Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, June 17, 1897, Page 2

| rd ©’ we ¢ 5 CHAPTER VI. Everything prospered with the fish boy. He was certainly a waif caught up and borne aloft on the crest of the highest wave of fortune. Among the scores of people that he daily met, not one doubted his identity with young Fulke Greville; all were unani- mous in forcing his new rank upon him. And, more than that, if any one interested had seriously disputed his claims to that name and pc on, and thrown the matter into chancery, there would have been so many hundred in- disputable witnesses, comprising the mother. sister, guardian, teachers, schoolmates, friends and servants, who had all known young Fulke Greville from his infancy nd who would have sworn to his person, that any must have been constrained to a verdict in his favor. the fish boy, feeling himself ved by this enforced change of ion, had revolted, and through any possible “next friend” made an ap- peal to the supreme court, the result must have been similar, and Welby Dunbar would have been condemned and sentenced to the name of Fulke Greville, and the inheritance of several hundred thousand dollars per annum! The fish boy was very happ, The wildest flights of his imagination could never ye soared to such heights of happiness as he now actu- ally enjoyed. A few weeks ago his ut- most hopes had been only to obtain a employment, at which he w: willing to work hard all ¢ if b; doing he could have his evenings to de- vote to study, and such pay as should keep him in the plainest food and elething, and leave him a few pence to spend on second-hand books to read. And now just to think of it! He found himself in the possession of a fuxurious home and ample means; his every want supplied, his every wish ant indulged by an affection- ate and doting mother; petted by a beautiful and loving sister; guided and instructed by loving and accomplished teachers. And more than all, his love ef knowledge and devotion to books, which in his humbler station would have been matters of reproach, re- quiring to be apologied for, were now subjects of the highest merit. receiv- ing the greatest commendation. He bade fair to be soon at the head of his school. His Sundays were all spent at home with Mrs. Greville and } Lois Howard. it Mrs. Greville began to idolize him; telling him, every time she saw him, how much he was improved in every possible way, in disposition, manners and appearance, and how happy she was to see him growing so studious, amiable and gentlemanly. And often, in a mistaken penitence, she would apologize to him for the seeming harsh- mess that she felt persuaded had driv- im from the school. t was the only thing you could have had to complain of on my pa my son—the reduction of your expenditures, I mean. But you know. my dear Fulke, I thought it best for your own ke to keep you on a short allowance of funds while I re- mained abroad, and you here, with no watchful mother’s eye to look after you. And that was the reason I cut down your usual amount of pocket money. Do you not think yourself s right?” vyho had long ago given up his position with the lady. lied that he had no doubt that she 1 that she had done son's benefit. “But no your conduct satisfies o entirely, I shall not only double stipend, but authorize you to ‘aw upon me at any time for any fur- y amount that you may desire. is a confidence, my dear boy, that few parents would repose in a son. But I-wish to make you reparation for my former appar- ent stingine and I feel sure that you will not abuse my trus “Indeed, I will not, my lady—I mean, my dear mamma!” said the fish boy. And he kept his word, for he not only forbore to draw upon his generous patre for any further amount, but he never spent half of his allowance. Yes! the fish boy was very happy; not perfectly happy, ebserve, no one even children. “There's allus a somethink,” as the chimney-sweep said when he went to eee Grisi and left his opera glass in a eab. And the “somethink’ that mar- red the perfect bliss ‘of the fish boy was the intense consciousness of his false position. and the haunting fear of detection and exposure. And yet, the reader is aware that he was no willing imposter. He did not forget his eld friends. He prevailed upon Mrs. Greville to give the large custom of shold to old Carnes. And, in h eagerness, he ran down to Water street to give the order for daily unlimited supplies of fish, clams and oysters. He found the old fellow still a fixture behind his barrels, and told him the good news. Carnes was profuse in his express fons of gratitude to his young patron. “Now you stop that! Don’t go to thank me! I don’t deserve it! I am o one of those ‘children of dark- nee who are wiser in their genera- tion than the children of light! I am only making ‘friends of the mammon of unrighteousness. “La, Master Greville! I hope you don’t call me the mammon of unright- eousuess. I’m not saying, nyther,that there beant unrighteousness enough sbout me, but as for the mammon, there's precious little of that!’ said the oysterman. “I mean,” explained the youth, “that I am prospering finely just now; but my bright prosperity is a mere soap bubble, that may burst any moment, when I shall find myself to fall back upon the fish and oyster line of busi- ness, and then, you know, I shall be fortunate to find a friend in you. So, pray, keep a berth open for me. And ahis I ask you to do, in grand serious- however, please to in this world, not ONDEMNED Ts. WEALTH. 