Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, November 27, 1897, Page 6

*egraphed you to THI oo i, ' FAUCG. a a a 4@ a) ea CHAPTER 1sI—(Continued) “Dear Judy—Did you send the wraps —they are not at hand? I do hope you did not forget to put in the vinaigrette, for L am dreadfully tried by headache! I bought a cheap bottle, which I am ashamed to carry about, and menthol does me no good, unhappy woman that I am! I am sure that no woman of my age and constitution is so tried; and you, who ought to have more con- , try me more than any one! ull day; I shall not all night, for thinking of darling little ou have the heart use him the change he so sorely ? What can you possibly |! to do that you can not undertake care? I fear you are getting very - ish! Do, pr licate such a fail- ing: for selfis in any one is bad enough, but in an unmarried woman, who is totally dependent upon her rel- ativ it is simply unbearable. Write mmediately, and say that, in lance with my desire, you will I should have tel- this effect, but I thought it better to write. As usual, your petty ‘penny-wise’ policy makes you indifferent to my convenience. The few shillings representing the rail- vay fare—how many—seventeen?— t would give me Jane in exchange for Topham, are more to you than my comfort; and were it not that the ter is better, and therefore she is able te perform her dut I should have to be selfish, and insist upon her ex- change. You must excuse my remark- ing, dear Judy, that one would imag- ine your income is yours, not mine, We have no fault to find with the house or the cooking here, but I can with accorc have darling baby. not say me, However, as the others make no com- plaint, I must endure for their kes, Still no letter from I ? Are you positive she has not written? You ¥ have overlooked the letter, as so busy. With love from all, “Your affectionate mother, the form of taking v the telegraph boy and two minutes at- ze in her hands. It but contained bad through t, she the ga id a mess: was from Claud news Going to Fletcher's ing on to you.” word to her. It is she who should be remorseful, for she has repaid my af- fection with slights and indifference. What man could stand it? But, Judy, to hear her voice, to see her sweet face, and hold her once more in my arms, I could forgive her!” Judith listened to this passionate outburst in trembling silence, and, when he had turned his haggard face from her, she could only look at him in dumb sympathy, conscious of her inability to help him. Presently Claude spoke again, and in a calmer tone. “IT told you we quarrelled on Satur- day—that was scarcely the fact, unless you can 1 that a quarrel where the weman is—insulting and wilful and the man only firm. I am ashamed to speak so of her; but it is only to you, Judith, that I would tell the truth. rait, in terrible », till eight o’clock in the even- she heard the welcome scund of Claude's footfall, For the servant's benefit, she appeared to be intent upon her book, and affected sur- Pp when that young person opened the door and announced “Mr. Towns- hend.” But when the m: had with- , her assumed ex ion gave “e to one of real pity, for her broth- r-in-law looked so anxious and hag- gard. “You have nothing to tell me, Ju- ily, she took he sorrowfully nk back into a Judy | suspen ing, when nd; and, as his | shook her head, he sa ehair, muttering: “Heaven, how shall i bear it While Judith stood sorrowfully watching him, wishing, with all her heart, that it lay in her power to as- suage his grief, he sudden poke. “You don’t unde’ Judith. Of course not—how you? We lay even- y morning I left When ing, and on Sa her at the Charing-Cross hotel. I returned, an hour later, her maid told me she had taken one of her trunks and gone away in a cab. Lf waited until three o'clock, when [ tel- egraphed to the Fletc 's; but she had not gone there, so I came down here, hoping to find her.” why should she behave in such an extraordinary fashion?’ demanded Judith. “We had quarrelled.” “Already? Oh, Claude!” “T can’t help it, Judit he declared, assionately; “she drove me mad! We ad not been married a fortnight be- fore she began to find more pleasure in the admiration of casual men we met than in my attentions. She is so beautiful, but so wilful, that she can- not live without admiration, and—L an’t bear it “ad “That is forgetting your resolve to trust her wholly,” Judith reminded him. “If you are not able to trust her new, what will your lives be as the years go on?” “You think I deserved this, then he demanded, fiercely. “How have I injured her? Haye I not loved—nay, idolized her ever since I have known her? If my love was not sufficient for her, why did she marry me? She knew my temper and my weakne: Ss also, how my early life was embit- tered, and that if I married her 1 should expect er to live for me only. She told me she would be content to do so, and I believed her. But in one short week after our marriage she was very weary of my devotion. While my eyes were dwelling upon her face in loving content, hers were seeking the insulting homage of s e.”: “At table-d’hote men gave the wait- ers fees for the nearest place at her side or opposite to her. Did we walk or drive, we were followed or met by one or other of the men whom she en- couraged. As if her vatural fascina- tions were not sufficient, she took my money and jewels I gave her to deck herself out to please men who were, for the most part, roues and gamblers, and whose admiration was an insult. I tried to bear with it because of her Y§nnocence and inexperience, thinking that, when the novelty had worn off, she would tire of her amusement and see the shame of it, as I did. “But no! Seven weeks of it were not sulficient to cause satiety, so L brought her to London, ‘Torn as my heart was by jealousy and disappoint- ment, I endeavored to be gentle and loving to her. Should I never see her We were going to the Academy during the day, and I asked her, as a fayor, not to wear a costume which she had bought in Paris, a dress of gray and white silk that fitted her like a skin, and a tiny hat with white in it—a cos- tume hardly fit for the streets, as it at- tracts too much attention. he refused my request, and, when I laughlingly told her that I would not | go with her if she wore it, she lost her temper, and told me she was sorry she had married a selfish old bachelor who wanted to make her a dowdy and de- prive her of every little grace and | pleasure her youth entitled her to. | Feeling hurt, I told her that the very | age she derided entitled me, if my po- sition of husband did not, to exercise some sort of control over her when her inexperience led her to make mistakes. She said nothing in answer; but, half an heur later, when I asked her to ki me, she refused. I would not take her | refusal, but kissed her against her | will, asking her to forgive me, because | I loved her so. She repulsed me, and | On my return she had I went out. gone.” “I do not like to interfere, and, pos- sibly, I may be wrong,” Judith said, hesitatingly; “but perhaps if you had | been firmer she would have been more yielding. When you consider that you are in the right, you should not as for forgiveness, though I think—” “Say it out, Judith—you think my i yusy Was at fault? I can’t help it. As to being firm with her—who could | be harsh with a child like that?’ Judith could say nothing, for she ; too troubled. Claude told her ken to discover his wife’s whereabouts, and that with | the assistance of a detective he had succeeded only in tracing her to W: terloo tion, whereevery clue had been lost. “{ delayed going to the Fletchers,” he added, “until the last moment, be- cause I hoped to win Elsie back with- out any scandal. Fletcher was very kind, and offered me all sorts of ad- | vice, none of which, I fear, will help me to recover my wif Mrs. Fletcher was less sympathetic” might with | truth have said “rude,” for Grace con- | sidered that Claude had been in fault, and treated him accordingly. “But | you, Judy, you will help me, will you | not?” “With all my heart,” responded Ju- dith, fervently—“that is. if I can, for at the moment I feel so bewildered | that I do not see what I can do. I hoped you were together again, Elsie’s going away having proved a freak of which she had quickly repented. Poor girl, I dare say, if we could only know, she is as unhappy as. you are!” “Do you think she loves me, then, Judy?” he asked, softly, his dark eyes glistening and his worn face brighten- ing, as he looked up into her thought- ful face. “I am sure she does, Claude! But she has been pétted and made much of by everybody all her life; conse- quently her wilful young spirit was chafed by your attempt to coerce her.” “But, Judy, am I n r to point out her errors to her? Living in this dull place, she would not have the oppor- tunity to go far wrong; but, if she; comes back to me, and we go out into the world together, she will meet men —and women, too—who will only be too glad to tarnish her innocence. Are my love, wisdom and experience