Evening Star Newspaper, December 19, 1896, Page 21

THE EVENING STAR, BY HAROLD (Copyright, 1896, by the Written for The Evening Star. Part 1. When Mr. Tyndall Passy at last returned to England, most of the people who had once expected remarkable things of him seemed quite to have forgotten that there had ever been such a young man. He went about London for a couple of days, calling there and there at a house, onty to find former acquaintances out of town or liv- 4mg elsewhere, and looking in at clubs where hall porters did not recognize the names he pronounced. Even abroad, his habit had been to avoid Jarge cities: this vast indifferent London became in those two days a horrcr to his nerves. Agamst the depressing background of its crowded loneliness unpleasant visions begar: to define themselves. He had in his pocket a little account book containing proofs that it was very nearly lime for him to be thinking of earning money; and its columns of delicately inscribed figures, which at ine outset had barely :nteresied him, started up an evil trick of suming into the forecround of his thoughts and display- ing themselves there with some devilish ef- fect ef phosphorescence. At luncheon time on the third day It dawned upon him that the gloom of his mind had broken the heart of his appetite. He looked at the bill of fare handed him by the stranger who wore the livery of the Applied Arts Club, and after a minute's la- bored scrutiny lifted his head and glanced about him. A score of members at other tables were eating—undoubtedly eating as if they enjoyed themselves. The spectacle surprised him, because—he verified the im- | pression by another look at the card—the { viands set forth were nothing less than ab- horrent; their very names revolted his senses. He tried to think of something not enumerated, some favored dish which might be prepared to his order; but sit food revealed ttself to his interrogation as an offense. A little shiver of vague alarm caused him to push back his chair and half rise to his feet. “I think—" he began, intent upon justi fying himself to the waiter, and then stop- ped. A newcomer had moved toward the table, with the light of recognition on his face and the beginnings of a gesture which might mean a greeting. Passy intuitivele completed his rising, and turried the words on his lips without a hitch to a new use. “I think this is my old friend, Laurence Mole,” he said, with a strenuous geniality. ‘They shook hands warmly, and Passy, who hated having his hand squeezed, for the once rather liked the effect of a powerful and energetic grasp. Even as he tw his cramped fingers about to get the back into them, he smiled gratefully into Mole’s face. “My dear fellow, I can't tell you— he started, and then let another smile, still more beaming. finish his sen- tence for him, as the other obeyed his mute invitation, and took the opposite chair. Really, it was amazing to think how glad he was to see Mole. The recollection that trey had never been more than smoking- room acquaintances rose in his mind; he even recalled that he had rather shunned Mole as a commongjace and uninspired creature, in the old d&ys—but none the less he welcomed him now as a brother. It re- quired an effort to keep utter silliness out of tne grin with which he continued to re- gerd Mole’s broad shoulders, and buoyant if upillumined countenance. It came to him that he had heard much of the money Mole got for his landseapes. His solvency was neterious among his fellow-artists, along with his supreme unwillingness to have it imposed upon. To look at him, he was more the strong stockbroker than the painter. His linen, his cheerful chuckle, the fine, hard surface of his carefully shaven cheek and chin were badges of a philistine prosperity. It was not to be for- gotten, too, that Mole never talked shop: ere might meet him for years, and not gather that he knew the difference between ; cadmium and turpentine. Indeed, his great point was that he didn't talk at all. He listened superbly, though, with an unap- proachable patience and show of inter and Passy felt suddenly that what he nad wanted most of all was a listener. ‘The tale spread for Mole’s unflagging ears was a long and diffuse one. He ate as he listened, with a robust, matter-of-course | zest which greatly strengthened Pas: confidence. A brain so nourished and d with extra must of eadfast and sensible; the ideal brain for the adviser to an unemployed gentleman with nerves. Passy scarcely noted that he himself was now able to eat as well, and tu rink freely of the old brewn ale in cob- webbed bottles which Mole prescribed. He set farth his case with eagerness, enforcing ts salient points with a veined and tlexibly thin forefinger on the cloth. Summarized, Passy’s was the narrative of a large self-satisfaction, insidiously under- mined and at last brought down in ruins by the burrowing of a group of ambitions | at cross purposes with one another. There | bad been at the outset a notable talent—he thought of it now as a fatal talent—for ation. His passicn for music an- ross the deeps to his awed