Evening Star Newspaper, October 23, 1897, Page 17

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1897-24 PAGES. THE CRY FOR HELP| And the Answer It Gets in an Em- ployment Agency. SERVANT AND HOUSEKEEPER MEET Wise Men Turn the Job Over to Abler Hands. NO EASY TASK AT ———— ‘ASHINGTON HAS A ment agencies — per- haps somewhat more than its share when regard is given to the slews of day-in and day-out wallflowers who ornament Wash- ington employment agency chairs and gaze into vacancy, Henly, beseeching- ly, expectantly, but tever cheerfully. The employment agencies in this town are of an assorted character. Some of them sup- ply colored help alone; others, none but white help; still others, cnly male help, and others, again, female help exclusively. Then, there are the employment agencies where all manner of help, household and stable, is furnished—male and female, white and Ethiopian, good, indifferent, bad, worse, and worst. These are the interesting em- ployment agencies. The male head of an establishment and employer of servants remains away from the employment agency if he is normally selfish and knows his gait, Instead, he sends his wife; or he sends his wife's mother, if his household is graced by a mother for his wife. It is a star play, this sending of the mother-in-law; for the ay age mother-in-law possesses “the know phrase of the paddock—and nine ttmes in ten, corrals a gem of the purest ray BEST Intelligence. serene. A poor, pitiable, blundering man hi ow at all in an employment agency (when he stumbles into one of them in t of a female servant. that and male €stablishment rulers grasp this st before their hair begins to si and abjure the employment agency as they do the ribbon counter. A man can pick out of the employment agency ruck a coach- an size up his as he tells his krandiloquently; but his employment agency search for a ferrale servant, if he has the newness and the temerity to un- i such a search, is the merest Sty- gan croping. For the female chair orna- menters of the employment agency eye the man suspiciously, if not with intense aver- sion: they scrutinize him from head to feot, study him: they make mental observa- tions on the shape of his head and the fit ef his coat and his make-up in general and, when they are all through, he feels that he has been found wanting, and that been unanimously decided that he "Ss a mean, sordid nature, and is no on earth or in the waters beneath earth. When he finally struggles out air he feels like a man just mine filled with fire-damp. wife, as good the into the open Yesened from And vice versa. The ma’ An Object of Interest. ing the employment agency in search of a coachman or a man-of-all-work, does not shed. But the fiasco she generally rakes in her selection of the coachman or an-of-all-work! The sluggards, the al- ks, the mixed-aie with persuasive voices, the tired men, the no-goods, that she has the fac- ulty of infallibly choosing! The man at the employment agency will tell you all about it, and mingle his smiles with yours. So it is “stand-off,” the respective abilities of the man and of the man’s wife in picking out employment agency “help.” Hunting for Work. For example, a hig, good-natured-looking man made his appearance at one of the largest general employment agencies in town the other morning. He was newly married, s the writer happened to know. Being newly married, it was his first ex- per! = in an employment agency, and he didn’t know any better, which was plain. He was hunting for a white maid-of-all- werk. He stated the nature of his quest to the man behind the desk. The man be- hind the desk held up a finger, and all of the women ranged around the room arose as one. But the finger signal was meant for a young, muscular-looking Hibernian herited Eczema. She ITCHING 2232 medical attention, was given many patent “For fifteen years my daughter suffered terribly with in- Cs medicizes, and used various external sppll- cations, but they had no effect whatever. SS. 8. was finally in aiven, and it prompt. ly reached the seat Of the disease, so that she is cured sound and well, her skin is perfectly clear &.S.S. ts GUARANTEED PURELY VEGETABLE, and is the only cure for deep-seated blood diseases. and pure, has been saved from what threatened to blight her life for- Books free; address Swift Specific Company, Atlaata, Ge. nd yellow, which is a queer color.scheme. She advanced with the peri tread of a buck marine with a new pair of brogans, and she planted herself within two feet of the goed-natured-looking man like Hor- atius holding the bridge. Her jaw was firmly set. She did not look cheerful. The smile faded from the man’s face, erstwhile beaming. That “up against it? look re- ced his smile. want me?” inguired the Hi of the man behind the di vhy .” began the latter; “this gen- tleman is inquiring for a housemaid—" She executed a right wheel Tommy At- kins-wise, and faced the inquirer, who wasn't beaming any more. And this was the way of it: “Did yez want cookin’?” “Well, yes, we were—” hin’ an’ ironin’ that was the—’ “How many o’ yez is there?” “Only my wife and myself; but, maybe, late ‘An’ does she know annythin’ about an- hin’ aroond the house?” Well, I guess she—” “An’ a-Choosed’y an’ a-Soonday off, Oi preshume?” “Well, I didn’t ask her—” ‘An’ does she come shennannygin aroond th’ kitchen?” don‘t remember having seen—” ‘An’ th’ gur-r-]_ kin resave coomp'’ny anny toime, Oi preshume?” The man removed his hat and scratche1 his head reflectively. Then he leaned over the desk and whispered hoarsely to the n nehind it. : “Hey, there, Bill,” satd he, “set me right a bit. will you? I'm a little mixed. Who's hunting for work in this push—the girl or me? Because, say, if it’s me, I tell you right now that I don’t want the jol And be made his escape. A beautiful, determined-looking young thing. also newly married, perhaps, came frou-frou-ing in with the rustle of silken skirts a while later. She beleaguered the man behind the desk almost before she got in the door. One Woman's Way. uch a time as I've been having I do de- clare if it isn’t enough to drive the calmest woman in the world staring staying mad and how I've steod it goodness alone knows stealing everything in the house and spoil- ing everything that she didn’t steal and all the china broken into teeny bits gracious me and then the next one yelled in her sleep so that you could hear a block and Tom thought it was burglars and came near shooting us dead as door-nails with that horrid pistol of his and then going off all day Saturday because she sald her grandmother was sick and leaving me all alone the whole blessed live-long day just when half a dozen of Tom's horrid’ smo friends were coming to dinner and the ne one having all the Dorsey Foultzes Washington and everywhere else in Kitchen at all Kours ofthe day and night and her going out and getting beer right in the middle of the day in broad daylight and all the neighbors with their heads poked out of the window and then when i found her in the kitchen so she couldn't move saying it was heart disease and not a word of sympathy have I got from Tom much he cares how I suffer and only laughing when the dinner is all spoiled and going down town to get his dinner and not coming back until all hours and then with his cheeks as 1ed as 2 beet and mercy what I'm to do is more than I can tell—" e man behind the desk, in “can I serve you “I don't know whether you can or not but I suppose I'll have to let you try but if you can't do any better than the others mercy me I suppose we'll have to go to boarding after all and Tom declaring that he'll live in a cave first but how I am to help it I do declare but I'm going to make one more attempt and then gracious only can tell—” “Have you ever tried a Swedish girl?” “No, but within the Jast three months I've very other kind under the sun white black yeliow and all the colors of the rain- Low and some-of them I couldn't under- stand when they talked but I didn’t mind that mercy me no if they'd only—” The right forefinger of the man behind the desk once again pointed heavenward, and again all of the furbelowed-in-Sunday- best array of wall flowers stood to atten- tion. But the right forefinger had a dead bead upon the bottle-green jacket of a girl with Thelma-like hair of ‘the color and shimmer of molten gold. She had a bovine 1 Laplander nose that wouldn't have ehed a spirit level placed against her forehead and chin, as much expression in her countenance as an Easter Island statue er an Aztec medallion, and a complexion of the purest peaches and cream. She ad- vanced to the desk with cast-down eyes, and with her huge red hands, aesthetically draped in white lace mitts, clutching a reticule before her. “Ay Tank Not.” “Is this the Swedish girl well goodness me she looks as if she wouldn't steal everything in the house from cellar to gar- ret but how is one ever to tell but I sup- pose she has no relatives in this country and she looks nice and clean too and that’s something gracious knows but then I’ve always heard that Swedish girls are so hard to learn things and so obtuse but my I'd be perfectly willing to work my finger nails off at first and can you cook and wash and iron and can you make good cof- fee because that’s one thing that Tom will have good coffee and I never could learn how to make it to suit him, and can you dust bric-a-brac without smashing it all to pieces and you don’t walk in your sleep do you or have nightmares and you don’t make everything you cook so horrid and greasy that everybody almost dies from dyspepsia and you won't talk to the gro- cery boy over the back gate for hours will you whiie everything on the stove burns to a crisp and—" The girl from Scandinavia with the Thel- Yorefinger dy, whose bonnet was trimmed in cerise | ma-hatr and the Luplander nose elevated her bovine eyes. . “Ay tank Ay not vant work for yay,” she said. “Ay tank Ay not want yob. Ay tank yay skall too much talk. “Well of ail the impertinent horrid minxes that ever I saw did you ever in your whole life well well did any one ever hear of such impudence I wouldn't stay here another minute if you'd give me a girl lined with gold and studded with diamonds well did you ever—” And out of the door she floated, leaving the fragrance of orris behind her. “Say,” said the man behind the desk confidentially to ‘The Star man, “I wonder if “Tom’ buys his cotton batting by the roll or by the bale?” A motherly looking old lady alighted from a carriage and came in after a while. He Was English, All Right. “Have you any footmen?” she inquired of the