Evening Star Newspaper, February 13, 1897, Page 16

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 1897-24 PAGES, x hse (se) Ge) THE MUTA (Copyright, for The Evening Sta inued from last Saiurday’s Star.) Chapter XNIIT reaching the rat way station Mar. On first regret was that he had not the money offered him on the | day his discharge. He had no idea that | MMs quest would lead him to a fashion- | able d expensive seaside resort. Pru- dence proposed to him that he should defer his visit to Eastbourne until he had more | mo but he said to himself, if he did not go at once, Sartwell wo be certain | rn from his wife ef the visit to Wim- 2, apd there might be increased dif culties in getting to see Edna at East- bourne. no idea tow the ‘d fer was to be! bro: Sartwell,when | to into whose school, a hint of his object in placing her | out of the South- | pham = Iunctica, | an hour to wait 2 ble: at the aa thourne he Im-| in of High Chit or, which | have warne nana alone could arrange | He found High situated in ex w of the sea, even more dis- ped barrier at going to be more ng an interview with his swe an he had at first imagined. He thought for a moment of ing bold- ly at the front door for permission to see the young s ut quickly dismissed the plan able. He was cer- tain that so shrewd a man as Sartwell id _have more foresight than to leave agements at such loose ends tnat the son who called to see his daughter aitted, even if the ordinary hool allowed such a thing, most improbable. He realized 2 place was not to be taken by as- reather by slow and patient wandering down by the shore, hingle, within sound of the and gave his whole atten- tion to the problem. If a man whose ambition it was to eman- rker, and change the whol+ capital and labor, was seeking half an hour's | oung girl, not immured in a onvent, bui merely residing in English schooi, then were his the larger question re- Thus he came to bind s together, saying to him in the one would indicate first thing to do, ure some cheap lodging—If € to be found in this fash- 1 so hoard his money and | convinced he | by going slowly. h undue precipi- nate victory tmpos- some time during the walk, though guarded esses. It might interesting proces- . to slip a note even as Marsten he dismissed it as na would be so sur- pieable proceeding would not have the of mind necessary to conceal the y enough to esc: afiled in ik with a y ra w cha) would s that suited | e. When this the promenade, m his whole at- @ staggering blow ost thru glare. Has the at you had me like the i my frien ‘ouble before ow in Paris - of humor, it should oc- . that they ought ke a joke, or eis s. E thing to my handshake | ng cordial toward a feilow see, have we shaken hands said Marsten, with such other laughed again. I'm delighted to meet you so un- i you know. Your name's if I remember rightly?” name is Marsten, yes, of cour: I'm the stupidest n the kingdom about names, and it’s an awfully bad failing. People seem to get offended if you can’t remember their Vm sure I can’t tell why. I tuppence what I was cailed, ou don’t say I'm no painter. Then I'm ready to fight. A man who won't fg! for his art oughtn’t to have an art. And, talking about art, I remember now that Langton was the fellow you sent me who can play the plano as if her were a Rubinhoff—that Russian player, don’t you know. Well, I'm thundering giad to see you; I was just hi to meet some fel- DOI OW ONIONNONME OWEN BY ROBERT BARR. 1896, by Mobert Barr.) j till you've been here a day or two. | centuate it, don’t you know. | why it is, | shillings fia | roast j my {I |1 want y fi NESSES BLE MANY, © It’s so wretchedly respectable—that’s what I object to in it. Respectability’s had enough on its native heath, but sea air seems to i.c- I can’t tell but it's so; and respectability | that you can put up with in London be- comes unbearable dowr by the sea. Haven't you noticed that? And it’s all on such a slender basis, tco; the third-class fair to Brighton is four shillings and tuppence- ha’penny, while to Eastbourne It’s four d elevenpence, so all this swag- ger is on a beggarly foundation of eight- pence-ha’penny. You sec what I mean? 1 wouldn't give a week in Brighton for a day sibourne, although I should hate to be condemned to either, for that matter. Lon- don is the only town that’s exactly my s don't you know.” “Then why do you stop at Eastbourne?” h, now you come to the point; now you place your finger right on the spot. Why, indeed? Can't you guess? I can tell in a moment why you are here. “Why?’ asked Marsten, in some alarm. “Oh, simply because some fool of a doc- tor, who didn’t know any bet sent you down. You're here for the air, my boy; you don’t come for the society, so it must be the air—that’s the only other thing Eastbourne’s got. You were told it would brace you up im a