rever- architecture. His intuitive feeling the right thing in painting looked ask- ance at his delicate perception of sculp- tere’s inmost significance. He commanded the languages of armor, of block printing, of tapestries and tooled bindings and carv- ed oak: but when they spoke to him all at orce the effect was confusion. The severe and complicated charms of heraldry beck- | ozed him one way; the looser blandish- | ments of mediaeval pottery appealed from | i | another rter. The Japanese thing had aid a r hand upon him than might ve been predicted, but stained glass of | the Burgundian period bore down heavi nd the ¢ in Ligh rlier schools of miniature paint: | cried aloud to him. Treading roughly | the heels of these antique lures, and of- n elbowing them aside, for that matter, | i thrusting itself to the fore. came that grossly up-to-date affair, amateur phe- | tcgraphy. Passy had moments of deep | shame in its company—and yet—and yet— | a might it not prove after all the true friend in need? The others were admittedly fi- | fascination had been all ascer- | i and ticketed; the completed set of | tricks was to be found in catalogues. | who could tell what novel conquest nides and nitrates might not be re- for the real Prince Char nnoisseurs? ‘The upshot of it is, then,” said Mole, at | last, hat between them all you don't} know whi to pick.” 3s that seems to be ft,” Passy admit- | ted. They were in the members’ smoking room now, and regarded each other from the depths of big easy chairs before th fire, what time they did not stare torpidly through their cigar haze at the coals and vacancy. “Yes, that is precisely it. I must find a profession among them somewhere. It need not be extremely lucrative: I look to it for supplementary earnings, ‘not for my whole income. It must be something that a gentleman can do; it should prefer. aoly be connected with the arts.” Mole nodded reflectively. He spoke slow- a silence. “What you want, first “all, ° is a studio.” Passy lifted his head. The dogmatism of tene and remark impressed him, but he had misgivings. “Of course that would come in later,” he assented; “but is it really leading necessity? Ought I not first to set- tle what I am going to do in my siudio, be- fore I get it?” “Not in the least. No mistake can be more grievous than to hesitate and fiddle about in matters of this nature. It is plain enough that indecision mars your character. You must do batde with it here and now if it {s not to wreck your career. Say to yourself that you will tmmediately take a lio--and upon the word go out and se- cere one. When once you are lodged tn it, when once the fact of possessing it has en: tered into your being, then everything else will be comparatively simple. It really doesn’t matter so much what you do in your studio, so far as that goes; the es- ntlal thing is to have one.” “It is a bold process,” mused Passy. “It would not have occurred to me, but i think I grasp your thought. You feel that the ® THE CONNOISSEUR, Author of “Seth's Brother's Wife,” ‘In the “The Damnation of Thereon Ware,” Ete. | partitions had been put FREDERIC. Valley,” Bacheller Syndicate.) studio, so to speak, will make the selection for me; that when I have made a fitting home for the bride, as it were, then the one who should be chosen will be drawn to- ward it, and T shall know her, and go out te meet her.” “Or words to thut effect,” Mole assented. “In shert, once you have a studio, you will know how to live up to it. Without a stu- dio—well, you behold youreelf—anxious, frightened, dtsconsolate, pitching fruitless- ly about Ike a cork in a millrace.” “Yes; I profess myself convinced,” safd Pasey. “And, since you spoke of the want of indecision, I will pile deeds upon per- suasion. Come with me now! I will not sleep until I have scoured the painters’ quarters for a studio.” “Oh, it's only twenty minutes" walk,” re- marked Mole, lighting a second cigar. “Have another liqueur of brandy? You wil? be overpowered with delight at the place. If it had been planced and built for you by Providence it could not more ideally fit your wants. It will flood you with suggestions and inspirations. It will take.charge of Destiny in your name. Passy lifted his little glass toward his friend. “Your enthusiasm is contagious!” he cried. “How wonderfully you have put heart in me! Doubts? I laugh in their face! Uncertainties? I set my foot on them! Come, let us get out! I am con- sumed with eagerness to begin. You spoke as if you had a place in mind—but there must be the condition that I enter at once.” “That is the beauty of it all.” replied Mole. “I am leaving England, certainly for months, perhaps for years. I start for Malaga this very evening. There is no rea- sen wWuy, if you will it, you should not sleep in your studio tonight.” “Perhaps I do not completely follow you,” said Passy, doubtfully. “The exact connec- tion between— “Oh,-to be sure, I hadn't mentioned it,” broke in Mole. as he got to his feet. “It is my studio that you are to take off my hands.” : Darkness gathered in eariy upon the suc- ceeding day—prematurely even