am afraid I shall break down, I am so homesick already.” And taking another dip depths, she brushed the tears rapidly away and turned back to the others, while Stuart stcod gloomily beside her. “You will net be homesick when you get to Algiers,” he said, coidly. “You know the story about Eve outside of the gates of | Paradise. Well, I remember just how fair are its ‘Eden bowers,’ and you will forget | there is such a thing as homesickness any- where in the world when you are there.” “Don't be unkind,” she murmured, and then laughed at Teddy Edwards ostenta- tiously wringing out his handkerchief pre- paratory to saying good-bye. He left her a moment to speak to some other friends he found going, but the last few minutes he spent again beside her in wretched silence, while one after another said good-bye. : She had so many friends it irritated him to witness it. He would like to be taking her away from them ail; he could sympa- thize ‘h the wicked lords who locked fair maidens up in high towers, and it made him feel how little she needed him or would miss him from her life. “Good-bye,” he said at length, mentally bracing himself for the tinal wrench. “Good-bye. I shall not wait to see the stea- mer leave the dock.” And the girl clasped his hand and held him back for a moment as if she would say something; and finding she could not, murmured a God bless you, =e pes go. en he walked slowly down the gang- plank, looked back once at the hip, but could not see her for the crowd, stepped to the dock, and felt that the last link had Stapped that held him to her. At the foot of the gang plank stood a man in shabby clothes muttering to himsel! bidden farewell to some one, and yet could | not tear himself away. Every now and then he would take off his hat, bend his knee with a slight reverence, replace thi hat, and go on muttering: he was prayinj Stuart could see, and quite oblivious to a curious world. Then the crowd began to come off the boat, the sailing moment had come, and Stuart fied before the onslaught of his fel- low-man to be alone with his despair. After settling her state room, which ad- Joined her aunt's on the main deck, and crushing out a sentimental impulse to send a written farewell to Stuart back by the pilot, Miss Eccleston went on deck to begin the enjoyment of her southern trip. She had spoken the truth when she said she was homesick, and she tried very hard to argue herself into a less depressed state of mind. But eyery well-krown landmark the steamer left behind harrowed anew her wrought-up feelings. The splendid beauti- | ful bay looked gray and sad; the short waves tumbled angrily. “Good-by! good- by!""—the flags on every side seemed to flutter it mockingly. “Good-by,” she whis- pered to the hills, and “Liberty” regarded | her gravely. What changes would come in the interminable months that she would be gone? She wondered why she had con- sented to go. For pleasure? She was per- fectly wretched. Did the man who had stood so gloomily beside her still love her? He had, once, to madness, but then she was not sure of herself; at least she had not cared enough to give up her golden freedom. Was it pride, or that he had ceased to care, that now kept him silent? She was rich; he had nothing but the mod- erate returns from his profession. it was this that had held him back at first, then one night he had thrown pride “and discre- tion to the winds and asked her to be his wife. She was perfectly conscious of hav- ing provoked this—of a thrill of exultation when he had given way to the impulse which in calm moments he had determined never to be weak enough to yield to until he could offer her a home like that she had always known. She knew quite well the struggle that had gone on in his heart and mind, and that love for her had overthrown what his judgment dictated. That night she had told him frankly enough that she liked him, but far from enough; and since | then, a year ago, he had spoken no word of love to her, though meeting her often, and occasionally coming to her in the old friendly way. If there was bitterness in his heart that she nad led him to believe he was essential to her happiness, he gave no sign of it. By every sweet and womaniy device she had made him believe she loved him, and then had told him in calm words that she did not; but with all his will he sought to blame himseif for whatever hu-| miliation he had suffered in having to beat a retreat after rashly crossing the lines he had drawn for himself. This uncomplaining acceptance of her words at first pleased Edith; aud then, hav- ing had another summer and part of a winter of gayety, and finding them devoid of new sensations, she wearied of it, and having been spoiled all her life by various relations in that she had been left a wealthy orphan, and never