week, and it will if your holds out for so lorg. I'd he a madman, sane as I am, if I were com- pelled to live in this place a fortnight; 1 would on my honor! No, you don’t catch me in Eastbourne for either air or the so- ciety, and yet. in a way, it Is the society, too, only it doesn’t seem to come off; and here I am stranded, don’t you know, with a coachman and a groom, not to mention a valet, two horses, and one of the srnart- est carts that ever left London. ‘That’s turnout, there. I drive tandem, of it's the only Christian waxgto drive. I care about the style of it—I ing—and not to be blamed because so many cther fellows do it, don't you know; I love a tandem for itself alone. Ever drive did,” said Marsten, looking at 5 andsome equipage, which was being stowly driven up and down the road by a man in livery. He had noticed it be- fore, but now he gazed at it with renewed as Barney modestly proclaimed elf the owner. veil, it isn’t as easy as it looks. It’s not every fool can drive a tandem, although m said to be one of the first tandem drivers in London, don't you know. I don't say so, of course: but there are those who do, and they are judges, too. But it's no fun driving about alone: to enjoy tan- | dem driving you need to have a pretty girl besid A bourne “There are, my boy, and that’s just what to talk to you about. Let's sit down here in this shelter, because I want you re there no pretty girls in East- your whole attention. Now, I did you a favor one day, even though it was for an- other fellow, didn’t 1?” “Yes. You have done me at least two favors.” “Weil, that’s all right. I may be able to do you a third or a fourth—who knows?— and I mention it because I'm about to ask you to do me a great one now. That's what made me so glad to see you, don’t you know, as well, of course, as the pleas- ure of talking with you again in this.dis- mal hole. 1 was just thinking about it, and wondering whom I could get, when I looked up, and there you were. Providence always helps me when I'm in a _pinch—al- ways, don’t you know. I never knew it to fail, and yet I'm not what you call a de- yout man myself. You've got nothing par- ticular to do down here, I suppose?” “Nothing but my own pleasure.” ‘Quite so. And as there isn't any pleas- ure to be had here, you may just as well turn round and help me; it will be a great lark. You see, I want a man of intelli- gence, and I don't suppose one is to be found in stbourne—for if he was intelli- gent he wouldn't stay. Then, too, he must be a man not known in the town—you see what I mean? Also, he must know some- hing about the laboring classes and their Ways: so you see, my boy, Providence has sent me the very man I want, don’t you know. Now promise that you will help me. If I can, 1 will.” “Right you are: You're just the individ- ual who can, and no one else can do it half so well. Now, in the first place, have you ever seen Sartwell’s daughier? He's only got one.” “Have I ever seen her?” “Yes. She was at my reception the day you were there. I don't suppose you no- ticed her among so many; but she was the handsomest girl in the room, far and Yes, I have seen Miss Sartwell. She used to call for her father at his office quite frequently.” “Gol again. That's a fourth qualifica- tion needed by the person who is to help me, SO you see you are the man of all men for this job. Now it happens that this charming girl is at school at Eastbourne, which is, in a word, the reason I am here. I want to get a message taken to Miss Sart- school, and I want you to take ‘Oh, I don’t think I should care to go on a@ miss‘on of that sort, Mr. Hope. If Mr. ell were to find out that I—” Gear fellow,” interrupted Barn placing his hand confidentially on M. Sten’s shoulder, “ all right, I assure you. There is re: ity nothing surreptitious about it. and earth, Langton, you don’t think I'm that kind of a man, I trust. Oh, no, ve the parNtal consent all right enough.’ “Then why don’t you go to the school and see her?” Because, my dear boy, the case is just a trifle complicated, don’t you know. I can always get the parental consent: that’s her money, you know. As a general thing the girls like me, and 1 won't say the money has all to do with that; no, I flatter myself, personal attractions, ‘a fair amount of brains and a certain aristocratic reputation come in there; but money tells with the der people. Now, Sartwell und £ under- i each other. Not to put too fine a point upon it, you know, he says, practi- cally: “Barney, you're an ass, but you're rich, and I don’t suppose you're a bigger fool than the average young man of the present day, so I give you a fair fieid; go in, my boy, and win.’ I say to Sartwell: You're a grumpy old curmudgeon, with no more artistic perception than the Shot Tow- er; but your daughter fs an angel, and I've wot money enough for the two of us.’ You see, I never did care for money except to get what I want. So there we stand. Sart- well was coming down here-with me; but, after I started, he telegraphed to my stu: dio that there was so much to do in the shop, with all the men newly back, that he would like me to postpore my visit for a week. Well, I had to get the horses and trap down here; so I drove, and I left London a day earlier than I expected to. Hence the present complication. I called at the school, asked to see Miss Sartwell, say- ing I was a friend of her father’s, but the lady in charge looked on me with suspicion —she did, indeed, my boy, difficult to be- lieve as the statement is. The lady said she could not allow Miss Sartwell to see any person unless that person was accom- panied by her father. She would take no message to the girl—and there I was. I wrote to Miss Sartwell from my hotel but the letter was opened by the who returned it to me, asking attempt to communicate with ycung ladies under her charge. low I knew. I'm dying for some one to talk to. It’s a beastly dul hole, East- bourne, don’t you know.” fhe @ very nice place.” ‘» longing “I was never here before. It seenzs to| That's the situation @s, \t looks that way at first, but wait’ ing a message to So this stylish tandem, and there is that ly girl, while I am her a alr, to take to help Edna,’ know, and I want “I don’t see how I can do it. If you, with her father’s permission, could not get @ word with her, how can I hope to?” “Oh, I have that all arranged. I thought first of getth some young man in as a carpenter or plumber; but, so far as I can learn, the pipes and the woodwork of the school are all right. Then an inspiration came to me—I am subject to inspirations. The man who looks after the garden lives in the town, and he is quite willing to as- ist me; in fact, I have made it worth his ‘hile, don’t you kpow. The trouble is that all his assistants are rather clodhoppers, and would be sure to bungle a diplomatic affair like this; however, I was going to chance it with one tomorrow when I saw you, and said to myself: ‘Here is the very man!’ When Providence sends the right man I always recognize him. That is the whole secret of a successful life, don’t you know—to be able to recognize the gifts Providence sends at the moment they are sent. Where most people go wrong, don’t you know, is by not appreciating the provi- dential interposition until afterward. You will put on a gardener’s smock, take a clumsy and unwieldy broom in your hand, and go to High Cliff School to sweep the walks and that sort of thing, don’t you know. Then, as the girls are walking about, seize the psychological moment and teil Miss Edna I am waiting down here with the tandem. The young ladies are al- lowed to walk out three at a time. Two of them can sit back to back with us and Edna will sit with me. Tell her to choose two friends whom she can trust and we will all go for a jolly drive together. If she hesitates, tell her I am down here with her father’s permission, but don’t say that unless as a last resort. I would much ra- ther have her come of her own accord, don’t you know.” “What I fail to understand about your plan is why—if you really have Mr. Sart- well’s permission—no, no, I'm not doubting your word—I should have put it, as you have her father’s permission—why do you not telegraph him, saying you are here, and get him to send a wire to the mistress of the school, asking her to allow Miss Sartwell to go with you for a drive, with a proper chaperon, of course?” “My dear Langton—” ‘Marsten, if you please.” ‘Oh, yes, of course. My dear Marsten, what you suggest is delightfully simple, and is precisely what would present itself to the well-regulated mind. It would be the sane thing to do and would be s0 charmingly proper. But you see, Marsten, my boy, I understand a thing or two about women, which you may not yet have had experience enough to learn. I don’t want too much parental sanction about this af- fair, because a young girl delights in an innocent little escapade on her own account —don’t you see what I mean? Of course, if the villain of the piece is baffled, he will ultimately appeal to the proper authority; but you krow I have already seen a good deal of the young lady under the parental wing—if I may so state the fact; and al- though she is pleasant enough and all that, I don’t seem to be making as much prog- ress with her as I would like, don’t you know. Now a little flavor of—well, you understand what I mean—thingumbob—you know—romance, and that sort of thing—is worth all the cut-and-dried ‘Bless you, my children,’ in the market. You'll know all about that as you grow older, my boy.” Mr. Hope—” ‘Leok here, my Boy, call me Barney. Few of my friends say ‘Mr. Hope,’ and when any cne docs say it, I always think he is referring to my father, who is at this moment gicdily enjoying his precious self at Dresden, or thereabouts. You were abcut to say—" ‘I wes about to say I would very much like to oblige you, but I have scruples about doing what you ask of me.” | E “Marsten—you'll forgive me, won't you?’ —but I'm afraid you're very much like the rest of the world. Fellows always want to oblige ycu, but they don’t want to do the particular obligement that you happen to want—if I make myself clear. If you want to borrow a fiver, they will do any mortal thing you wish but lend it. Now it hap- pens that, so far from wanting a fiver, I'll give you cne--or a ten-pound note for that matter—if you will do this, don’t you kno “Oh, if I did it at all, I wouidn’t take money for doing it.” “But I don’t want a fellow to work for love, don’t you know. I don’t believe in that. If I sell a picture I want my money for it—yes, by Jove, I do. “If I did this, it would be entirely for love, ard for no other consideration. But I dor’t think I would be acting fairly und honorably if I did it. I can't explain to you why I think this; my whole wish ts to do what you ask me, and pet I feel sure, if I were thoroughly honest,“As I would like to be, I should at once say ‘No.’” “My dear fellow, I honor your scruples; but I assure ycu they are misplaced in this instance. They afe, really. Besides, I have ycur promise, and Pm going to hold you to it. It isn’t as though I were going to run away with the girl and marry her agair st her own wish and the wishes of her ccmbined relatives. If I wanted to see the girl against her father’s will—well, then, there might be something to urge in op- position to my project; but I’m not—and don’t you see that fact makes ail the dif- ference in the world? Of course you do? Why, a man ought to do anything for the girl he loves, and he’s a poltroon if he doesn't. That's why I'm taking all this trouble ard staying in this town of the for- lora. If a girl doesn’t tind you taking some trouble in order to see her, why, she is not going to think very much or often about you, take my word for that. ‘J believe you gre right. I'll go.” “You're a brick adeeceon, Yes, my boy, & brick,” crie&@ Barney, enthusiastically slapping bis comrade on the shoulder. “A brick of very common clay, I'm afraid, Mr. I suppose you believe in the saying, *All}. fair in love?” “Of course I r boy; it is the maxim on which I reg my daily life.” “Very well. I not take a verbal mes- sage, for I may hat have an opportunity to deliver it; besides, i might forget something or give it a mialéading twist. If you will write exactly you want Miss Sart- ¥ell to know, arid Rive it to me as a letter, I will deliver there is the slightest chirce of my doing so.” “Right you old man! Now come with me, and introduce you to the gardener pers: see if he has a blouse that will fit yous : _Clypter XXIV. In the morning Barney took Marsten to the house of ‘the friendly gatdener, whose good will had been secured through the corrupting influences of wealth, and there the young man donned the blouse that was supposed to give him that horticultural air necessary for the part he had to play. Marsten was very serious about It, but Barney seemed to enjoy thie masquerade to the utmost, and wanted to take the ama- teur gardener to be photographed, so that there might be a picture as a memento of the occasion. At last Marsten got away, with the broom on his shoulder, and, presenting himself at High Cliff grounds, was admit- ted without question. He made no attempt to conceal frem himself the fact that he did not lke the frand he was about to practice, but when his conscience upbraid- ed him, he asked of it. what better plan it had to propose, and to this there was no reply. The grourds were empty when he reach- ed them, and with his natural shrewdness he applied himself first to the walks that were in public view, so that when the young girls came ont he might be in the more secluded portion of the rlantation, where he was sure the rules of the school would require them to take the air. His surmise proved correct, and the young man felt more embarrassed than he had even suspected he would be when he sud- denly found himself in the midst of a fluttering bevy of giris, all chattering, but happily none paying the least attention to him. He had not counted on the pres- ence of any of the teachers, but three of them were there, who, however, sat on a garden seat and did not seem overburden- ed with anxiety about the pupils under their care. Edna Sartwell had a book in her hand, with a finger between the pages, but she walked up and down with another girl, talking in a low tone. Marsten hoped the beok was an interasting one, and wished the girl would go into some secluded cor- rer to read it; for he began to see that his enterprise was not going to be so easy