for Novem- ber in London. Passy had never crowded much labor into a single day, and when at last the light faded away in the broad slid- ing sashes high overhead, he forebore to use the gas, and called his work done, in a novel spirit of content. A boisterous fire of wood crackled and roared on the irons under the huge open fireplace and carved chimney front, which monopolized most of one side of his studio. The chimney was a bad new imitation of something that had never been worth copy- ing, and its days were already numbered in Passy’s mind, but for the moment he could almost forgive it. so invigorating and fine was the snapping blaze below. He drew up a big lounging chair, placed beside it a small table, with glasses afd a bottle of sloe gin—the cne native beverage in Eng- land which caught his present whim—lit a cigarette, and sat down to receive self- congratulations by his own hearthside, at his own pleased leisure. : The studio was really a wonderful affair. From the point of view of the rising wind outside it was an exposed glass structure, flimsily founded, and placed in an open angle nearest the bridge, where the full hint Lit n Cigarette and Sat Down to Re- ceive Self-Congratulations. sweep of the river blasts could enfold and grind and rattle it about to the heart's con- tent. As the new owner saw and felt it from the inside, this very fact of its being the plaything of blasts lent a stimulating , air of adventurous isolation to the place. The engirdling wind, which shook it at the shutters, and tried the door; which whis- tled across the skylights up above, and dragged the flames upward from the hearth with the bellowing suction of a simoon, created for him a kind of island on which to live secure from observation and in- trusion. He sipped at his glass, and smiled affectionately upon the blazing logs, and stretched out his slippered feet toward them. Presently he thought he would and drive to tke club for dinner. The ne- Gragyled file of incapable four-wheel which usualiy vegetated on the incline lea ing to the bridge outside had evidently been scattered by ihe tempest, but Charles would call a ca. Or no; upon re- flection Charles had taken a holiday to view the lord mayor's show, and would be seen no more till morning. However, sufficient unto the hovr was the hansom thereof. Just now he would have thought for nothing but the tuxury of having a hcme and being in it. Around three sides of the tall central space ran a gallery, to be reached by a flight cf stairs at the rear, and up there Mole- some urknown predecessor of his—to form a bed room and dressing chamber. All this upper part was wrapped now in Gark- ness, but during the day Passy had hung from the gallery rail som> old rugs, and breadths of embroidered altar vestments, and the reflected firelight upon these was delighiful to the eye. The contents of the cases he had brought home in his odest way as a collector were all in evidence. cuirasses, fans, swords, jars, reliquaries and the rest—upon the walls or in appro- priate ccrners. Mole, in his hurried de- parture, had left easels, and an infinity of artistic raw material—big, stretched can- vases, portfolio, drawing books and blocks, old frames, rejected beginnings of pictures and so on into the flat rubbish of a studio's litter. Beyond pushing it as far into the background as possible, and here and there picking out a bit for the walls, Passy had not deait with this embarrassi ws legacy as yet. On the morrow he would go throvgh it more attentively, and make a definite clearance of what was not wanted. The lines upon which his wants would be likely to procesd were hardly clearer than they had been yesterday, but the fact no longer possessed any urgency... What was of much more value than his studio furniture and waste, Mole had left a cheer. ful and comprehensive Impulse toward op- timism, which continued to warm and brighten the place. Oddly cnough, Mole mentioned incidentally that he was leaving England because he was broken-hearted or something like that; but if this were true, then he had a marvelous talent for keeping his emotions in separate bulkhead compartments, so to speak, for Passy had got nothing but high spirits and gay con. fidence from contact with him. A casual suggestion from their talk had taken a certain root in Passy’s mind. It had to do with the posstbility of lectures on the arts in general, illustrated by lantern-slide views of objects, places, ateliers, and the like. Perhaps there was something in the idea. and Passy had gone so far as to get out some hundreds of negative films, and assort them, and think of making Prints from them if there was ever any real daylight in London. But if that Project came to naught, then some other would fructify. It was all right. He smiled again, and rolled another cigarette. A nolse which had seemed to be a part of the wind’s general racket repeated itself at, dress the door, and caught his ear. Something’ lke a hurricane was blowing outs! an there were streaming splashes of meee the glass now as well. The sound came again. It was hard to make sure