having been put to crying for what she wanted, so quickly were all things showered upon her, she began to desire that which she was not quite sure that she still possessed. As time wore on this doubt increased; the man whose devotion had once been hers gradu- ally became a hero to her, his love the only into the violet | he too had | | if sweet as would the violets she was holding? She would rather have it broken at once. She rose on a sudden impulse, threw the rug that was about her into the chair, and went over to the edge of the deck. “You shall not wither,” she whispered to the flowers; “I want to remember you fresh and beautiful as you are now.” Shé kissed them passionately, hidden by the dusk, and flung them into the sea. Then she put her hands resolutely in her coat pockets to turn away, when something sharp struck her hand, She drew it out; | it was the envelope and card that had come with the flowers, and which she had thrust into her pocket, not to leave it in the box. She pulled the card out and read the name eritically—Mr. Archibald Stua She idly wondered how many of the ca she would have had if she had kept them all; then mechanically she turned it over, and start- ed a little to find there was something writ- ten on the back that she had not seen be- fore. In the hurry of departure she had only drawn the card half out te see the name, and had never thought to turn it over. It was too dark for her to read the | closely written words where she was, and she went over and stood where she could get the light from the music room. “I thought I should have the courage. to let you go without speaking again, but give me one word of hope if you can before you say good-bye.” Relief, joy, and an unutter- ible grief swept through her; the words that e had longed and prayed for hag come, but she was going further and further from him every moment. She could not cry out to him how her heart had ached for those words, that her going was only to escape the intolerable yearning for what she believed she had lost. She slipped away from the light, and now looked despairingly into the sea, where she had thrown the flowers he had sent her. She wanted to clasp them again, and put her face down into them; they would have seemed a liv- ing part of his love. She stretched out her arms to the darkened sea, while a half-sob escaped her, and then dropped them weakly, while the strength ran into her hands,which she clinched to keep from wringing them. She could write to him and tell him of the pitiful mischance that had kept her from knowing, and again the new joy swept through her, to be crushed by the thought of the days and days before she could, and that he had gone away believing that she had no love to give him, and was believing it now, and would believe for all those days to come. Stuart had gone to his office on leaving the steamer and tried to work, but finding it impossible, had gone up town home to his rooms, a studio in the Sherwood, sent away his man for the night, and keeping bis dog for a companion, had given him- self a holiday for grief. The end of his dream had come, and after today he would put it away foreyer. abandoning himself to the bitter thoughts that at last he allowed to overwhelm him. His dog, an Irish setter, lay almost motion- less at his feet. When the daylight faded out of the studio, and the big north window grew black with a stormy twilight, his master rose and lighted a lamp, while the dog followed at his heels, and stood close to him when he stopped, rubbing his nose affectionately against him. Stuart patted he brute’s head gratefully, and went and etched him scmething to eat; he could eat nothing himself, but drank to overcome the weakness he felt creeping over him. Then he threw himself down on the pil- lowed lounge, while the dog came and rest- ed his head against his master’s arm and looked up inquiringly with his large, soft eyes into his face; something was wrong he knew well enough; and then he slipped down again with a thump on the polished floor, and lay still at his master’s feet. Once the silence was wroken by some one krocking at the door; the dog sprang up eagerly, barking, but Stuart made no re- sporse. “Hello, Jeff, there! are you keeping house alone?” Stuart recognized the voice of one of the artists in the building, but made no answer, and the caller went away, believ- | ing him out. At last the reaction came. He wauld cease this childishness of blaming some one else for his own wretchedness and weakness. | She had gone without giving him the one! word he had asked for; with a kindly good- bye, of course, but she did not want the lcve he had always given her too freely, ard from this time he would be man enough to put the thought of what might have been away from him. He juinped up (Jeff