3 ! { ness, as the French say—in French, mind you, and not in English.” Master Greville! If I didn’t know you for a joker as ‘’ould have your j » even if you was a-dyin’,’ why, I should think as how you was touched—here,” said the old man, laughingly. and putting his finger to his own forehead. “Perhaps I am touched there, Mr. Carne ; I often have a suspicion that For, you see, insanity af- opposite subjects in opposite Some maniacs, being beggar selyes kings. Perhaps IL, really a.gentleman, only imagine olf a fish boy,” he said, not laugh- but deeply sighing, as he took leave of the old man and turned his steps homeward. I repeat, he was no voluntary imposter; yet, as the months rolled on, and he became more and more habituated to the elegance and luxury of his home, the caressing af- fection of the stately Mrs. Greville, and the delightful love of the beautiful Lois, his fear of a denouement in- creased rather than diminished; for, oh! he felt that every day brought nearer the discovery that must come at last. He loved the beautiful Lois with all the pure and passionate affection of his young heart. He knew, too, from the gossip of the old servants, as well as from the “chaffing’ of his college companions, that Fulke Greville and Lois Howard, being no blood relations, had been destined from their infancy for each other. And -he was called— “Fulke Greville!” “You two will be obliged to marry each other, you know, just as soon as you are of age, whether you like it or not! Or Madame Greville will be serv- ing you as she did Esther; for, polite as she is, she won't bear contradiction in a matter that she sets her heart upon,” said Clement Courtney, the son of his guardian, and one of his college companions, to him one day. “Esther! Who was Esther?” He had never heard the name before! But not for the world would he have ex- pressed his ignorance. One day, however, when he was alone with Mrs. Greville, he felt irre- stibly prompted to say, despite all amma,” will you tell me all about sther?” Mrs. Greville’s face became ghastly. “Pulk she gasped, “how dare you speak a name that has not been ut- tered in this house for years? You and Lois have both forgotten Esther, as it is natural you should—and as I wish I myself could. Fulke, she was the daughter of my very first mar- riage. She was ten years older than Lois, and much handsomer, with a brilliant complexion and burning black eyes and hair. But, Fulke, when she was but fourteen years of age —(and you and Lois were but four years of age, for it was in the first year of my union with your father)—she was stolen by an Irish dragoon, who made her his wife, and took her to his home in the south! Since then I have never received a letter from her, nor suf- fered her name to be mentioned in my presence. Let it die now and hence- forth. Yet learn from her story this one lesson—never to cross me in the dearest purpose of my hea You are aware that you and Le re ,and have been from your earlie infancy, des- tined for each other. It was the wish of my dearest husband, your fathe and it is, therefore, my set purpose. You are nearly approaching the age now, when young gentlemen, very pre- maturely, but very certainly, begin to think of young ladies. Fulke, lock at me. Forget that there is any other young lady in the world except Lois!” As ie spoke. a broad, blue glare like sheet lightning flashed from her eyes, but was gone in an instant! But what a terrible look it was! What a rev ion of ber real charac- ter! Now, caress him as tenderly as she might, the fish boy would feel that her hands were the paws of a leopard- ess upon him. So he thought, as he hastened, with trembling frame, and blushing cheeks, and faltering tongue, to assure her that he loved Lois better than his own life; that he would rath- er have her than possess the whole world; and that if he lost her, he should die. “You shall never lose her; I will take eare of that.” said the lady, grimly. And thus the interview closed. “Married three times, and still so handsome! I wonder if she killed and ate her three husbands, one after the other the splendid tigress! And, oh! but won't she tear me, neither when she finds