whether it belonged to the storm's hubbub or not, but after a moment Passy’s zeal as a new proprietor triumphed, end he went to the door, jimagined myself. mor It opened into a little passage. descending im three steps to the outer door which gave vpon the street pavement. When he drew back the spring bolt of this latter a tre- mendous swoop of rain-laden wind on the instant flung him backward, while the deor benged upon him. A ficure of some sort Was swept into the passage by the same viclent propulsion, and when he turned from finally mastering and securing the door it was to note that this somebody had ascended the steps and entered the studio. Part | The form of a small woman, wrapped to the eyes in a drerched cloak of some black stuff, stood between him and the firé. It appeared to be facing him; but it was mo- ticnless end silent. Some random, jocose remark of Mole’s about models came at. once to his mind; they could never quite be- lleve, he had said, that a landscape painter would go on forever without needing them; they always came round, in the childlike faith that eventually he would think better of it. A genial notion of holding professional converse with a real model took swift pos- session of his will. Dinner time was stiil a long way off. Ample space intervened for @ pleasant little diversion. If he was not recognized, he would pretend to be Mole. “Won't you come to the fire?” he said, with an effort keeping the sprightliness down in his voice. “It is a dreadful night. You must be perishing with the wet and cold. Put aside your cloak, and take a mouthful of this sloe-gin. It is warming and—and——" He had touched the bottle as he spoke, but with his eyes had followed the move- ments of his guest, as she glided toward the fire, and in its ruddy, moving light ‘be- an to disembarrass herself of her wrap- Pings. His tongue faltered and his speech broke off in sheer astonishment as he be- held what the final gesture revealed—a lady of noble distinction in apparel and carriage, and with a face of exceeding beauty and refinement of line. She stood erect and quite at her ease, and he noted that she was not so small as de had thought. The hat she wore was so tiny and close-fitting that he looked twice His § cech Broke Off in Sheer Aston- ishment. to make sure she was not bareheaded. She was of his generation, if anything, his ju- nior: in self-possession she could teach him lessons. He furtively withdrew his hand from the bottle, and bowed low toward the firelight which framed her in a ruby haze. “It is the merest accident that we are not acquainted”—she was speaking now in a curiousiy measured voice, the cadence and quaint suggestion of accent in which seemed sumehow familiar to his ears—‘but I have been much abroad, and now that I am here in this absurd London, an equaily absurd mtschance sends me to be blown in the middle of your studio, without even so much as a letter of introduction about me. Yet I will not apologize for bursting in upon you thus unceremoniously, since I perceive that you have recovered from your original distress of mind.” Passy had Indeed regained his equanim- ity. Moving forward to a point where the firelight helped him he made a discovery as well. “I hasten to share with you my relief,” he answered, reflecting the tone of banter which lurked vaguely beneath the surface of her speech. “We are not such hopp- lessly complete strangers after all. In- deed, we have spoken at length together, have walked side by side, have even whis- pered to each other. Would you be gur- prised to learn that I possess a portrait of you—that I was examining it only this afternoon?” The smile on his face was met now with a lcok of blank astonishment. The lady in turn stepped back and bent her head to get a better light upon Pasxy'’s counte- nance. ‘Oh-h!” she said, wonderingly, after a moment’s inspection, “was it you? At—what’s the place—where every old rose- bush i: ‘were you the one? Oh, yes, I recognize you now. How curiously sma!l the world is! “It was much too la: rejoined, courageously most immediately.” Upor reflection she did not resent the re- mark, and even laughed a little—a restrain- ed small laugh, with an afternote of in- credulity. As if to soften the edge of this, she seated herself in the big chair and looked up at him. The warm light upon her throat and chin transferred itself in his mind's eye to a picture he was recon- structing in thought. “For every memory you have of Hilde- sheim,” he saéd, lingeringly, “I could pro- dvce a hundred. You could not credit it if I told you—how it all engraved itself upon my brain—and I should haruly dare make the attempt.” “Ob, you must not assume that I failed to appreciate Hildesheim—up to the limit, of course, of my primitive feminine eapac- ity. At the time, indeed, I confess that I interested in the » just then,” he ‘for I lost you al- place than you wer “How easy it wouid be to explain that!” Passy smiled down upor her and softened his voice. “Il remember,” he went, on, lifting a forefinger to plead, against er- ruption, “it was in the front of old Bern- ward's