of accomplishment as he expected, eyen though he had gained admittance to the grounds, which at first had secmed the most difficult move in the game. The book at last gave him the opportunity he sought; Edna and her companion stocd together for a moment after their walk, then each went her separate way. In a corner of the grounds. was a se- cluded summer house, screend from the view of the school by a wilderness of trees and shrubs, almost out of hearing of the lively chatter that made the air merry elsewhere; and to this quiet spot Edna betook herself, reading the book as she walked, for the paths thither were evident- ly familiar to her. Marsten followed, slow- ly at first, then more quickly as the chances of observation lessened, his heart beating faster than the exertion he was making warranted. The girl was seated in the little chalet when Marsten’s figure ; darkened the entrance. “Miss Sartwelly’ was all he could say. Edna sprar g togper feet, lettting the book fall to the flcor#and looked at him with startled eyes that had no recognition in them. NS 4 “I see you don! der; for I did n when I stood las$}i¥ your garden. A bright flush @tpleasure oversuréad the girl's face, and Iptighter came first to her eyes, then to“her li@s. “How you frightened me,” she:said, seem- ing anything but frightened, and quite un- able to restrain her merriment as her glance flashed up and down his uncouth apparel. “Have you become gardener here, then, or did you over the wall?” “The walls her@ are too high, or I might iow me, and no won- year gardener’s clothes have attempted I am gardener for the day ohkly, merely: to get a word with you.” ; ae A “With me? Iéthought4the strike had happily ended-Figven’t yau gone back to work? How @id_you get’ “Oh, there wa$'na difficulty about that. Ican alwayaiget a day off when I want it. Yes, I went back to work and have been busy ever since. J.camé here yesterday in the hope of-segiig you. It was very im- portant—fogeime, at least. “Has the desired promotion come so soon, then, or do you think I must speak to my father about your nesition, when I next see him? I exvected him here before this, but he writes that there is so much to be done, now the men are back, that he will be unable to come for perhaps a week or more.” “I have. not come here to beg for your father’s favor, but for yours. I love you, From Life. Edna, and I have you ever since I first saw you! Don’ I am so—so conceited—that I have even a hope that you—you—care for me, for, of course, you don’t and can’t; but I wanted you to know. I wanted to tell you, and that is why I am here. I am poor—I don’t deny that—but your father was also poor once, and he has got on in the world. I will get on; I will work. night and day. Whoever my master is, I will serve him faithfully—my God! I will serve him on my knees, if that will convince him of my earnestness to win confidence and a place of trust—and all tne time cheerfully and hopefully, with your picture in my mind, as it has been in my mind—for so lcng—from the first. You see, I have no chance to win you as an- other might. You are in this school for the very purpose of keeping me from meeting you as I might meet you if I were rich. 4 nave no fair chance—none at all, except what I steal for myself, as I have done to- day. ‘It means so much to me—everything!— that I did not dare to take the risk. I know I have spoken too soon—too abruptly but I dared not set my face at what is before me unless you knew. Some one might win you while I was working for you there will be plenty to try. I don’t want you to say a word—I want neither hope nor discouragement—no promise—nothing! You In the Seminary Summer House. know, and that is enough for me now. But I would like you to remember—some- times—that there !s no man striving as I shall strive. Think of that—when others speak. My darling—my darling—no man ever felt ay I feel since the beginning of the world!” Whatever d'ffidence Marsten hitherto ex- perienced in Edna's presence melted in the fervent heat of his passion when he began to speek. The words rushed forth, treading on the heels of these gone before, in jum- bled, breathless processicn; his face was aflame, and his nether lip trembled when he ceased to speak. At first he seemed io be running a race against time—they mignt be interrupted at any moment; but he scon forgot his competitor, and, so far as he was cencerned, no one existed in the world but himself and the trembling, confused gir! before him. She, after her first look of amazed in- credulity, felt backward with her hand for the support of the wall, and then graduaily sank upon the seat, an expression, partly fear, overspreading her now colorless face. As Marsten went Impetucusly on, her head dropped tipon her hands, and thus she re- mained while he spoke. A pause ensued, so deep