man behind the desk. “Our Thomas has a habit of unaccountably disappearing for days together, and I fear he is suffering from some nervous disease, he always seems so unwrought upon his reappear- ances. We shall be compelled, I fear, to dispense with him. I wish an English foot- man. If you have none such, I shall have to advertise for one in the New York Papers, but—”" “Just the man you need, madam—pre-cise- ly the man you need,” said the man behind the desk. ‘Jolm Henry!” and the right and the right thumb were snapped together this time. John Henry looked his part. He was shabby, but his whole make-up was re- deemed by his shoes, which were mirror- like. John Henry’s vacuous face was shaven three days under the skin. Jobn Henry had a receding chin and a loose, in- determinate mouth. John Henry had all of the moves of the lackey down pat. John Henry looked as if he had been born sub- servient. John Hen face looked as if John Henry knew the meaning of the word “pul But John Henry was smooth, all the same. se “M’lide-dy!” said John Henry, springing forward with a salute on the rim of his battered derby. The motherly-looking lady’s face beamed with pleasure. “Ah, yes,” she said, “I perceive that you are of English birth, and that you appar- ently have been employed in good——” “Hin th’ best ‘owzes hin Hing-land,” cat in John Henry, working up his case. “Hi *ave letters, y'r lide-dysh’p, from lideies hon th’ hother side ‘ooze nimes y'r lide-dysh’p knows, Hi ‘ave no doubt.” “Have you ever been employed in this country?” “Hi was compelled t’ tike sarvice with a hinferior family in Philadelphia, y’r lide- dysh’p, but Hi guvve ’em notice hover a month ago hin horder t’ come t’ Wash’nun, y’r lide-dysh’p, t’ tike hon with one huv From Virginia. th’ best 'owzes; but th’ ‘owse went sudd’nly t’ Europe, y’r lide-dysh’p, han——" “You are not a drinking man, Henry?” John Henry really looked hurt. H!s breath smelt like a moonshiner's shack in west- ern Tennessee. John Henry waved his chapeau deprecatingly. “Y'r Ude-dysh’p hunknown'ly does me hay hinjustice by hinquirin’. Hi ’ave never known th’ taste huvy spirits, y’r lide-dysh’p. Hat dinner, y'r lide-dysh’p, hay sional mug 0’ hale, but never spirit Hi ab’or!”” And John Henry really made a wry face at the thought of such a thing. Well, John Henry, you may bring me your references this afternoon, and per- haps then I shall see my livery maker. But—" “Y'r lide-dysh’p hon-ners me,” ent in the teetotaler to break up the “but,” with his battered derby ubon his heart. And when the motherly looking old lady passed cut there was a look of craft on John Henry's vacant face and soinething very like a Ludgate circus wink in Joon Henry’s left eye. esirenceorast middle-aged woman, plain- ly from the south by her looks and speech, came next. The Old-Fashioned Sort. “T am trying to find a good, old-fashion- e@ cook,” she explained to ihe man behind the desk, “and am having rather a des- perate time of it. Could you—" The lady stopped suddenly, and looked in the direction of the door. Cominz in the door was a neat-looking, bulky, gen- uine old-fashioned mammy of the scuth. The gray wool protruded beneath the ban- danna wound around her head, turban- wise, beneath her wide, black straw hat. She got along lumberingly, and was fheezy and scant of breath, hut cheerful. “Why,” said the lady, “I think that old mammy would do for me. Is she looking for a place “Yes, madam—as a cook,” said the man behind the desk. “Mammy,” said the lady, going up to the old colored woman, “‘wGuld you care to cook for me?” : The old mammy scrutinized her question- er carefully. She had caught the southern aceent, but she wanted to see that she wasn’t making any mistake. Then: “"Deed an’ indeed Ah would, honey, fo’ yo’ all’s um. de souf, an’ yo’ all's de kyind o’ fo'ks Ah’m dun used t’ wuckin’ fo'—fo’ Ah dun come up hyuh t’ hunt fo’ dat gal; an’ Ah sut’nly ahm tyud o’ wuckin’ fo’ these hyuh onnery po’ w'ite fo’ks, thet has noth- in’ but poke chops fo’ breakfus’, an’ con- nubzin’ aroun’ de kitchen, laike Ah nevuh dun know how make cawn bread b'fo’ dey wus bawn; yes, indeedy, honey, Ah dun be glaid t’ go wuck fo’ yo’ all, ef yo’ want cookin’ laike Ah knows yo’ was dun raised on,"’ and two minutes later the old mammy was teking a ride in the southern woman’s barouche. “Which is what I call getting a job in jig time,” said the man behind the desk. “But these souchern people are pretty clan- nish—white and black.” John PROFESSIONAL. From Life, A GAME Of: QUIXOTISM BY TOM GALLON, Written for The Evening Star. “By Jove! old chap—t like you. You're the right sort of ,friend, you are. I can always sum up aman, in five minutes: there’s no deceiving me, you know. Hang all formalities, I say—introductions and all that kind of thing.. I like you.” The boy's handsome face was flushed, his eyes were wild; he had tilte@-his hat to the back of his head. He caught thé man he addressed by the arm, swaying a littie unsteadily— blinking at kim. “I say, you know,” he added, “we mustn't lose sight of each other eh?” “A wise precaution, certainly, so far as you are concerned,” lavghed the other, rather weerily. “But, come—what do you want to do? I think I'll go home.” “Home!” cried the hoy, shaking his new friend boisterously. “What a suggestion! No-—let's