iron doors—” “Dear me, I thought they were brass." “Brass, fron, tin—whatever you like. I talked about them, learnedly, fluendy enough at the time, as I remember it, but I was thinking of something else. There was where I first saw you, just by those doors, and the gentleman who headed your party made some remark to me, and that was my opportunity, and I seized it with both hands. I talked for dear life to keep my place in the company. I delivered a lecture under tbe candelabrum so long that I expected it would fall on us. f ba- rangued you and your friends on Byzan- tine art in the cathedral treasury; I re- viewed t whole literature of German market-place Rolands and the entire sys- tem of medieval guilds while we walked about in the square. We stood very close to each other when we were locking at the famous rose bush—and next year I went again and bribed the sacristan to give me a blossom, and I Lave it still—and do you remember the little church where vespers were being sung when we went in? And there I was even closer to you—it was in the dim light, and the air was 1 of in- cense--and we whispered togethe: He finished in a murmur surcharged v-ith invitation to sentiment, but she shook her head abruptly, as if conversing with her- self, and gave a little laugh of plainly arti- fictal hardness. ‘Dear me, this is very en- couraging,” she cried. ‘To think how ex- tremely young I was only two years ago!” She rose.asghe spoke, and looked hard at the wet cloak, steaming where it hung over the corner of the screen. “Of course, I had an errand when I came here,” she said, almost brusquely, all at once. “I only know that you came—that is enough,” he replied, holding at once defi- antly and pleadingly to the erNotional mur- mur. “The brave, good, clement wind lifted you, and held you, and brought you here— and what en ingrate should I be to de- mand explanations! Hark, how it shouts and sings about us! I was in love with its voice an hour ago, though I knew not a word of what it was saying—but now that I have caught its language—now—’ He halted with a sigh, and looked at the gloved hand she had put upon the cloak. ge is still very wet,” he urged, vacu- ously. She laughed outright, and he could not tell if amusement or petulant vexation was uppermost in the sound. “So you are unable to interest yourself, then,” she went on, coldly, and with avert- ed eyes, “in the question why I came here? It awakes no curiosity in your mind—this extraordinary appearance at your studio, unattended and in the dark, with a hurri- cane and sheets of rain outside, of a lady whose name you are ignorant of—" “Oh, no; I learned your name. I found the hotel you had been stopping at,” he interposed. * “Well, then,” she continued, in the same chilled tone, “of a lady who at least was unaware that she had ever seen you. Pos- sibly studio Iife is so crowded with activ- ity—and—color—that sush an incident SATURDAY, DECEMBER 19, 1896-28 PAGES. : ’ 21 ; - Thousands of useful * as ° | Furniture gifts will be sold here next week “ON CREDIT!” Has the strain on your pocket book been too great? Have you exhausted all your gift money and still have a few other friends whom you wish to remember Christmastide? - If so, come here--pick out your gifts and pay us as you are able, in small weekly or monthly payments. No notes or papers to sign--your promise is all that is necessary. . Four floors crowded full’ of suggestions--Onyx-top Tables-- Book Cases and Writing Desks--Chiffoniers--Sideboards--Ward- robes--Gilt Reception Chairs--Hat Racks--Rockers--Banquet Lamps--Parlor Suites--Chamber Suites--Dining Room Furni- is ture--Carpets--Rugs and hundreds of other useful, substan- . tial gifts marked at prices way below the lowest figures ever quoted by the cash houses. You may have your choice of anything in this vast collection of giveables upon payment of a small deposit--the balance to be settled in easy weekly or monthly installments. All Carpets made, laid and lined free. “Git i goods delivered at any time desired. ' 3 AU) —~eREDIT OUST inv V can “Bis Seventh Street. : CHRISTMAS DINNER. spoon. Transfer the mass to the board, and with as few strokes as possible roll into a sheet half an inch thick; roll out, double up and roll out again; fold once more ard roll out stilll again, always light- ly and quickly. Three rollings out should be sufficient to thoroughly incorporate the ‘seems not at all‘ unysual—attracts not the THE slightest attention, hut I confess—" Her fluency deserted her, and she turned her face away, Passy guessed from the line of the profile that she was biting. her Hp, and certainly he caught the nervous tap of a little sole on the hearthst: An Expert's Directions as to Prepar- ing Diwhes for It. | From Harper's Bazar. The chief characteristics of a Christmas Lucas Malet, the Name She Write: From the Chicago News. Now that the smart set i ader Which beginning to ‘o, no,” he entreated her. ‘Don't t dinner table should be brightness and giow- | butter into the flour. Now divide the | read and talk about Lucas Malet’s °C: of these things. I am wholly in y ing