not to be used in her behalf against them?” Judith sighed; for she had thought, many and many a time when she had remonstrated, and had been twitted was 1 | this | unle: with being envious and jealous of her pretty sister, that one day the family | would regret it, and here, all too soon, | and unhappily were her fears realized! | She knew Elsie’s wilfulness and ob- | stinancy too well to have any great | hope that she would soon be truly re- | pentant and wishful to atone for her) conduct; she too greatly feared that | she would have to understand what | suffering meant before coming to this | proper frame of mind; but, because | she saw that he needed comfort of | some sort, she replied: “Hope for the best, Claude. You wil no doubt hear from her in a few days, | and will find then that she is sorry for | the suffering she has caused you, and, | no doubt, will be more thoughtfvl in the future.” He looked at Judith, standing there in her shabby silk gown, and reflected upon the chance of restful happiness he had lost in giving her up for her sister; but the glamour of Elsie’s | youthful beauty influenced him too> completely to permit of his realizing | quite what he had renounced. “Had Elsie any money when she} went away, Claude?” asked Judith. “Yes,” he answered simply, keeping | to himself the fact of hiw large a sum his wife had had from him since their wedding day. “She also took her jew- elry, but not many clothes.” “Her jewelry! You mean the few, ee she possessed before you knew er. “J mean all that she had,” he replied, again, I shall have no reason to re- <proach myself with uttering a harsh gravely. “No—not your sitts to her?” the girl jewel case, full of valuable, trinkets, which had belonged to his mother, and which he had given to Elsie in addi- tion to many valuable presents. “Yes—all of them—and why not?” he asked, lightly. “I gave them to her, unreservedly. Why should she not have taken them?” “I don’t think it was right,” an- swered Judith. But Claude dismissed the subject with a gesture of scorn. The loss of the jewels mattered nothing; it was his wife he cared about. “Now tell me, Judy,’ he said, anx- iously, “is there any place you can think of where she is likely to have gone?” “I cannot, Claude. The only rela- tives we have in England are Grand- ma Hatfield and Uncle Frank, and I am convinced that they would not har- bor her. We also have relations in Brissels; but Elsie would never dream of going to them.” “Well, what am I to do, Judith?’ he asked, despairingly. “You can only wait; go back to the hotel——.” She stopped abruptly, as the gate clanged to; and, having glanced out of the window, she looked back at Claude. “It is papa,” she whispered; “Grace must have tele- graphed to them.” CHAPTER Iv. Judith ran out of the room and opened the door. She could not say anything; but her father, whose face wore a most harrassed expression, did not notice her silence. Having im- printed a hurried kiss upon her cheek, he said, in an underton “I have taken you by surprise; but something very unfortunate has hap- pened. Gracie telegraphed to us——” “I know, papa. Claude is here.” “Indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, in sudden excitement. “Then I shall be very glad to hear his explanation of this very discreditable affair!’—and, having cast down his hat and run his fingers through his gray hair, he stalked into the dining soom, where Claude awaited him. afi assumption of sternness—it really ned the nar to come out of cloud- land and exert himself—‘I can’t say, in the circumstances, that I am pleased to see you. Will you be good enough to tell me what you have done with my daughter?’ “I hepe I have done nothing but show her consideration since you gave her into my care,” Claude .replied. “Your care, sir?) Why, my poor child has had to run away from you!” “I suppose you do not deny my right to exercise some authority over her in matters where her inexperience would lead ner astr Tam auite willing to take upon inyself the responsibility of haying remonstrated with her but I do not consider myself answerable for her childish, wilfull freak.” 1 ir fingers through his looking from his so law’s pale face to Judith, who had re. turned to the room and was sitting quietly near by. “Well, it is very un- fortunate! Of course I know Elsie has a will of her own; but I never knew her to do anything so wild and foolish as and I cannot account for it now she was acting under some excitement from—h’m—well, noyance! At the same time. id to my wife—who. by the way, 1 left in a very prostrate condition after Ju- 2 that you would wilfully injure or an- noY extremely bewildered!’