ecstat- ically responding to this new mood), and followed by his dog, he started on one of those long tramps that had helped him before. He walked over to the river and up the driveway. The night was black and star- less, but the cold air refreshed him; he waiked until he was so weary it was an effort for him to reach the studio again, and then he slept without a dream. The next day he worked unceasingly, but felt shaken and exhausted; nerves, he thought, and despising a man with nerves, | When Sunday | paid no attention to it. came it was a dreaded respite from the work which he thanked God for; and the day following found him almost ill, but still unyielding. Late that afternoon Evans, for whom he was putting up a new stable on his Litchfield farm, came in, and noticing how ill he looked, had the inspiration of carrying him off to the farm that very night, making | the stable an excuse, though it was not at all in need of his presence. He meant to keep Stuart with him for several days. The For hours he sat | 894—TWENTY PAGES. farm was five miles from the town, with a comfortable old house upon it, which was always kept in readiness for Evans’ erratic descents upon it; and the isolation and stillness of the place, with its dry, bracing air, he was sure would be a tonic to his overworked friend. It had that effect at first—just that next day. Evans drove him for miles about the country, which is al- Ways beautiful at any season of the year, and then let him wander about as he pleased. The peace of the place stole over his tired senses, and he felt that he would be content never to see the city, a letter, a newspaper, or to hear the rattle of the cars again. That was the » and the next morning these views were but slightly modified; but as the day wore on a new fever of restlessness seized upon him, the stillness became oppressive, it weighed him down, and he felt that he could not bear it. After luncheon, which the two men partook of rather silently, he care- lessly mentioned to his host that he had decided he ought not to stay away from his office another day, a'though even this sbort visit, he felt, had benefited him. He put his determination as courteously us he could, for he thoroughly appreciated Evans’ thoughtfulness and hospitality, but there was a twinkle in his host’s eye as he waited for him to finish. “I am delighted to hear th: my bo: he answered, slapping Stuart’s shoulder ap- provingly. “I don’t believe I could have stood another day of it myself.” So they went down on the afternoon train, and parted cordially at the station. Stuart dined at his rooms, and afterward tried to settle himself with a book. He had sent Jeff off with his man, and the studio seemed lonelier than ever; so he shut the book and went out, with no defin- ite idea where he would go—only some- where. He wandered aimles#ly down town, and then crossed over to the opera house, which occurred to him as the mo3t soothing place he could choose, if he could only be left alone. He was not in evening dress, but did not hesitate in his choice for that reason. “What is the opera?” he aske® of one of the speculators, still hovering about the en- | trance. ** Semiramide;’ | way down the center, - Stuart took the ticket and sauntered in. He did not like the opera, but consoled himself with thinking that its music would be more agreeabie to him than some that he really cared for. It would appeal to him less, and his nervous condition was such just then that he shrank from the | slightest touch; he did not want to ex- perience any feeling at all, and certain music had the power to move him to act- ual suffering at times. | The curtain was just going up on the sec- ond act when he entered. The queen w seated in a rosy bewer—for all the world like a lady in a valentine, thought Stuart; Melba was singing the part of the queen, and he did not like to see her belittled by her surroundings, so he shut his eyes till she began to sing. He loved her clear, flutelike tones, and that night she was in trills worried him; and then Scalchi came in, and ran and trilled with her, while their voices blended and parted and’ syncopated each other in a marvelous network of tone; but he was so ill it worried him. He sat perfectly still during the change ef scene, and did not look around, for he did not want to have to go and talk to any one. He let his mind wander on about the opera; there were lovely bits in it, he knew, but it did not interest him, and he objected to the many brillicnt finales to the solos and duets, which he considered positively incelicate in their evident bids for ap- plause. The curtain went up again, and the queen and the populace were thrilied with horror at the shade of Ninus. The queen had shared in the killing of her husband. Was there no remorse for those who