stick together; we haven’t known each other half an hour yet.” “Which is perhaps fortunate, from your point of view,” muttered the other. Aloud, he said: “Well, my dissipated unknown, what is your program? Come, who aré you; what are you: where are you going? I've got you out of a row in that very shady place”—he jerked his head toward the lighted doorway behind them—“but that doesn’t necessarily mean undying friendsaip in return. If that's your game, perhaps I'd better have left you to get out of the row yourself—again from your point of view.” “I don't know what you're talking about,” replied the boy, a little sleepily. “But ll tell you what we'll do,” he added rapidly, striving to stand steadily for a moment: we'll go to. my place. Jolly little rooms: we'll have another drink—and a chat. Cume along!” = “Here—stop, my young friend. If you won't think for yourself I must do it for you. You're not a bad sort of fellow, as boys go; I don’t want to get you into trou- ble. I hate family jars—and you're very young. What about your people?” “People be hanged!” was the reply. ‘ my own master, I'd have you know. Here— come on; we can’t talk in the strect.” He swung round, and noisily hailed a passing hansom, and began to drag the other man toward it. “Well, I suppose I’d better see you home, at all events,” muttered the other. The boy shouted an address in Kensing- ton, and the cab rattled off. The boy talk- ed _spasmodically—even broke into song now and then; the other man leaned back in the cab and looked before him down the almost deserted streets. He was thinking, in a dull fashion: thinking of the hours long since gone by—when he had been as this boy, with all life opening before him— @ road sweet and pleasant, to be trodden with head erect, and confident eyes that watched for victory; thinking of how often he had been content to crawl in the dust of unhallowed byways. It angered him a little that he should think of that now: such thoughts had troubled him once: but he had since learned to dismiss them with @ shrug—to laugh at the old platitudes of Virtue which had once meant so much to im. He roused himself with a start, to find that the cab was stopping. He saw with something of contempt, that the boy had fallen asleep, his head nodding down stupidly on his breast. He roused him sharply—almost shaking him out of the cab to the pavement. The boy put some silver into the driver’s hand. and then thrust his arm through that of his companion. “Here we are!” he exclaimed. “By Jove! I'm half asleep; I want something to ‘liven me up. Come on—this way.” “No—I shan't come in,” replied the other, glancing up at the windows of the place. and catching the gleam of the summer dawn that was struggling in the sky. “You better get to bed, young ‘un.”” “You're not going to leave me like this,” was the reply. “Bed, indeed! Come, I tell you you shan’t go.” It had been the moed of the man to yield to every passing impulse throughout his life; it was so much easier than to struggle. He yielded now, and went up the stairs. After all, he thought, {t would be a lighter matter to get rid of this im- pertunate youth in an hour's time than to have a discussion with him in the street. The flat into which the boy noisily bled was well and prettily furnished ed almost to show the touch of a feminine hand in its arrangement of flowers and knick-knacks. One small electric light glowed at the side of the room: the boy turned all the others fully on; they showed ghastly white against the dull rosy light which was coming faintly in through the curtains. The visitor had strolled across to the The Figure of a Girl. fireplace, and stood there, moodily look- ing at some photographs ranged on the shelf; he had picked up one, and was ex- amining it. He set it down sharply, and turned to his young host. “Now,” he said, “is the time for for- malities—for introductions. In a prosaic world we must be careful of the conven- tions, you know. I am Richard Felgate”. he bowed a little fronically—“a man of whom his acquaintances (and they are numerous) have but Iittle good to say, when they choose to speak of him at all; and of whom his friends (if he happened to Possess any) would probably speak with an fll-placed pity. A poor rogue, in fact, who has but one merit; that he gives duller rogues something to talk about.” “O! come, you know, you're yourself down,” réplied’ the other. must be out of sorts—have a drink. running “You My name, you know, is Roughton—Bailey Roughton.” “Well, Mr. Batley Roughton, give me something in which to drink your health. Snug place you have here—and all to your- self, eh?! “O! yes—all to tmyself—of course,” re- plied Roughton, potring out whisky with an unsteady hand, and glancing toward = door at the end of the room. ‘“Come—here you are; cheer yourself ip a bit! Richard Felgate ‘took the glass, with a laugh, and drank deep. ‘Contempt for him- self—contempt for "this: boy—pricked him to recklessness; hé filled the glass again and again; even urged the boy to the drink- ing of mad toasts. “I'll give the young idiot a lesson,” he thought brutally; “one of the lessons they taught me years ago. We're traveling the same road, my stupid Bailey Roughton,” he muttered, looking at him— “only I’m a little farther on the journey than you.” Presently the boy fell Into a heavy slum- ber with his head among the glasses on the table; Richard Felgate, whose face was flushed, stood up, and steadied him- self with a hand 6n the back of a chair. He laughed in his throat, and then—with a shaking hand—began to pour some more whisky into his glass. 