out who I am!” said the fish boy, with a shudder. And from this day he dreaded thé denouement worse than ever. The denouement seemed at length at hand. k Mrs. Greville was preparing for a yoyage and a long residence in Eu- rope. Her object was to place her daughter Lois at a Parisian school, and “son Fulke” at a German universi- and afterward to give them the ad- vantage of extensive travel over the continent. While the, fish boy was completing his last term at the Collegi- ate school and Lois her last term at the Ladies’ academy, and Mrs. Greville was settling up her home affairs, one morning a letter was placed in her hand. Seeing the postmark, she was about to fling it from her; but upon looking closer at the writing, she seemed surprised, and opened and pe- rused it contents. They were as fol- lows: Fuljoy’s Island, July ist. Madam—I break the silence of many years to inquire of you whether you have totally abandoned your step-son, young Fulke Greville? Whether you think him quite unworthy of your fur- ther notice; and whether you think it was well done so thoroughly to repro- bate so young an offender? For TI sup- pose he gave you just cause of anger in leaving the school where you placed him; but I insist that there was no rea- son for leaving him to his fate. Al- though { have waited in vain to see some advertisement for him, I still hope that you may be pleased rather than otherwise to hear that he is not utterly lost. About eighteen months ago, in the midst of the severest weath- er of that severe winter, he came on foot to my house. He had walked all the way from New ‘York. He arrived travel-stained, weather-beaten, ragged and emaciated. He told me his sad story, which I do not wish to wound you by repeating. I received him as my own son, and placed him in the university of Virginia. How he has conducted himself during the eighteen months of his sojourn there, you will see by the annual report of the uni- versity, which I have the honor of sending you with this. Young Fulke Greville is now spending the midsum- ion with me. As you are his legal guardian, he is, of course, your disposal. He desires to know if he may be forgiven and restored to your affections, if not to your favor. ‘TJ am, however, quite willing to provide for him as for my own son. I have the honor to be, mad Your obedient se —William Fuljoy The lady read this letter with the ut- most astonishment, remained in deep thought for some minutes, and then drew ker writing desk before her and sat down and answered it. She dis- patched her letter, and summoned the fish boy to her presence. CHAPTER VII. We must now shift the scene of this romance in real life to a lovely little island that lies smiling within the arms of one of those numerous pictur- esque ¢reeks that make up from the mighty Chesapeake into the western shore of Maryland. It arose in the form of a gently-swell- ing hill, gradually ascending from its thickly-wooded circumference to its sunny center, where, amid blooming pleasure grounds, gardens and shrub- beries, stood the elegant white free- stone mansion of the proprietor. This happy proprietor was Captain William Fuljoy, a fine, hale old man, who, haying spent the best years of his long life in the merchant service, had now retired upon an ample fortune, to enjoy well earned repose in his delight- ful home, amid his beloved books, his favorite pictures, his pet animals, his cherished servants, his beautiful scen- ery, and within easy reach of his only sweetheart, the sea! Captain Fuljoy was at this time sev- enty years of age, tall and stout in farm, full and red in face and white in hair and moustache. This was what more than half a century of sea-faring had done for him. But, notwithstand- ing this,,he was really, for his age, a very fine-looking and even very hand- some old man; for his features were faultlessly regular, his mouth well curved, his nose straight, and his full- orbed blue eyes were as clear, sweet and honest as those of innocent child- hood. He was brave, as the history of many a hard ‘sea fight would show; tender, as many a comforted sufferer could prove; loving, as all who ap- proached him felt; constant, as one gone before him to heaven knew; sin- cere, for none ever heard him utter, even a polite, conventional falsehood; yet delicate, for none ever knew him to wound the feelings of another, even by the plainest truth; he was generous, as all the needy within his reach could tell; and self-denying, as his own per- sonal habits would testify. He was just in thought, word and deed. He had a well cultivated mind and a well stored memory; he had studied the literature of Germany, France, Spain and Italy, in the original, and spoke the language of those countries with the ease of a native. But, of course, William Fuljoy was not perfect; he had his weak point—at