color. On this account table decora- penny — ce eat oe perd issima,” it is possible that a few of the nds. The surprise and joy of seeing 5 Ae % 4 ,| away in the ice chest to keep cold unt nia = - . ere xe 2 aay hunted foF weeks. through Ger OB att ech oo ane area are AAO Sen tor dhe pin aM Aine ate pans with the | ™ ie eee Lows mistakes about Reh aja Ee combined are very effective for a Yuletide | remaining pastry, greasing the tine thor, | ¥7' ter may be cleared up. I would—we lived a long, long time to- | dinner. oughly. Fill with the sweetbread mixture,| Reviewers will cease in time ‘heir ally gether in just those two hours or three—| ‘The cloth may be of white satin damask. | and bake to a delicate brown in a quick | sions to “Mr.” Malet. ‘The tnenda, its that is the way when two peopie rightly | the centerpiece is a round of white satin Seri aot ales 55 oil and blanch the | KB°¥iNs Person.who informed us not long meet each other who—who comprehend | on proidered in a design of holly leaves and ling for Pates.—Par! and blanch each other—and I know in my heart- “I think it was not your heart that we re speaking of,” she interrupted him. sweetbreads, and cut (not chop) into small ago that the author of “The Wazes of Sin pieces. Cook together one tablespoonful ;, berries. Buffalo lady” at present living iy On this centerpiece rests a huge bowl of holly with its glossy green leaves a each of butter and flour, and when they | the Isle of Wight, will build his future et, in a sense, it is what—what is con-|and scarlet berries. From beneath this | Lubble, a pom i, stirring all Bod vi romances on other foundations; it is eve ventionally called—an affair of hearts) powl stretch streamers of broad red satin | Le cup of rich milk or cream. When | ‘s Nie Sei nae uae venen brings me here. You can hardly | riphon to the four corners of the table. At | Pcils, pour it very slowly upon 2 exes beat- Pee taco “ae in : se o age be prepared or what I am going to tell} each corner the ribbon ends in a large bow, | €? light. Return to the fire, add the Sweet- s a = pate aiwas Matet’s ou—but I am Mary’s sister—her elder} jin which is fastened a bunch of holly. The | breads, and cook for oniy a moment. Set | name in a list of “favorite Ap e candle shades are of deep red. and cast a | the ce to get cold before filling | authors.” accepted the tidings with an un-| warm glow upon the white cloth. Bouton- le pastry shelis. Lucas Malet is the ne le pl oof a moreatace "Yes?" We said, wonderingly. | weres for the gentlemen are sprigs of holly, | Roast Turkey With Oyster Stuffing.— eo soa aa hanes a cng hod “It is very simple,"" she went on, in a | while deep red Jacqueminot roses form the | Make a stuffing of fine bread crumbs,minced Mary Kingsley, daughter of th sharper voice. “I came to England three | Jadies’ corsage bouquets. White and green | Parsley, pepper and salt to taste and a | famous Charles Kiugsley, and now the wits days ago, but three hours was enough to| or white and gold china is pretty upon a | large spoonful of melted butter. Chop thir-| of the Rev. William Harrison, rector of snow me that something was amiss with | table thus laid, although any dishes may be | ty oysters fine, and mix thoroughly into the | Clovelly. in Devonshire. Mary. I won't say that she has been what | used that will not contrast unfavorably | bread crumbs. If’ the mixture prove dr: Mrs. Harrison has demonsirated in ber might be called expansively frank with me, | with the red and green decorations. mix with a little of the oyster liquor. literary career at least two things. F\ buf I know enough of how matters stand to A menu for a Christmas dinner may be | the craw and the body of the turkey with | that it is possible for an autho. to be feel warranted—that 1s, to have felt war-| as follows: this stuffing, sew up carefully, bind the legs | ly read. keenly approciatel. by. the ranted, in interfering. The tim between Caviare Toast. and wings close to the body, place in @ | critics, besieged wy offers from put you was really all moonshine, and she Little Neck Clams. baking pan and pour a large cupful of boil- | and yet refrain trem writing, eight y knows ft perfectly, and she is in a mood to Cream-of-Beet Soup. ing water over the fowl. Roast fifteen min- | having elapsed betwee: the publication of be reasonable, and so it was my idea to Smelts, Butter Sauce. utes to the pound, basting often. the “Wages of Sin” and that of “The Car, ask you to dine with me this evening—l Fried Potatoes. Cranberry Jelly.—Stew a quart of cran- | jssima while there were long intery ine ye a flat in Victoria street—and she Sweetbread Pates. berries in a half pint of water until soft | tween other works from the son > ‘ould be there—and—well, that’s all.” Roast Turkey stuffed with Oysters. and broken. Rub through a colander, re-| secondly, that one may be a novell’ of cha Pa: had. been studying her face as she Cranberry Jelly. turn the juice to the fire, add a pound of | fret rank and yet avoil individual pub- spoke, with strenuous intentness. His puz- Sweet Potato Croquettes. sranulated sugar, and when this is dis-| jjcity. Mrs. Harrison hersel? moult be ve zlement at the outset was obvious, but Roman Punch. solved pour into a jelly mold wet with cold | jast’ to quarrel with misconceptions as to now he gave a long, low, little whisile uf Broiled Quail. water, and set aside to form. r identity. Whatever her methods—and surprised compulsion, and began moving Lettuce. Sweet-potato Croquettes.