3 A sound at the other end of the room caused him to look up with a start; he set down the bottle, and drew himself up, with his hands gripping the chair back. The ence! eee led from another room, had opened, and a figure stood there, in a long loose robe, framed startlingly against the darkness behind—the figure of @ young girl. z dn all Ris after Ute 1 is probable that Richard Felgate never quite effaced the recollection of that > Hever quite and who came lost the impression of the girl, as he saw her then. She had stopped, with one hand on the doorknob, and the other holding her sown at the throat; they looked at each otker, for one long moment, across the drunken boy. Swifily, still looking at him, he crossed the room and bent over the boy. He roused himself a little sullenly, laughed sleepily and laid down his heud again. She looked at Richard Felgate with such a scorn in her ‘oung face that his reckless eyes fell a 1d he fumbled uneasily with the back. “What is the matter with my brother, sir?” * “You see,” he replied, in a low voice, without looking at her. Yes—I see,” she said, slow!: you are, I suppose, a friend— “A mere chance acquaintance. I-I did not know. Will you—will you let me go?” His tones were hurried; he tried savagely to get hold of his easy self-possession; to face this mere girl with a jest, and treat the foolish matter lightly. But her glance was disquieting. “Yes; go by all means,” she said, turning away from him and tapping her slim fin- gers impatiently on the table. Near the door he hesitated for a moment and glanced toward her, noting, in a dull way. how pure and white and still was her profile; how soft were the strands of brown hair which curled close against her neck, _ “Won't you let me say—” he began, but she checked him quickly. ‘And you him; and, in direct consequeace, began to feel an intercst in the worthless fellow who had accepted her treatment of him—just or unjust—with so much of meekness. -Under erdinary circumstances she would have been content to allow the matter to be for- gotten, as an unpleusant incident; but now she was carcful to discover his name and to keep it in her memory; half in the Aope that she might learn something of him—perhaps even something, she told her- self, which should prove her attitude to- ward him had been but the ccrrect one. She was soon to hear something. At the house of a friend one afternoon the name of Richard Felgate was mentioned—tossed from lip te lip with that half-pitying, half- contemptuous accompaniment with which We speak of the human floisam and jetsam of this world. “Who is the man?” Roughton. name.” “My dear Dera,” exclaimed her friend, “every one has heard his name—in the wrong fashion. Immensely clever, my dear, but a thorough scamp. Very charm- ing man—those scamps always are—but bound to end in one fashion—which we won't specify. A creature absclutely with- out any guiding principle in him; acts on the impulse of every moment, and that impulse usually the wrong ene.” ‘What is h2?” asked the girl again. “Oh, an artist, I believe. Made quite a sensation once, with a picture; every one predicted great things of him. But now he does any work which will bring him in asked httle Miss “I seem to have heard his “YOU ARE AFRAID I SHOULD DRIFT AGAIN.” “Say nothing, I beg, sir.” He opened the door softly, and passed out, and got down into the street, feeling beaten and sobered and humbled. ‘He w: in a mood to curse the fate which had taken him to the place; to curse his weak- ness in being so easily put to stammering flight by 2 girl. But after much tramping of the streets and many vain endeavors to dismis; the whole stupid business from his mind. he found that his chief feeling in the matter remained that of humiliation. Mr. Bailey Roughton was sullenly re- ccvering the next morning when he re- ceived a call from his friend of the pre- us night. His remembrance of events was so hazy that he failed to recognize the name of Richard Felgate when it was pre- sented to him by the servant, or the person of the visitor when he entered the room. Felgate had quite recovered his usual de- meanor; only in daylight the lines of hi face and the horrible weariness of his ey: were more marked than in the light by which men generaliy saw him. “I see you don’t remember me,” he said, with a smile, as he pulled off his gloves. “And yet 1 was your guest here last night, M Roughton.”* By Jove!” exclaimed the young gentle- n.an, nervously. “I have a dim recollec- zcn that I brought some fellow home with me. * * * Yes, of course; you got me out of a scrape at that beastly club, and then—” “And then you insisted on bringing me here,” supplemented Richard Felgate, frowning. “Today I have called to apolo- gize for my conduct.” “Apologize!” exclaimed Bailey Roughton. “Oh, I'm sure there's nothing to apologize for, Mr.