least so his best friends said—and it was this—he was romantic! for not only Gid he love poetry, novels, music, painting, stars, flowers, seas, moun- tains and all the sublime and beautiful in nature and art—but he believed in the ellence of human nature! William Fuljoy ought to have been a happy husband and father, but he was not. He adored womankind with a pure though passionate worship, but he had never been married. This was the reason: In his early youth he was betrothed to a lovely maiden, to whoin he was devotedly attached. Many weary years did the faithful lovers wait for the time when William should be able to marry Mary. At length that day arrived. After a prosperous voy- age he reached home to claim his bride. He was shown her grave. She had been dead a week. “Gone out of sight.” he said; for to him she could not die—to him she still lived. This happened when William Fuljoy was thirty years of age. But he never sought another woman. Whenever, in after time, he was jested with upon the subject of matrimony, he declared that he was already a married man; that he had a wife living in the better land, to whom he had resolved to be faithful as long as he should sojourn in this.. But though the captain never mar- ried, it was impossible that such a ! good and loving nature should not have formed close social ties. And so it followed that very soon after the captain retired to his beautiful island homé, he gathered about him quite a family circle. And such a family circle! There was not one of them that had the slightest legal claim upon his protection. But as the unsheltered seek a refuge, so had the forlorn ones sought him. CHAPTER VIII. His first protege came to him as fol- loy It was the first winter of his settle- ment at home, upon a_ tempestuous | night in the month of January, that Captain Fuljoy grew tired of sitting over the fire in his comfortable library, and so arose and opened the French window, and stepped out upon the porch to look at the weather. The storm had ceased, the sky had cleared, and the snow lay gleaming white be- neath tue beams of the full moon. It was almost as light as day, and as the captain walked up and down the porch, inhaling the fresh air and thank- ing Heaven for the favorable change in the weather, he saw approach the figure of a boy. Astonishment at see- ing a strange lad on the island at that hour of the night held the captain spell-bound, until the visitor stepped eel ae L upon the porch and, lifting a shocking bad hat, said: “Pray, sir, does Captain Fuljoy live here?” i “Yes; I am Captain Fuljoy; but——” “You don't know me, uncle! I am vue Greville, your nephew,” said the jad. “Fulke! Gre—! Lord bless my soul alive! Come in here and let me have a look at you!” And the old man pulled the boy into the room, and stood gazing in conster- nation upon him. He was a fine-looking youth of about fifteen years of age, with a tall and well proportioned figure, regular fea- tures, dark complexion and raven-black hair and eyes; but his clothing was travel-stained, his shoes worn and his hat battered. “Lord bless my soul and body! Where did you come from? How did you cross the water, and why are you here at all?’ gasped out the captain, as soon as he could recover his breath and command his voice. But as soon as the lad opened his lips to answer, the captain interrupted him by saying: “Stop! hush! You are ringing wet, and shaking with cold, and hungry, no doubt. You must have dry clothes and supper, and get warmed and rest- ed before you answer any questions.” As soon as the boy was made com- foriable, and seated in an arm-chair opposite his uncle, he told his story. His mother, Captain Fuljoy’s step-sis ter, had died first; his father had mar- ried a second time, a wealthy widow, whose prope was all. secured abso- lutely and exclusively to herself; but he had survived his marriage only a few months. and died, as it was sup- posed, in embarrassment. All this the captain already knew, but he had yet n what followed. In impassioned and indeed exagger- ated language, the high-spirited boy told of his real or imaginary wrongs— of the cold charity bestowed by his step-mother upon her husband's or- phan son; of the cheap boarding school, with its hard fare, to which he had been sent; of the scant wardrobe, the pittance of pocket-money grudgingly doled forth, and so on “And what hurt my feelings worse than all was the thought that I really had no claim upon her at all. Be- cause after all, you see, sir, she was not my own mother.” “My poor boy!” sighed the good cap- tain. “And so at last I could not bear any more, and I ran away from school and came to you, uncle,” continued Fulke. “My poor lad!” repeated the old man; “but how did you travel?” “I walked all the way from New York.” 4 “Walked!” “Yes; I had no money, and I sold my clothes to pay for