—To two cups of | one is tem ted, with apologie: the DM about, rubbing his hands together softly, | Crackers. Cheese. Olives. Salted Almonds. | warm mashed sweet potato add a table- Burnetts, to believe them negative in char. and smiling to himself. He swayed his Mince Pie. spoonful of melted butter, a ttle salt and | acrorshe has hitherto almre: chess slender shoulders as he walked; the im- Biscuit Tortoni. . Pepper, & tiny pinch of nutmeg and one | coined the paragraphiet and ave eens pu'se to Gance was in his knees. Frat. Sse. Mix all well toeethes, Form tab 0s6- | iooa itis ie Meow bent Wer cern ne He stopped before her, and was not un- Coffee. quettes, roll in egg and cracker crumbs, : circle of her intimate frienc 5 f ihe ees s - Creme de Menthe. and set, aside until firm and cold. Fry in Brain . "4 nerved by the vexed and flushed counte- E : dearly loved and carefully educated 4: - hane= ske reluctantly turned to him. While the manner of preparing many of | deep fat ee aS ters of Charles Kingsiey (christened, after “As you have said,” he began, with | the dishes mentioned in this menu may be | Broiled Quail—Clean the birds, split them his mother, Mary Lucas), she shared in the painstaking deliberation, “the situation is; familiar to the average housekeeper, the | down the bac in cold water for : 7 receipts for making some of them may be unfamiliar. Moreover, it is convenient to have all the receipts for the different vi- ands to be served at a dinner party at- tached to the menu, as the cook or house- keeper has then everything directly under t commonplace. But are we in complete agreement as to its character?) Will you pardon me the question—ought I still to address you as Miss Savage?’ She bowed assent, and he altered his yoice to a whimsical affectation of wist- nd Mem rie and rd madd half an hour. Wipe dry, and broil on a grid- iron over a clear fire. Remove to a hot dish, place a lump of butter on each bird, and set in the oven for three minutes be- fore serving. Lettuce.—Wash and carefully pick over delightful houselife at & by Mrs. Kingsley in “ ories,” and married her father friend, William Harrison, aft rector of Clovelly, that picturesy shire village so well known to U re i - f “Westward, Ho!"—a villaze of a 2 : eet ” her eye, and need not take the time to look | the lettuce. Serve with French dressing | © os mage of as fulness; “T never knew YOUur, first mamaiea, | up the necessary directions in various cook | made on the tabla. Wee aoe dressing use | Street, “a winding, rocky pathway, pitch books. Therefore, there will be found be- low receipts for all the dishes mentioned in our Christmas menu, with the exception of the ices, which are furnished by a caterer. Caviare Toast.—Spread strips of buttered toast with the contents of a can of caviare made into a paste by mixing it with three teaspoonfuls of melted butter, a little salt and a dash of cayenne pepper. Squeeze a few drops of lemon juice 9n each piece, and serve. : Cream-of-Beet Soup.—One quart of beets. four tablespoonfuls of oil, two of vinegar, | iPS headlong a few drops of onion juice, pepper and salt + to taste. Mince Pie.—As every housekeeper has her own particular receipt for mincemeat, it seems hardly necessary to give her direc- tions for the preparation for this sine qua non of our Christmas dinner. The mince- meat should, of course, be prepared and packed away in a stone crock several weeks before it is to be used, that it may mellow and ripen. It should be moistened with a into the bluest sea in the world.” Last year in “A Romance of Cio, elly,” Kate Douglas Wiggin described for us afresh the quaint and charming village not built like unto other towns, but “flung up from the sea into a narrow rift betwe wooded hills,” where it has clung for Sw years. In spite of her quiet and beautiful sur roundings, however, it is not the aspe of nature, but the urgent, complicat problems of human life which ha vith brevity. wrat ‘all events, we have a definite Miss Savage—and she seems entitled to the in- formation that I don’t know Mary, that I have never even heard of Mary, and that I am not Laurence Mole.” ‘The lady preserved a tranquil face, but her gaze with whieh. she held Passy deep- ened and hardened,,. ‘This doesn't impress me as altogether nice, you Ser she re- arked, between tights: ips. Ome coe ha from Passy's pos- most y, }one quart of milk, one tablespoontul of but- | little sherry and brandy when the crock is | deeply impressed Mrs. Harrison, “Phere et, ture. | He held out. hig hands tmploringly: | ter, two tablespoonfuls of flour. Scrape | opered few touches of description in her boots one z Speen at until a minute | the skin from the beets and put them on | Roll the pastry into a sheet about an| little of outward nature. to boil in a pint of water. Cook until ten- der, when the water in which they were boiled should be of a deep crimson hue. Chop the beets and press them through a vegetable press, then add them to the water. Cook together in a saucepan the butter and flour, and when they bubble stir slowly on them the scalding milk. Stir over the fire until the mixture thickens, then add the beet puree. Season with salt and white pepper. If properly preparei, this sup will be rose-pink in color and very pretty. Fried Smelts.