—Mr. Felgate’—he glanced at the curd—“nothing at all. I daresay we kicked up a bit of a row, bui—” “You mistake my meaning,” replied Fel- gate, coolly. “I do not suggest that ai apclogy is due to you, but to your siste “Here, what are you driving at?” cried the other, roughly. “I suppose I can man- age my own afvairs; what's my sister got to do with the matter’ “I'll speak plainly, my young friend. You brought me—an utter stranger, picked up in one of the worst haunts fn London— home with vou last night. We were both, I suppose, intoxicated; you certainly were. Suffice it that we disturbed a lady, whom I accidentally discovered to be your sister, out here after you had fallen asleep.” iGame out here!” gasped Railey. Certainly,” responded Richard Felgate. “Now, my dear Mr. Bailey Roughton, you a very young; life—as I know it—s a sealed book to you; pray the gods you may never open it, boy. Motives are usually in- explicable, save to those in whose breasts they spring; I shall not attempt to explain Taine to you. Suffice it that you placed me in a false position lastenight; today I come to set myself right.” “Oh, you can’t do that, you know,” broke in Bailey Roughton. “Last night’s affair is done with; we all have a spree sometimes. But last night isn’t this morning; you can’t expect to push yourself in in this fashion, Mr.—Mr. Felgate.” He got up as he spoke and spread his legs and shook his head ag- gressively. Felgate’s face had flushed for a moment, and he made an involuntary movement to- ward the younger man; then his arms fell to his side and he turned away. “I'm afraid it’s useless to t understand,” he said slowly; “for that rea- son I won’t make the attempt. However, I am here to see Miss Roughton.” “And I say you can’t see her. Confound it, sir, who are you?” “That is a matter you should have decid- ed last night. I might be the greatest vil- Jain unhung, and yet you brought me here, and left it to your sister to turn me out of the place. If you knew more of the world you would understand that one cannot slip Gut of things so easily as you desire to do. I am here to see Miss Roughton.” “But—but what is your object? “Purely that of courtesy, a necessary apology—a desire to set myself right in the eyes of a lady who probably, at this mo- ment, regards me as a blackguard.” “I don’t see that it’s necessary.” “I insist.” He was s0 cool and determined about the matter that he gained his point, even to the extent of interviewing the lady alone. But it was remarkable, after he had entered her presence, how completely his manner changed. The easy insolence was gone, al- most before the door had closed upon them. “My brother tells me there is something you have to say to me, sir,” she began, standing—a small, slim figure full of di nity—before him. “I ask but a moment,” he replied gravely. “You would not let me speak last night; 1 am grateful that you should give so grace- less a fellow the opportunity now. 1 was brought here last night under a wrong im- pression; I have come to crave your for- giveness.’ “Why should you?” she asked coldly. “You told me you came as a chancé ac- quaintance of my brother—a stranger. 1 had hoped you would go as—a stranger.” * The words were more deliberately cruel than she had intended. After all she had seen this man only in an hour when he had stood as the companion of her dissolute brother; the leader of that brother, in the sense that he was a much older man; to that conclusion her woman's mind leaped. Here was clearly the wolf, she thought; her brother stood as the injured lamb. * Richard’ Felgate bowed and moved toward, _ door; there was almost a sigh on his Ips. * “I—I am sorry,” he said. “You cannot, of course, understand that such a man as 1 am should feel any contrition—any shame. ° * © Well, it doesn’t matte bled about it a little, that’s all. a mad feeling in my heart that you—who pure and good—might believe that 1 * * Oh! What does it matter what [ popedt Once again—I am ‘sorry. Good- ye.” He was gone. It was only when she fully realized that she had cast him out a second to make you" a scanty livelihood. A scamp, my dear, with but one ending before him.” The words haunted the girl, stirred again the accusations which she had leveied at herself. Whatever road this most un- worthy man might be traveling, she hated the thought that her hand should have thrust hi-n a step or two on the despairing journey. Quite by accident, or by fate’s ruling— for what we deem accidents are often but the careful plannings of fate—she heard where Richard Felgate lived. With her courage in both hands—with the sublime beauty of her innocence shining in her eyes and glowing in her face—she went to see him. It was a bold and desperate measure, but she had been rendered bold and desperate by those growing sclf-accusings, and by her pity for this outcast. His ftuggested iniquity frightened her, but his suggested doom was still more appalling. She carried resolutely befcre her the memory of his pleading voice when he had begged for her forgiveness, the remembrance of the weary, reckless face. “There can be nothing wrong in {i she said to herself; “there can surely be noth- ing wrong in anything which is done for pity—which has good for its ultimate aim.” He was sittirg alone—brooding, with his head in his hands—when she entered his untidy and neglected studio; he started up, staring as though at a ghost. She rushed to her mission with hurried words, fearful of delay. “Mr. Felgate, hands