supper and lodging every night on the road; I was a week walking it; the roads were very bad. And now, uncle, if you will put me at any work by which I can earn my own bread. you will find out that I am not an idle boy.” Poor fellow! He had said that he had no claim upon his step-mother; neither, certainly, had he the slightest claim upon Captain Fuljoy; he was the only son of Captain Fuljoy’s step-sis- ter. But when did his rich heart ever dishonor a bill drawn upon his beney- olence? . He did not put the high-spirited lad to work; he put him to college, enter- ing him at the University of Virginia at his own expense. He had never cause to regret his con- fidence. The reports of the youth’s deport- ment anc progress were always most satisfactory. He watched the newspapers in the expectation of secing some advertise- iment en the part of the step-mother or the teachers for the lost boy. But none such appeared. Nor was any search or inquiry, as far as he knew, made. The guardians of Fulke Greville seemed to have abandoned or forgotten him. And in Fuljoy, in his di gust and indizgaation at their selfis ness and indifference, did not volun- teer to write and offer them any in- formation. CHAPTER IX. The next protege of the captain came to him in the following manner: It was the su.nmer succeeding the unexpected arrival of Fulke Greville. That young geailenan was pursuing his studies at the university. Captain Fuljoy was living alone on his beauti- ful island. It was a glorious morning in June. The captain was out upon his long, vine-shaded porch, embarrassed only with the variety of his own sources of enjoyment. It was good to watch him. Captain Fuljoy would pace up and down his porch, taking in all the beauty of this scene, until his limbs were weary, and then throw himself into an arm-chair and bury his mind deep in the pages of Quentin Durward, where he would remain until the sud- den outburst of joyous song from some bright bird over his head, would rouse him out of the regions of imagination and the past, and recall him to nature and the present. Then he would arise and pace the porch, inhaling from the heavens and earth deep draughts of beauty and delight. “I am blessed beyond my merits; I am too happy; and I should fear jie approach of some counterbalancing evil if I did not trust in the free good- ness of the Lord,” thought the humble and grateful old man, as he reverently raised his hat and replaced it upon his head. Again he threw himself into his chair, and soon became absorbed in the fortunes of the young Scotch adventur- er. when again he was disturbed by a bird alighting upon the brim of his straw hat. He raised his eyes from his book, and there, on a footstool before hin, sat a little girl, quite still, and gazing at him with large, calm blue eyes. For, you see, neither birds nor babies feared the big captain, though the en- emies of his country might have had just cause to do so. For a moment he gazed in speechless amazement upon the vision, doubting the evidence of his own senses. What was it? Where had it come from? Fiad it dropped from the sky? Had the little bird brought it? The bird al- most might, it was so small a child. At length he spoke: “Who are you, baby?” “Daney,” answered the mite, without winking- y | } DEFECTIVE PAGE wea a “Danae? said the captain, reverting to his mythological studies. “No, Daney.” replied the little ap- parition, measuring the questioner from head to foot with her blue, fear- less eyes. “I never heard of such a name in all the days of my life! Who dropped you here, Daney?’ “None body. I tomed my own self.” “You come your own self? Why. what in the world did you come for?” “Betause I wanted to.” “Because you wanted to. That's very plain English! But why did you want to come here, baby?” ““Tause it is so nice here-” replied the atom, looking in the face of the questioner. with an expression of sur- prise, at what she seemed to consider so very vain a question. “Why, so it is nice here! and so far you show your taste, baby. But where did you come from?” “F’om de water.” The captain looked puzzled. The sprite before him seemed, indeed, as if it migat have been a mermaid’s baby, or a water-nymph, or a spirit. Half- doubting whether his hands would not pass through it as through a shape of air, he took the child upon his knee and looked upon her attentively. She was a little creature, seemingly about three years of age, very thin and pale, with light- eyelashes. yellow eyebrows and She wore a faded nankeen slip. And so her face, hair and dress were all of one hue—pale-yellow; and, | in truth, a more washed-out, faded little object was never seen before. And yet her features were delicate and regular; her wrists and ankles slender and well-turned; and her bare feet and hands small and perfect in form. “How old are you, little one?