—and he locked it. The chief rule of the household was that “Papa is never to be upset or ex- cited;” and now he was both in 2 pe fectly unlocked for manner. Since re- ceiving his elder married daughter's telegram about, noon, the reading of which his wife had interrupted with shrieks of dismay that had deafened him, he had scarcely been string two thoughts together. His wife had irsisted upon his returning home at once to see if Elsie might be there, and, failing that, to go on to London, to find that villain, Townshend and thrash him within an inch of his life, if her darling sbould still be missing. Bertie had taken his ticket for him and put him into the train; a porter had roused him at the junction, reminding him that he had to change trains; and, when he had arrived at Claxton, he bad been nearly carried to the next station; and now that he found him- self at home—and with Claude, which was great relief—he was utterly at a loss as to what step to take next. Seeing her father’s perplexity, Ju- dith came to the rescue. “Claude has put the matter into the hands of a detective, papa, and to-mor- row he is going to the hotel to wait for news of Elsie. Don’t you think it is the best thing he can do?” “Certainly—certainly!” agreed her father. “And, probably, as your moth- er desired me, I had better go with him.” “I shall be very glad if you will,” as- | sented Claude; “you may be able to suggest where and how we had best look for her.” Mr. Hatfield looked inquiringly at his daughier, who shook her head, saying: “I have already told Claude that 1 can give him no idea.” “Ah, well—it is very unfortunate! What bad we better do first, Claude? Go ‘up town to-night or start early in the morning?” “Start in the morning,” suggested Judy, glancing at Claude’s tired face. “TI think that will be the better plan. Now let us have some supper, Judith.” The girl went away to make prepara- tions; but when she returned to the room a few minutes later to lay the cloth, her father said: “After all, we are going up to town to-night. Judith; Claude prefers it. We have just an hour and twenty min- utes in which to eat our supper and catch the 10:30.” “We can sleep going up,” Claude ex- plained, in answer to her glance. So Judith busied herself in attending to their wants; and, at 10 o'clock, hav- ing returned her father’s kiss and Claude’s warm hand-pressure, she stood alone at the gate watching their receding figures. While Judith was busy over her nee- dle work the next morning, Mrs. Gard- iner called. “This is not keeping your promise, my dear,” she remarked, affectionate- ly. “Your people went away eight days ago, and you have not been near me. You have been working too hard, your eyes are heavy and your face ts white.” “Well, sir,” he said, with | !” ejaculated Mr. Hatfield, | iny daughter; so that Iam bewild- | able to | | | | | excitedly, her pale face lighting up. | would you do—telegraph to papa or | your eyes upon her, for, clever as she | book, while Bert never sees a joke at “But not from overwork. To tell you the truth, Edith, I have not been to see ou, you for the simple reason that I did not like to tell you what has happened, and still less to withhold the news. But take off your hat and spend the morning with me, will you?” “I came over with that intention,” answered the vicar’s wife, “for Roger has gone to Eastbury, and won’t be home for the aay. Iam very sorry you are worried, Judy; you have always something to contend with. What is it now? Bertie: again, or—” getting very near the truth, as people often do when in jest—“excuse my levity—has Elsie eloped with some one else?” “Oh, Edith—don’t!” Judith pleaded, distressfully. “It is not so bad as that; but Elsie has left Claude!” “Nonsense! You are joking!” Gardiner exclaimed. “Tam not. You will understand that we intend to keep the matter a secret; but, as you are Claude’s kinswoman, it is right you should be told!”