—Dry the smelts between the folds of a soft linen towel, dip them in egg and cracker crumbs, and leave them in a cold place for several hours. Fry in deep fat. = Butter Sauce.—Stir and beat six table- spoonfuis of butter with a fork until like very thick cream. Beat into this two table- spoonfuls of finely minced parsley. When the sauce is pale green add a teaspoonful of lemond@uice, a teaspoonful of onion juice, eighth of an inch thick, cut into a round, and fit into e large deep pie dish. Handle very lightly. Fill the dish with the mince- meat, and lay across the top of the pie a trelliswork made of strips of pastry an inch wide. Bake in a quick oven until brown. Be sure that the bottom of the pie bakes quickly and thoroughly, or it will be soggy and moist. Serve hot. Salted Almonds.—Blanch the shelled al- monds by pouring boiling water over them and allowing them to stand in it for five minutes. The skins will then slip off easily. Spread them on a broad platter, and set in the sun or in the plate warmer until dry. ‘Turn into a large bake pan, pour over them two tablespoonfuls of olive oil, and stir the nuts about until every one is coated and shining with the oil. Set in a hot oven unti! they are of a light brown color. Stir them about every few minutes, that all may get evenly browned. Turn them, while still hot, into a colander, and sprinkle with the o—when you spoke of your sister—it oe eet my find that you were mis- taken about me!—how could it!—nothing led to it?—we talked about our meeting—it was all so natural—” “And you «re interrupted him; im her tone.- ‘It you told me who “My — is Pi “Tyndall Pasey.” She nodded ‘ah heard the name, Her first novel, “Col. Enderby'’s Wife published in the early 80's, dealt with the marriage of a middle-aged colonel to the brilliant, soulless Jessie Pierce-Daunnay. and the pathos of the hero's awakening to a knowledge of the fact that “contact is not fusion.” Then came “Mrs. Lorimer’ and “A Counsel of Perfection,” of wo: - ful charm and insight. studies rather than stories of a young widow and an old maid These were followed by “The Wages of Sin,” @ novel less sensational than its title, but of extreme power and appealing, to make use of a late phrase of Mr. Quiiler- Couch, “not to @ particular, but to a uni- versal comprehension.” Now comes “Carissima,” which concerns itself with the modern girl, and has already exhausted several editions. +00 A Difficult Task. From the Cincienat! Enquirer. Mr. Mole?” she pens of placation be more regular if he said, dolefully— miably. “I have e the connoisseur— wha kngps all about art and A ee eee Soa probably know artists. ‘Then you wgpld probably kno among other thir “On his way to Mklaga. I have his ad- dress there—I am forwarding Jetters. I can send a-telegram to meet him. “Ané you"—. she left the subject of Mole witha dawning smile—‘I uscd to hear of you from the Chesherfis—have you finally made up your mind to do something in par- ticular? ‘The geod souls, they used to be| salt and paprika to taste. Whip ail to- | fpest table salt. Shake the colander brisk-| 1, is indeed hard,” said the melancholy greatly worried about your Andefiniteness.”” gether for five minutes before turning into dislodge the superfi ‘salt, Set the al-| gentleman, “to lose one’s relatives.” “Oh, Mole. sétilea Seen Fae tase. | Samuan cu-eisss or chins bowl. Pass with | ooa5 in @ cold ropes to beoume orlap. “Hard?” snorted the gentleman of wealth, joined,, cheerfully. “ vice Was mag- ish. 5 o nific He said I had only to get a stu-| Sweetbread Pates—In making the pastry Se be I nc CR ‘Hard. 1: is impossible. Pe dio, and the rest would come.” for the dinner, enough should be Sworn of. See Fillal Protection. From the Chicago Record. From the Detroit She—‘Wonld you love me just the same, to serve as crust for the pates and for the . “Did She took her cloak upon hér-arm. mince ple. Chop three-quarters of a pound Free Press. your kodak picture of“me really come out oe rom butter into one pound “ " Shel wen te Yon eia?wor ghan't You say? four, ithe chopping tow, Knife reatiae pin, eetrgred a eee ces S peered Mtl tat whoop egmrlen aati that is it have decided ¥ board and plate must cold. When ? e . TTY have decided to ask 10 meet Stary, | into the bow @ gener into See eee Sate ere. Seen a solemn vow eS a come to dinner this evening—to meet Mary, @ generous halt iced | never financial question 4 Ay you know?" ¥ . Water. Stir all to a dough with a large ! again.” , y, a lion ate the little boy.