kill the heart? Another change; he still sat unmoved, but lied somewhat by the flow of the music; and then came the final duet: the guilty queen, having twittered out her jemotions, at last rippled into its noble {sweetness and he felt it was worth having waited { did the low notes of the daring contralto blend with Melba’s marvellous purity of tone. He had not wanted to be moved, but it vibrated through him and a sense of exquisite delight and peace came over his soul. He turned and looked around, as if to catch some sympathic glance in his plea- sure and his heart stood still. In one of the boxes, so near hin seemed as if he could touch it by reaching out his hand, she was sitting, looking at him with im- ploring eyes. His senses reeled; it had |come, he thought—he had worked just a | little too much. She seemed to be siniling at him now. He drew his hand wearily | across his forehead, The applause for the duet was deafening and it confused him sull more. “If only the dead could find out when to come back and be forgiven.” The old line that he had not seen since he was a boy came back to him. Had she been lost at sea? No, he did not believe | she was dead; the trouble “was all in him- faintness came upon him and he put his hand over his cyes a moment. When he took it away the dazzling lights were turn- ed on full again and she was not there. The applause still kept on and a few people noticed him, as, with all the color gone out of his face, he made his way slowly up the aisie. He reached the lobby and heavily against one of the doors. He could not understand what had happened to him; it was a physical impossibility that she could had looked into his eyes and smiled. The men came rushing out and the air from the opening doors revived him; he had sent a boy for his hat and coat and was waiting for them when a man came up behind him and put a hand gently on his shoulder. “Edith wants yi Stuart, if you will. It was George Eccleston. Stuart looked at him in amazement. “Then it was she?" he whispered, quite overcome. “But how—what has happened to bring you back?” “Don't you read the papers, man?” George asked, laughing, though Stuart's white face somewhat startled him. “Of course I do, but I have been out of town for a day or tw “Well, if you hadn't, you would have seen that we. shipped one of the biggest storm waves on record, a perfect monster, and were so badly smashed we came back, Ju to go home with us, George explained. “Deuced nuisance, but its better than going to the bottom, any- how. Come along.” She had seat for him! Hope sprang up undaunted still in his heart, thoagh he cried to crush it back; he could not go through all that suffering again. But she had sent for him. In a moment he was besid2 her in the little anteroom of the box, and they wanted to take him home with them. She was with the Caryls, who always lett }made both the elderly practice, however, which exasperated ail of the young Caryls, who, fortunately, were not there that evening. There was no trouble getting their carriages at once on the 89th street side, and it all happened so quickly that Stuart still felt. somewhat dazed as they rattled along to the Eccles- ton’s home. At last he was alone with her tn the draw- tg room, which, although he was quite ob- livious to it, was grewsome enough, with | brown holland over the furniture, the pic- tures misty with white tarlatan and ghastly | outlines of statuary swathed in cheese cloth, which had been done preparatory to a long absence from home. “I thought I had suddenly gone insane,” he told her, “when I saw you looking at me there tonight. You see”—Edith was looking |at him now with eyes that he vainly tried | to believe were only friendly, and it dis- turbed his calm utterance—“I’ had been—I haye been working very hard since you left, and—" “You looked ill,” she said. “I had been watching you almost from the time you came in. I went there tonight hoping you would be there. I asked Mrs. Caryl if sne | would have room for me with her. We only got off the steamer this morning, you know; but I have been so exctted 1 could not set- tle down to anything.” “Tell me about it,” he said. “I have heard nothing about it at all. Was there danger?” | She could not answer for a moment, but | nodded an assent, while the tears stood in her eyes. He thought it was because of the strain she had been under, but it was really | for the sudden anguish of his face. “Would | you have cared?” She did not want to hurt | him more, but she wished to be quite sure, | “How ean you ask it?" he cried. He went | near to her and caught her two hands. She {had provoked him again, he felt, and she | must take the consequences, “Have you no | pity for me?’ he went on, his eyes flashing ominously with the coming storm, “Ever since you left 1 have been utterly wretched. 