—two, three, four yearss old?” “Oh, a dreat deal older dan dat! hun- ded and hund’ed year old!” The captain quickly put the thing off his knees, stood it before him, and stared at it in consternation, exclaim- nD, What!” “Me so old, me don’t know how old- Me dont know when me first was-” The honest old bachelor was too un- familiar with children to know any- thing about their oftentimes queer no- tions of themselves, and he gazed upon this antediluvian infant in unmitigat- ed astonishment. “Who is your mother, baby?’ asked. “Dudy-” “That's another unheard-of name! Who is your father?” “Doe!—tate me up in your lap adain,” said the child, holding out her arms. It was not in William Fuljoy’s lov- he ing nature to resist this appeal. He raised the child to his knee. She turned, put her little thin, white arm up over his shoulder, nestled her little pale face against his bosom, and with a sigh of deep satisfaction, resigned herself to repose, murmuring softly: “Me do to leep now.” And she did go to sleep. And the captain remained as one spell-bound. For fear of disturbing her r he sat so still that the little bird came back and perched itself again on the rim of his hat. And the figure the captain looked, sitting there with the child in his arms and the bird on his hat! How long the patient captain might have sat there, if he had been left alone, no one knows—probably until he fell asleep himself, if he had not been startled by the sound of swiftly-ap- proaching footsteps, followed by the appearance of a tall, dark, wild-look- ing woman who, with bare head and streaming hair, strode onto the porch, screaming out: “Arrah, thin, and ye are there, sure enough, are ye? And me wid my two eyes out on sticks lookin for ye! Wait till 1 get ye, that’s all!” The noise awakened the child, who: stared around her with a frightened | glance, and then, recognizing the wo- | man, slid down from the knee of her new friend. ing, with a sort of sad, beby humility and patience: “Me mus’ do home now.” “Is this your child, my good wo- man?” inquired the captain. “And sure whose else should she be, and bad luck to her! I beg your hon- or’s pardon, but me heart's broke en- tirely wid thrying to kape her in. Sure, if I was to put my eyes out on two sticks, I couldn't kape the sight of her. But she'll be no throubling your honor soon again after the bating I'll give her!” exclaimed the tall virago, giving the little one a premonitory shake. “No. she has not troubled me a bit— not the least bit—poor little thing! And pray, do not hurt her. Did you say she was your child—your own child?” “Sure, and ain’t I just after telling your honor that same?” The captain looked from the woman to the child, comparing them together. The woman was unusually tall, mus- cular and strong, with high, well-cut features, a dark, swarthy complexion, | deeply-set. burning black eyes, well- | marked, black eyebrows and long hair, | plentifully mixed with gray. She must have been handsome in her prime; but that was long past; she was sixty, if a day, and probably older than that. The woman was fierce, violent and dangerous-looking —the child gentle, patient and loving. There was not a point of resemblance between them. And simple, credulous and confiding | as the old bachelor was, he was not | quite prepared to receive as_gospel- truth the statement that this baby of | four could be the child of that woman of sixty. “Who are you. then, and how came you and this child upon this isle?” de- manded the captain, not shortly or an- grily, but kindly and curiously. “Why, doesn’t your honor know Joe Drury, as you brought here to look after your honor's fishing boats and tackle? said the woman. “Oh! And you are—" “His wife, your honor.” “And this is your child?” “Ain't I after telling your honor so?” “And his?” “Sartain sure, sir; you wouldn’t be insinuating anything else, and meself an honest woman?” “No, no, certainly not; but I thought —indeed, I don’t know what I did think,” said the captain, ingenuously. “Come, Daney,” said the woman, taking the hand of the child to lead her off. “Stay—now, don’t beat her, pray. don’t. Here is something to buy youa new dress and purchase her pardon; but you must promise not to hurt her.” “I'll let her off this time, for your honor's sake; but sure, if she's afte, running away again—Oh, thank you” honor! and may your road to heaven” be paved with gold!” exclaimed the woman, stooping to pick up the half- eagle thrown her as & peace-offering from the captain. And she departed. leading “Daney” away, the captain's ning pity going with the baby- The captain dined at his usual hour- And after dinner he took his accus- tmed nap on the settee in the poreh- And then he woke up and thought of Daney. And as the child had ealled upon him in the morning, he thought he would return her call in the after- noon, and