to him, she said, holding out her Y “you came to me, a little time ag2, ard'I refused to hear you. 1 am sorry. Will you believe that I am sorry?” He took her hands, looking into her ey. incredulously. “I’m ‘afraid I don’t under- "he said. “Who sent you to me?” hat is ungenerous of you.” ‘Ah! forgive me,” he eried quickly, “I am ungenerous, indeed. But your visit is such a surprising one; you come like light into this dreary place—* - (Surely it should not be dreary, Mr. Fe Where one does the work one I have long ceased to remember the better mearing of the word.” “But that should not be,” she said ear- nestly. “Indeed, I have heard so much about you that I—” She stopped, confused. “And, having heard so much about me, 3ou_come here?” he asked gravely. “Yee, because I want to help you, Mr. Felgate.” “To help me? You've set you a task, I fear, Miss Roughton.” ace: “Anh! please don’t laugh at me.” ‘Laugh at you, child! I am nearer to tears than laughter, I think. I did not Know that there were such women as you left in the world; it has not been my fate to find them. Come—tell me; how will you help me?” He was so gentle and so much moved, there was such grave consideration in his eyes, that she began to lose her first fears of the monster. “If it be in the power of any woman—and I have heard it said that @ woman has such power—I’ll try to draw you back to better things. You must not mind if I speak plainly; I'll try to be your friend, if you will let me: I'll make you take up your work again, for the work’s sake.” She stamped her foot and set her small white teeth hard. “Come—is it a bargain?” She held out her hand to him. “In the name of all sweet and holy things,” he answered her solemnly, “yes.” He put the hand to his lips. That was the beginning of the strange business; the end was to come in another fashion. She began to discover soon the magnitude of the task she had set herself; to see that this was not a thing to be lightly taken up and as lightly dropped. Small and frail woman as she was, whose life had hitherto been almost purposeles: grew to understand that she held thi an’s soul in the grasp of her two hand: that he clung to her with the desperate energy of one suddenly awakened to his peril, pleaded to her, with those weary eyes of his to watch and have faith in him. required constant tact More than all, it and care, this delicate business. Even her power sometimes went for nothing, and the whole gamut of after-repentance, and renewed promises and prayers, had to be gone tnrough. Times there were, too, when serious measures were vain, when jesting served better than prayers, when it was possible to laugh him out of some new recklessness of folly. Then came a new development. Tongues began to wag. In her innocence—in the keenness of her desire to help this man— she had not thought of that possibility; her clear young soul refused to take in the strangeness of ier visits to a man against whom so many doors were closed. That she believed in him—believed in the sweeter, better nature of him—had been sufficient to her. The friend—a disci married woman, worldly wise—who had first mentioned Richard Felgate’s name was the first 10 veice the whisperings. She took the gicl aside and sharply questioned her. “Mr. Felgate is my friend,” replied Dora Roughton, her face a little troubled. “Friend! Stuff and nonsense! We're not living in Arcadia, my dear; we're in Lon- don, in the 19th century—and that man has abcut the worst reputation of any in cur small world. I told you so when his name was first mentioned; you must surely remember that?” “Yes, I remember. I think that first made me go to him. I wanted to help him.” “That sort of missionary effort is gen- erally only effected in one fashton, when a@ woman undertakes the pious office,” Sea ag boot Friendship by touching the man’ won’t do it, preaching won't do it—love may.” “Love!” cried Dora, startled. “You are talking nonsense. I’m sure no such thought has ever sutseed my mind—or his. We are just good lends, cannot you understand that? II believe in him, and—and be- @ picture of his which was nearing com- pletion, a picture which was to show to the werld that the old promise of great things was not dead, that the man th had given over to oblivion and failure had something of the quality of more abiding things stili in him. She had spurred him on to the work; had gloried in the thought that but for her it would never have been done. She sighed happily as she turned away from it and faced the painter. “It is very good.” she said, softly. “I knew that you could take up the old thread again.’ The old thread would never have been taken up but for you,” he replied. “And yet, sometimes I ask myself—even now-- what it is all for. * * * Ah, no—forgive me; I don’t ask that—because it’s all for you. Every stroke of the brush is for you cach moment that I set mysclf to som thing worthier is for you. * * * II want to ask you something, little friend.” He was looking at her gravely; she glanced up at him, out of her clear eyes, and read the something there—read, in a flash, the full tragedy of it. She waited, heartsick, helpless. “You have seen so much of me; you cam: to me when all the world passed me b; you stretched out your dear hands and grasped me as I floated past and held me. All my world, all my life, is with you, and in you; without you I am nothing. I thought at first it might be your sweet comradeship; I was so worthless I was grateful even for that, But now I know that @ woman may only reach a man through love—love of the highest; had I not heard that voice you might have called in vain. Little Dora, I love you; there 1s ro hope, no heaven, no life for me without you. Dear, I—" She got a firm hold of herself at last saw that here was a question to be faced a terrible business on which she had not counted. She had gone into this matter with the blindness of pity; with the high and lofty purpose of the crusader; passion end human nature were not to be reckoned with in the fight. But they must be reck- oned with now. “Stop!” she cried. “You—you don’t un- derstand. I—I never meant—I—Mr. Fel gate, it is impossible.” There was a dead silence for a moment; the man stood perfectly still, with his hands gripping each other behind his back “I see,” he said at last, in a low voice, “your belief in me won't extend so far as that.” “Oh! no—n Ido. But— “Well, what is it? * * © There is some one else, I suppose?” She nodded slowly; she did not care to trust her voice at that moment. He came suddenly toward her, and gripped her by the shoulders, and looked down at her; she thought she had never seen his eyes so hopelessly weary as they were then. “Do you know what you have done?” he cried, almost harshly. “Did you think you could come into a man’s life, as you have come into mine, and then smilingly wave your land one day, and pass out of it all, and be forgotten, with only your good deeds ; I do believe in you, indeed left behind? Did you think that?” “I did not knew; I wanted to help you. * * * IT have been engaged to this man since I was a mere child. We knew each other as children. He is in India.” “Does he know you as I know you—this man who is to claim you? Have you done for him what you have Sweet little blunderer?’ “It was not necessary.” She was shak- ing and trembling; she had covered her face with her hands. “I see,” he said again. “He wasn’t on the downward path—he'd something to hope done for me, you for. He dropped his hands from her shoulders end turned aw: “But—but you won't—" she began, look- ing up at him. “Wha?” Go back to that old life?” “Will you hold me?” he asked, stretching out his hands to her, with a smile. “But—for your own sake,” she pleaded. ‘A worthless anchorage,” was the rep “Come—dry your tears. You've tried y experiment; ft isn’t your fault if yo failed at the supreme moment. Good-by. She saw the bitter hopelessness of it: saw his head down on his hands, in the old at- titude, as she left the place. Two years went by, and they met in quite the strangest fashion. Sly been iil—an illness which might be attrib- uted to actual weariness of the poor com- edy of life, rather than to any specific dis- ease—and had been ruralizing in Devon- shire, with a poor and worshiping elderly female relative in attendance. She got up very early one morning, after a restless night—long before any one about the place was stirring—and went out and rambled into the cool stillness of a little wood. And there suddenly she came face to face with Richard Felgate. They stood still for a long mome: cain, it. look- ing at each other, and then clasped hands. “You have been ill, he said at last. I am she * he said, laughing. “Ok, don’t decry yourself,” she replied, softly. “I have heard of your succ “Are you here alone?” he asked presently, striving hard to dig a stone out of the path with his stick. “Is—your husband with you?” “I am not married, Mr. Felgate. He looked up at her quickly. “But the man from India?” “Has gone back again,” she replied. He dropped the stick d came at her, and caught her by the shoulders. “What do you mean?” he asked, almost in a whis- per. “You were to marry him—had been engaged to him for years?” = but he has gone back again.” “Why?” “He would have nothing to do with me. He had heard of—of you; I think he knew “The prig! “Then quite a number of other people Well, what else?” cast me off. * * * You see, he came of a very good family.” r said Richard Felgate, sl ‘ou can’t touch pitch, you know, eh “I suppose so. And then I came—to Devy- onshire.”” There was a gleam in her eyes that lit a reflection in his own; he looked at her steadily; laughed grimly. “Dora, what is this game you are play- ing? I don’t understand, Is it—is it the old game of—of rescue why. She nodded. “If you like,” she said, eravely. “Ah! the life is more to you than the man; the work than the worker, Dora,” he said, sadly, turning away. It was she said. Then, quite suddenly, she stretched out her hands to him. “Richard, 1 came to Devonshire to find you.” “Yes, out of pity,” he replied, bitterly, he took her hands. “You were afraid that after I had loosed these hands I «houle drift again. But the touch of them was with me still, dear; I could not go back.” They were coming out of the wood to- gether; all the joyous life of the new day was waking about them. “You are the bluadccrcr now,” she whis- pered. “Tell me why?” “Do you know why I came to Devon- shire?” “Tell me,” he pleaded, humbly. “Well?” “Because”—she clung to him and hid her face—“because I wanted my scamp.” —_—_ —__ The Height of Oratory.