1 have suffered so that my heart has been full of bitterness for you, and then you come back and hold out your hand a little way tw me, and, like a fool, 1 come to you to begin the pain all over again.” “He dropped her hands and went over to the fireplace and leaned against it, his head turned from her. “You are quite right to feel as you do,” aid, standing still where he had left her; “but I am not altogether to blame. did" not know you still cared in the old way.” He turned and looked at her in- | credulously. “Wait,” she said, as if afraid he was going to interrupt her. “When we | were but a little way out I threw y the violets you gave me, because I did not want to see them wither as I thought your |love had withered; and then I found the | card you sent with them, with a message on \it that I had not seen before, and I would exquisite voice, but the frequent runs and | all that while to hear, so perfectly | self, in his overworked brain. A sndden | leaned | before the last act to avoid the crush, which | Caryls fidgety—a | have given worlds to have the flowers back.” He made a step toward her, as if he would have taken her in his arms, but she kept him back for a moment. “When the wave struck us,” she went on, “I was balf asleep, but with the awful crash I | . Oh, Archie!"— she held him back no longer—“I onl: thought of you then, and that you wi never know. And then the boat was turned, and soon every one knew we were coming back. It was terrible to think what it Icw, eé you a Mine were all water-eoak But this was only one of the of the storm wave. ————.__ CHILDREN IN THE CITY. How the Little Ones May Be Made Comfortable in Hot Weather. From Harper's Bazar. There is much that can be done during the hot weather to help the health and happiness of the little children. It is very fortunate for them that they do not feel the same bodily discomfort that the older | People are subjected to. We all know how | they will play in the hot sun, unmindful and unconscious of the heat and perspira- tion, A certain amount of this play is healthy and harmless, yet it does not want to be carried to an extreme just for the sake of having them out of doors. This is especially to be guarded against when children spend the greater part of the sum- mer in the city. While it is of course far better to take them out of town as early as possible, this cannot always be accom- plished. When the days are hot have them taken out early in the morning, say from 9 o'clock until 11 or half past. There is nothing worse for a child than to be walked along the hot streets, for at that hour of the morning there is no “shady side.” The en ee or square is the best place to £0 to. There they can walk or run or sit, as they feel inclined. Natural unrestricted give them pleasure. From 12 o'clock until 4 in the afternoon they are better off in the house. A city house in “summer” order, and if the windows are kept closed during the hot hours of the day, will always have some cool rooms, and here the children can play. A good plan is to slip off their dress- es and skirts, and let them play around. This makes them cooler, and gives them freer action. On the very hottest days an hour's run- shirts will sometimes almost act @ pre- ventive to an illness. An eminent doctor once said that there would be much less mortality among the children of the tene- ment houses if they went without clothes during the hot months. There is a great foundation of truth in this remark. A hammock swung diagonally across the nursery (it can be unhooked at any time) will give the children an extra amusement. And extra amusemeats are well worth thinking of. If a hammock is not on hand, | an ordinary swing, made of a piece of rope and a wooden seat, can be put up be- tween two folding doors, and serve almost as good an end as though it were hung from the branch of a tree. A few pots of plants, that the children can care for them- | selves, arranged together on a table in the | window, will give them a great deal of pleasure. For the second outing, after 4 or 5 in the afternoon, the weather permits, a walk will often be comfortable; or if not, a ride in the open cars will generally insure a breeze, and bring the children home cool and happy, and ready for supper and bed. Children should not eat when overtired and heated. On the hot days a very sim- ple diet should be adhered to, and it is of- ten better for the little ones to have some soup or broth instead of meat. Fresh vegetables and good ripe fruit are always important for them. | For bathing, tar soap is cooling to the skin and good for prickly heat, and un- | copa’ talcum powder is healthy and heal- ing. Hot nights do not often keep children awake, though sometimes the heat makes them very restless during their