see what sort of a home Daney’s rude parents had made for her. CHAPTER X. He put his straw hat upon his head, entered the house, passed through the central hall that ran from front to back, went out at the back door and through the kitchen garden, and the vineyard and the orchard, toward the north end of the island, where his fish- erman’s cottage stood. It had been a neat, picturesque little log cabin some mouths before, when, more from char- ity than any other motive, he had set- tled a poor Irish emigrant there, to look after hb fishing boats. But @ surprise awaited ssed through the thicket of trees that, as I said before, girdled the whole nd around. His senses were no longer regaled with the delightful zrance of flowering shrubs on the contrary, they were assailed by the nauseous effluvia ale fish. oyster shells and other de- ng and pestilential animal and getable matter. This scarcely, however, prepared him for the revolting sight that burst upon | his view when he had passed the thicket. There, between the thicket and the water, stood the naked log cabin, with all the ground laid waste around it- Heaps of ashes, cinders, oyster shells and fish bones lay scat- tered where once the wild flowers grew, and old hats. shawls and trows- ers stuffed the broken windows, once whole and ded by the eglantine and the honeysuckle. There are s whose demon meoyes and destroy, as there are others whose spirit leads them to build up and beau- tify. The captain zed upon the squalor with real pain. His beloved nd w: nliness as well as a paradise of f beauty and with its But thi filthy surroundings, seemed like a foul squalid shanty, ulcer upon its fair bosom. The captain aned in the spirit. He had no alternative but to bear this nuisance or turn out the family—the first would wound his ideal: the last would pain nis benevolence. In either case he must suffer something! Ah! how many of the refined and sensitive there are ir:paled upon the horns of the seme dilemma. He instantly de i such cases all noble mind# the nu a ther than inflict ig upon otaers. anding near the cabin was Joe, the fisherman. He vy a_tall, athletic, rthy, black-haired Milesian, who, from the resemblance he bore her, might have been taken for his wife’s brother, rather than her husband. But, saddest sight of all, there on the dirty door-sill, sat little Daney, who seemed penetrated with all the uglir around her, and her little face was quivering with distaste She w the first to see Captain Ful- joy, and she started up and came to meet him, 3 “Don't tome; it ain't nice here.” “No, my poor baby, it isn’t. i the captai and then. turning to the fish- erman, who had lounged up and took “How is this, Drury? What have you been doing to the cottage?” But before the man could answer his only the briar bushes at the our honor is maning; they only served to kape out the d. light and to breed in are better away entirely. “But the flowers and the grass?" “Och! sure your honor's gle would niver look to see the mither of a fam- ily wasting her time wid the flowers? And sure Joe, the craychur, has enough to do wid attinding to the boats.” “But the heaps of unwholesome dirt around! Surely a “Och hone Your honor’s come here only to find fault entirely. when my heart is smashed to smithereens al- ready through thrying to kape things daceni,” said Judy, throwing her apron over her head and preparing to howl. “Well, well there, don’t ery! Fl send some of my people here to-morrow and haye the place cleaned, and then per- haps you will be able to keep it in bet- ter order,” said the good-natured old man. And then he stooped and patted the child on the head, and turned and hurried from a spot where every sense was pained. “Tam § for that poor baby there! She like a pearl on an ash- heap! I don't wonder she tries to get away. Can she be their child? She seems to be made of different clay— percelain clay; while they are made of potter's earth,” soliloquized the old man, dubiously shaking his head, as he sauntered on toward his own de lightful home. To Be Continued. Oddly-Mated Eyes. The assertion comes from Germany that the majority of people are not only right-handed, but also right-sight- ed. By this is meant that most per- sons are better with the right eye than with the left, and habitually, though unconsciously, employ it more. Some persons, however, make greater use of the left eye than of the right—Ameri- can Journal of Photography. Bone and Sinew. “We cannot succeed,” said the prime minister, “without the sinews of war.” “By sinews,” said the private secre- tary, who occasionally moved in the lower circles, “I presume you mean bones?” And it was with great sorrow that he found himself compelled to explain to his chief that dollars were often so designated by the vulgar.—Typograph- ical Journal. . sae ho | \ \ es Se ; i | t