and silent that Mareten, as he leaned his hand against th door :post, afraid to move forward or treat, heard the distant girlish laughter, free from any thought of problems otner than those of the school room. He knew he should remember every trivial detail of the place all his life—the broom that lay at his feet; the book which had fallen open- leaved pon the floor; even the title glitter- ing-in gold on ‘the’ side, which sent no meaning to his mind except one word that caught his attention. “Courtship” (“The Courtship of Miles Standish” was the whole phrase), and he wondered vaguely if the courtship had prospered, ~Rapidly. as his wandering eye gathered up the accessories of the scene, it always returned to the bewed and silent figure before him, and something in the outlines of her drooping shoulders told him intuitively of a change =lusive, but real. His mind had been too much occupied with the hard realities of Life to indulge in speculative analysis of any sort, but now it was uplifted, touched by, the magic wand of love, and endowed with a subtle perception unknown to him before. He saw that the giri, who, as a child, welcomed him, would, as a woman, bid nim. farewell. At last she slowly shook her head. “It cannot be—it cannot be,” she mur- mured. ‘Not now. I know that—I don’t ask that,” he cried, eagerly. “But some time— some time.” The girl did not look up. “It can never be—never,” she said. “All I want is a chance—a fair chance: Don’t—ob, please don’t say ‘No’ or ‘Yes’ row. Your father is prejudiced against me, I know; not against me personally, I think, but because I'am poor. It is only another expression of his great love for you. He knows what poverty is, and he wants to sbield you from it. He is right, and if I am as poor two years from now, or four years. I shall not ask—” “Does my father know?” “Yes. I told him that night—the night you first spoke to me. That is why he is angry.” “Then that is why you—that is the rea- son—when you were in the garden—” “Yes, that is why I was afraid to have him fird me there.” Again there was a long silence between them. The thoughts of the girl ranged back over her past Ife, from the time her father forbade her to come to the office until the present moment, flashing like a searchlight upon events hitherto misunder- stood, making them stand out in their true proportions. All her father’s actions, his words, had to be reconsidered. She saw meanings in former phrases that had been hidden from her; she had now the key that unlocked the room illumined by knowledge; and altogether her heart arned toward her father, sympathizing with him when confronted by an unexpected problem, and fully condoning his apparent lack of trust in keeping her ignorant of a situation so closely concerning herself, feeling that she ought to stand by him and repel the stranger who had so daringly come between them with his preposterous claira upon her affection, yet from no part of her being could she call to her aid that emotion of just resentment against Marsten which she knew ought to be at her command. “I am very, very sorry,” she sald at last, speaking slowly. “I like you, of course—I think you are noble, earnest man, and that you witi do good and overcome many difficulties, but I don’t care for you in tae way you wisn, and it would not be right to be dishonest with you. I should like to see you get on in the world, and I am sure you will. Some day you will write to me and tell me of you! ictories, and I shall be glad. It wiil make me happy then to know you have forgotten—this. Now you must Bo. Good-bye!” She rose, holding out her hand to him, and he saw her eyes were wet. “Good-bye!” he id, turning away. ‘Edna sat down, but did not pick up her book. With her hands listless in her lap, she gazed out at the blue sky, thinking. Presently, to her surprise, Marsten 1e- turned. “You have forgotten y: broom,” she said, with a wavering smi: her lips. “I had forgotten more than that,” he said. “I had forgotten my mission.” ‘our mission?’ (es; my false pretences do not stop at climbing walls. I am really a traitorous messenger; for the device by which I came here was arranged by another, who wished me to take a letter to you. He ts in East- bourne, and had written to you, but his letter was returned to him. He has written another—here it is.’” “Of whem are you speaking?” “Mr. Barnard Hope.” “On!” She took the letter. Marsten lifted his broom and went away. He wanted to leave the place and get back to London, but tne gardener had cautioned him not to return until the sweeping was finished, while Bar- ney himself impressed upon him the neces- sity of aliowing no suspicion to arise, as it might be needful to dispatch another mes. senger on a similar errand. So he kept on sweeping the debris into little heaps by the e of the path. The school girls