sleep. A hair pillow is cooler and more comfortable for them during the summer. There should be nets in the windows of the rooms where files are very troublesome in the early morn- | ing. A net over the bed excludes the air, and is not considered healthy. A day's trip to the country once every week or two can be accomplished. It is a good idea to go to the seashore when it ts Possible to get there either by boat or by short railroad journey. The lunch can be taken from home and eaten on the beach, the play on the sand, the picnic lunch and a wade in the water. If a child is not very well, a breath of sea air will work wonders in a few hours. EMILY DAY. 10s — | Written for The Evening Star, | Rondean: My Books and My Pipe. With my books and my pipe, @ bachelor, I Have pleasures enow my life to cheer; Whenever I need them they are nigh— Friends and consolers, and comrades dear— The place of children and wife supply. | Though Fame with a frown may have passed me by, Though scant be my stock of worldly gear, | For renown or for wealth I sball not sigh, With my books and my pipe. The voices of sages and ports high, And music and faery tales I bear: Fair scenes in the realm of Fancy spy; Content is my guest, though vain Hopes fy: And the mind’s eye groweth more bright and clear, With my books and my pipe. W. L. SHOEMAKER. ——— Am Ideal Employer. From Puck. Patrick—“If all men wor loike-moy im- ployer there wudna be so much throuble be- twane labor an’ capytal.”” Wife—“Didn't yez stroike?” “No; we got all ready and sint in our com- mands, phwin th’ boss, Icike th’ cintlemon thot he is, called us into his office and showed us his books. “An’ phwat good wor thot?" “Sure; we found he wor losin wan thous- and dollars a month.” “Yer did “We did. An’ roight thin an’ there we unanymously resolved thot we'd kape roight aiong wur-rkin” at the ould wages till the business comminced to pay expinses.” i | | Fred is told to buy some catnip for Tabby. He buys it and— \ | i Hi Becomes a popular favorite. Whiskers that are prematurely gray or faded | should be colored to prevent the jook of age, and Buckingham's Dye excels all others in « brown or black. exercise is the best and healthiest way to | ning around in nothing but their little | is the children sleep, even in the city, for the | and the children will enjoy to the utmost | THE CORRECT TIME THE GREAT NAVAL OBSERVATORY CLOCK An Electric Throb Which Daily Marks the Noon Hour. WATCHING FATHER TIME a Written Exclusively for The Evening Star, building, Uncle Sam continues his | Father Time's movements closer scrutiny. Within a very small | in the new naval observatory there is | contrivance, invented by one of the trict’s own citizens, which has control all chronometers cast of Denver, and | here, every day at noon, by the an electric button, a throb hands of all of these time Febats which tellers fre i i forms the west of Denver, but when the noon | 1 sounded in the eastern section it is only % o'clock at the station on the shores of the Pacific. In the new observatory the computing instruments ure more to be depended upon than they were when located at the old Quarters on 24th street, when the low Jo. cation and surrounding trees obstructed the river increased the refraction of light. | But now that a spot has been chosen | the high ground just north of | away from these evil associations, it is not | to be doubted &. All the clocks and other instruments used for calculating the revolutions of the earth | are how mounted upon granite piers, whose foundations extend far down into the sround, that no motion of the building may change the beat of one of the pendulums a millionth of a second. In order that no | change of temperature in the room may be } occasioned by a draught of alr, the spaces | between these piers and the floors are filled with cotton batting. So nothing but am | earthquake can keep us from having our full supply of time every day, for even though the clocks themselves give out, each one of them has an alternate, which will do the work while the other takes a vaca- tion and recuperater, under the surgical care of Lieut. Heilner, who has charge of | the time service. Day of the Stars, In a small metallic building, which is sliced in half, to admit of a view of the meridian line crossing the zenith, is to be seen a large stationary transit telescope, through which an astronomer every clear night observes the siars which cross the line. Upon a miniature railroad track, which is directly under the “slice” in the building, rolis a couch on wheels, upon which the observer lays down and makes himself comfortable, while he is reading his answers in the stars. The astronomer has a book, which is a time table of the Stars, containing a schedule of their ar- rivals at the meridian, on each