—and Ju- dith proceeded to tell her friend, mere- | ly withholding those particulars which | she felt did not redound to her sister's credit. “What a little fool! What a selfish little wretch!” was Mrs. Gardiner’s forcibly-expressed opinion. “How could the girl have the heart to behave in such a fashion!. It is ineonce!vable! Poor Claude! When he suffered be- fore, Judy, it was the fault of his own stupid jealousy, for Laura Carpenter was a flirt; but in this case I really think Elsie must be most to blame. Suppose Claude is jealous, and that jealousy chafes her—is she to think only of herself? Is she to have no | thought for him and the pain her friv- | olity causes him, or for the disgrace her foolish conduct will entail upon him? If I were Claude, and she came back, I would send her to school for six months to learn wisdom and good be- haviour. How does he look, Judy?” “Worn, pale and unnerved. He loves Elsie very dearly, Edith.” “J suppose he does; but he had far better fought with his passion and con- quered it than have marfied its object. Judy, they will never be happy togeth- er—I feel convinced of it.” | | Mrs. “Don’t say so, Edith—think what it means for them both.” “I do. I have thought about them a great deal ,and your news only sur- prises me because I should have imag- ined Elsie’s love of self would have | prevented her from acting so foolishly. | It is not right to speak so to you, as she | is your sister; but, though you never admit her faults, you must be aware of | them. And you have no idea where Blsie can have gone?” “Not the least in the world. I wish J | had, that I might help Claude to find | her.” Mrs. Gardiner looked at Judith thoughtfully for a moment, then she asked, suddenly: “Judith, where did Edith Chatswor- | thy settle after her marriage with | Capt. Barclay?” “Edith?” exclaimed Miss Hatfield, “What put Edith Barclay into your head? I never thought of her, and Elsie would be more likely te go to her than anyone.” Mrs. Gardiner laughed softly as she | patted Judith’s head. “Pwo heads are better than one, dearie, sometimes,” she remarked; “but I am really surprised that you never thought of wild Edith and her friend- | ship for Elsie.” “So am I; but I never thought of her in conjunction with Elsie’s flight. What Claude and tell them to go there?” “Don’t get excited, dear; listen quiet- ly to me and remember with whom you have to deal. Edith is an exceptional schemer and practised fibber, who would be ready with any lie for Elsie’s friends if it suited her to keep your sis- ter’'s sceret. Your only chance is to take Mrs. Barelay by surprise, and do not utter a word to Claulde or your father until you have her reply. Go up to town yourself and see her ,and if you “ail to get anything satisfactory out of her, tell Claude to have her watched.” “But Elsie would hardly take refuge with Edith Barclay, fearing we might seek her there.” “That may be; but Mrs. Barclay will probably know her hiding place. At any zate, it is worth trying, more espe- cially as I am inclined to the belief that by this time Miss Elsie will only be too glad to-return to Claude. She is a lover of her own comfort, and has had, sufficient time to draw compari- sons between being cared for by a lov- ing husband and being thrown upon her own resources. Take my advice— go up to town by the 1:15 express, then go straight to Mrs. Barclay, and don’t be put off seeing her. Be firm and keep is, one can easily tell when Edith Bar- clay is telling an untruth. You look grave—why should you hesitate? Think of Claude, Judy!” Judith had been doing so; a moment after she said: “Yes—I will go!” “That's right, dear! Whether your news is satisfactory or unsatisfactory, take it direct to Claude. You will, of course, stay in town the night—your father will arrange that? But you can come home as early as you like in the mornirg.” Judith’s journey was the most tedi- ous that she had ever undertaken; she could not fix her attention upon a book, and, indeed, could hardly appreciate a ! letter from John—which, having come in by the midday post, she had taken with her to read—though it was full of quaint remarks about men and things. “I suppose I am enjoying myself, Judy,” he wound up with, “but heartily wish that I had remained strong enough to wait and go with you, as I should have found more enjoyment in making you laugh than anything here affords me. You know I am afraid to try that with the rest of the family; for the mater gets hot and distressed, telling me that ‘quizzing is vulgarity,’ and the pater asks me, sarcastically if 1 am making susgestions for his next all. Only you understand that I can no more help thinking of nonsense ‘thin L ean hely being a eripple. I wish you were here for another reason. I daily meet a young girl who is very nearly as badly crippled as I am, and I feel a most desp2rate desire to speak to her; for, when she is not looking sad, there is such an amused, take-in-everything sort of look in her brown eyes that I long to