disap- peared into the house by twos and threes uniil he found Himself once more alone,and yet he did not see Edna come from the summer house. He moved nearer and nearer with his work to the place where had met, hoping to catch a parting glimpse of her as she waiked toward the heuse. At las’ she came out, but instead of taking the direct path to the house she came toward him, with the thin volume sh had been reading in her hand. There was a-slight increase of the usual color in her cheeks, but with that exception she had succeeded in suppressing all trace of her emotion. She looked at him with what seemed, at first, all her former straightfor- wardness, but as he met her gaze he saw { was not quite the same; a misty shadow of difference veiled her honest eyes, so like her father’s, but so much kindiier. “I have brought you this book,” she said, holding it out to him, “and I want you to keep it. It is the story of a messenger who Was true to the trust of the one who sent him, and yet who failed.” “But you have not read the book your- sel he replied, taking the volume, never- theless, “Oh, yes, I have. I was reading it for the second time today.” As he hastily concealed the book under his blouse, he looked anxiously about him, fearing they might be observed, unwilling to compromise her in the least. The craft of a man is rarely equal to that of a wo- man, no matter how young she may be. ae a smiled as she noticed his perturba- tion. “There is no one to see us,” she said, “and if there were it would not matter. They would merely think I was giving im- proving literature and good advice to an under-gardener—which, indeed, is exactly what I am doing when I teil him to work hard, and—forget.” As Edna said this she opened her hand and allowed to flutter upon a heap at her feet the minute fragments of a letter, which floated down through the air like a miniature snowfall, and she was gone be- fore he could say “Good-bye” for the second time. Marsten stood there looking down at the bits of torn paper scattered over the heap, the remnants, undoubtedly, of the letter he had brought, and although he had had no word of encouragement—which, in spite of his disclaimer, he had yearned to hear-- each separate piece of white paper reflected upward to him as a ray of hope. (To be continued.) SES Gladstone at Oxford. Justin McCarthy in the Outlook. I have read quite lately that Mr. Glad- stone himself was rather disposed to un- derrate the amount of interest which he took, while at Oxford, in out-of-door pur- suits. One or two of his few surviving con- tewporaries may have been ‘heard to de- clare that Gladstone held as good a place among the Oxford athletes of his time as he did among the hard-working students. It is possible enough that in later days the mind of the great statesman and the great student may have lost its memory of the physical exercises which were less a pas- sion of his temperament and his nature than the working of the intellect and the development of the brain. One can only say that it is hard to believe in Mr. Glad- stone turning his attention to anything physical or intellectual without becoming more or less successful in the attempt. It is a curious fact that when his office of president of the Oxford Union came to an end he was succeeded by his friend, af- terward Cardinal Manning. It is a curious fact, too, not unworthy of record, that among the friendships which he made at Oxford was that of Mr. Martin Farquhar Tupper. The general public now has lost all memory of Mr. Tupper. Tupper was, however, a man well known in his day He was the author of a book called “Pro- verbial Philosophy,” a book which prob- ably had at one time a larger circulation than any one of the novels of Dickens and Thackeray, or the writing of Carlisle, or even the essays of Lord Macauley. It was 4 book composed altogether of gentle plati- tudes, each platitude carrying with it a well-meaning moral purpose. The genial platitudes ceased to interest after a time, and Tupper faded out of the minds of even the dullest among us. I remember a friend telling me, many years ago, that he had just come from a literary party where he had been sitting between the two extremes of poetry—between Alfred Tennyson on the one hand and Martin Tupper on the other. Tupper first adored Gladstone and wrote poems to him, then for awhile he turned against him, and afterward went back to his first love. Gladstone was al- ways kind to Tupper, invited him to his house, always read and answered his let- ters (which must have been terribly boring work) and proved that lie had never for- gotten his old associates at the university. ——+o+____ Girls Are Larger. From the Philadelphia Ledger. trembling on The after-dinner Task of dish washing loses its terrors, and all household cleaning is ac- complished quickly and