respective night, which has been determined from the computations ot all of the great astrono- j} mers, from Ptolemy down to the present j@ay. Close by the telescope stands @ vet- eran clock of e “grandiatners’” stock, which is corrected o give the exact time jof the stars every time an observation is j made, But since cach one of the stars ap- pears upon the meridian once every twem- | ty-three hours fifty-six minutes and five | Seconds, the day of the stars is shorter,” by three minutes and ity-five seconds tham, the mean day, which has twenty-four even hours, for convenience sake. To test the correctness of this clock it is connected, in circuit, with a chro! consisting of a cylinder, revolving by elec- tricity, upon which a spiral line is made by @ fountain pen, which gives a hitch every second. This sinpie machine discloses an error in the beat of the clock, when the notches in this line do not measure a cer- tain distence apart, by a skillfully gradu- ated scale, or wher sixty of them will not cover the circumference of the cylinder exactly, and cause the next row of notches vo coincide with those adjacent. Thus the exact time of the stars is taken and re- corded, but the hours must go another process before the mean time is manufactured from this raw material. Mean and Sidereal Time. The sidereal day must first be made into the mean day, so a great deal of mathe- matical computation has been tabulated, which will tell what time it is by the cor- rect mean clock when the sidereal clock gives a certain hour. For instance, at noon on the day of the writer's visit to the observatory the sidereal clock recorded the hour as a few minutes of 2. But on | the 224 of March the two clocks always j agree, the stars having made an even dif- ference in days in its faster pace. In a separate room is to be seen another | old clock, which looks as though it might be |a reiation of the other, although each has }a different tale to tell. The one ts asso- ciated with the stars above, while the other is the common servant of the earth be- neath. This ticker is known as the clock of precision, because it ts always theoreti- |cally correct, in the scope of the mean ‘hour. Many little scales of various denom- inaticns may be seen joyfully swi to and fro in its pendulum, to alter its beat | when it gets out of its true proportion with the stars. This is aiso connected with « | chronograph. which t its beats closer | than can the ear or the eye. It is never stop- | ped or corrected by the moving of its hands, | which would injure its entire future career, jbut this method of adding weights to the pendulum, and taking them off, keeps @ vibration almost correct, although there are continual external forces which make it ditfer with the normal. The Noonday Hour. A third clock, which is the one from which the standard time is directly taken, is undergoing a continual course of correc- tion in order that when the great noon hour j at last arrives it will be able to send in am jalarm all over this half of the country | upon the termination of the millionth mil- lionth of the last second ia the eleventh |hour. This and the clock of precision are connected with several sounders, whicn fail , to sound whenever the two clocks do not jexactiy whisper the stroke of tne second | together. But by noon cach Cay this way- |ward clock has been nastered tae | patient hand of its ke per, and is always un- | failing at the proper moment in Dealing ine jlest ten seconds in the mormag correctly | and in hitting the nail on the head exacup at hoon. | Within the District limits all chronom jeters and self-correcting clocks are com nected with a private system of wires im circuit with the observatory, but in sending the noon hour throughout the lard the | Western Union Telegraph Company has been employed, and for its suspension of work on its main line for three and a haif minutes euch day it is paid a good sum by the government. The Time Ball. At five minutes before twelve @ signal is given to the Navy Department by pushing a switch, to raise the large time ball on the roof, so that it may drop automatically at 12 o'clock. During these last five minutes in the morning hour everything is anxiety with the dispatches of the noonday. He watches every turn of the pendulums of his | clocks, and probably goes through a series ers and of teeth chatterings eacR something might prevent the great _event’s taking place. At exactly three and ‘a half minutes before 12 o'clock a signal is given by the pressing of a button, and the Western Union Telegraph Company do the rest by connecting their whole system with | this click, which is ticking now exactly with the click of precision. he last ten seconds before noon are Ti a by the operator in the tele- when at last the great m itself is ticked