easily by the use of GOL WaAsHING PowDER Largest package—greatest economy. THE N. K. FAIRBANK COMPANY, St. Louts, New Yori, Philadelphia. nY. For Every Tree Cut Two Others Are Planted to Keep Up the Supply. From the Boston It will undoubtedly be news to many ‘hat the vast mahogany forests of Nicaragua are controlled in Boston. The cutting and shipping of the immense exports from .hat country is a great enterprise in itself, to say nothing of bringing it here and manu- facturing it into lumber. One steamer plies regularly. between Uhis port and Central America engaged in this trade. At pres- ent she is on her way out from this port. Five hundred thousand to 700,000 is her al cargo. While the steamer is now on her way to the lumber ports, thers are Somewhere on the seas bound to Boston four schooners laden with mahogany logs. Their cargoes are each about 250, 300,000 feet. Emp in Nicaragua end the United States of Colombia by Mr ory are from 1,000 to 1,500 native wo-kmen and lumbermen. These are under American bosses. The trees from which matogany furniture is made vary in age and si When cut they range in age from t five to thirty years, and some of them ure even sevent ve years old. They average twenty-five inches or more in diameter and run large as forty inehes, ani even more. For every mahogany tree that is cut two others are pianted, and thus the forests are practically inexhaustible From the time that the tree ts felled to the hour that it is dumped off the steamer at the Chelsea docks is an eventful life for the mahogany log. The tree is cut into the proper lengths and then comes the tedious journey to the coast, where it is teken on board the vessels bound for this port. The greater part of the cutting is done during the dry season, which in the Unitec States of Colombia begins about the Ist of De- cember. The natives of this country seem to make better loggers and are beter adapted to lumbering than the Nicara- guans. In Nicaragua the season js more irregular and for lumbering is less to be depended upon. After the tree is cut it is hauled to the nearest waterway and rafted to the coast. The logs are hauled by teams of oxen from one to six miles in Nicargua, but often the distance’ is very much greater, the journey sometimes taking two days. The roads consist of paths througa the forest that are nothing more than swamps and morasses, through which the oxen and horses flounder along. Orily ani- mals trained to this kind of work would ever make any progress, and American beasts would wallow about perfectly help- less. auscript. ——_+-e-—____ A Fair Field for Woman. Margarct E. Sangster in Demorest's Magazine. All we women who are active in business or professions want is a fair field and no favor. We ask for nothing on the ground of sex. We are willing to compets with and work with men on their own ground and desire to be measured by the same standards. We demand no courtesy fur- ther than that which prevails between gen- tlemen; we expect no deference. [a bus- iness life men and women are simply work- ers, and the more the clement of sex fs in- truded the greater the interference with the success of the women. I know of a young woman who weat into a newspaper office on a purely business er- rand—to sell an article, in fact—aad was indignant because the reporters, all of whom were busy writing, did not jimp to their feet to offer her a’seat. They were absorbed in their work and most of them were probably unconscious ‘of her pres- ence. Perhaps twenty-five women enter the office of a great New York daily every day. You can easily see how it wowld in- terfere with business If the reporters should immediately stop writing and pay them the little attentions they are accustomed to in the drawing room. The woman wto ex- pects these shows her ignorance of bus- iness; if they are necessary to her peace of mind she is out of place in the business world. Sas Too Crowded. From the Pittsburg News, Mrs. Frazier—“Did that girl I sent to you this morning call here?” Mrs. Dawson—“Yes, but I couldr’t en- gage her. Mrs. Frazier-—“Why? She struck me ag being just about the kind of a one you'd want." Seemed to be a first-rate cook. Mrs. Dawsor—“Yes, I know; she was all right, but our house is so small thit we haven't room for any one with a piano in addition to her bicycle and sewing maw ‘hine, 80 I couldn't take her.” +o+ Cause of His Death, From the Chicago Post. “What shall we put on his tombstone?” asked the ran who dealt in such things. “Well,” said the head of the typogriphi- cal union, thoughtfully, “I think all that is necessary under the circumstances is a sim- ple arnouncement that he let the ‘t’ «drop out of the word ‘relict’ and failed to correct it in the proof. Every one will know at once that he died of resulting complica- ons.” FI a i TTT ha Eo geF t ; ” z i a Zp)