compare notes with her. Of course, I dare not speak. though I de {and to Lorne R¢ not think she or her attendant woukt mind much—her eyes are so 3oft and you were here, you would break the ice for us; as it is—to Mr. Punch’s at least—he and she are strangers yet.” He had enclosed a sketch, which sent Judith into fits of laughter when she understood it, later; but in the train she put it away, seeing only a group of well-drawn sheep on.a rugged hill with the sea in the distance, at the foot of which he had written, “Sunday on Seaview Hill—A Happy Family.” On a second and closer examination sue understood what the “Happy Family” meant, for there was something so ri- diculously suggestive in the attitudes and the expressions he had put into the faces of his sheep that she identified each one as a member of the Hattield famiiy—Mr. Hatfield lying down, with his head on one side, looking pensively out to sea, Mrs. Hatfield beside him, with her mouth open, in the act of fret- fully bleating, Lucey and Frank as lambs, gamboling at a little dis cez while John himself, represented as a misshapen, creoked-legged sheep, stood apart regarding them all; late ie learned that he had not accompanied them. Judith w: warm, dusty and tired when she reached town; but, having swallowed a cup of tea at the terminus, | she proceeded to fhe Metropolitan rail- way, where she took train for Rich- | mond. She did not at all care about | her task, for, if there was one person | in the world whom she thoroughly dis- | trusted and disliked, that person was | Edith Barclay, nee Chatworthy. | Two years previous Miss Chatwor- thy had arrived on a visit to Mrs. Gardiner, and, being consequently, | thrown very much into the society of | the Hatfields, she had speedily selected | them as her especial friends. Mrs. | Gardiner knew very little about the! girl, having only met her in town at} the house of an aunt, where she al-| ways behaved so like a lady that the | vicar’s wife, wou over by an artfully- | worded story of her friendlessness, | kindly asked her fo visit her. | Arrived at Claxton Vicarage, Mi Chatworthy proved to be little better than a thorough-paced flirt and adven- | turess. She went out boating, fish'ng and walking at all hours with oft | the Claxton young men who asked he hired horses and flies for drives, in ed her acquaintances to the vicarag enticed Elsie into all sorts of disreput ble scrapes, ana at length so dis kindly-intentioned Mrs. Gardir her conduct that that lady was to ask her to terminate her visi That Miss Chatworthy profes self obliged to do, she having promi to spend a fortnight with the Hatfields; d she went, foolisb Mrs. Hatfield having regarded her conduct from Elsie’s point of view in| preference to heeding the remonstran- | ees of Mrs. Gardiner, a plece of folly she had to regret when Miss Chatwor- thy had taken her departure at the end | of a month, ard the bills she had in- curred for confectionery, haberdashery, boating and riding were sent to the) Hatfields for payment. Elsie per in keeping up a cor- respondence with Miss Chatworth, who 2p’ red to he no home relations. For eighteen mon reported her as being at places, until last, after a short Jence, she received a letter announc that Miss Chatworthy had met a cap- | tain in the merchant service at Ports- | mouth, who had fallen in love with her | and married her. Since then Judy had | only heard that Captain and Mrs. Ba clay lived at Myrtle Cottage, Rich- mond, and thither, with anything but pleasant antic ions. she was bound. | She had littie difficulty in finding the cottage—an urtidy-looking little place, with an uncared-for garden, dingy lace curtains to its four windows, venetian blinds all awry and a very dirty deo step. However, a tidy-looking m: id- | servant answered her knock and s hard at Judith’s dark, pale face, under | the simple black hat ,and at her neatly- | gloved hands and fawn-colored dr: Having decided within herself that the { Servant wis not very intellectual, Ju- | dith altered her original programme by asking, imperatively : “Is Mrs. Townshend within ?’—hop- ing to disconcert the girl and cause her to tell the truth; but she was very much disappointed to receive for 2 re- ly: “s “Mrs. Townshend don’t live here, miss; I don’t know the name at all.” “Bat Mrs. Barclay lives here—I wish to see her. Is she within?” 1 “¥e—es, miss’--and the girl’s stolid | face grew very red—“but she won't see any one, especially if it’s charity.” “It isn’t anything of that sort, my good girl. Mrs. Barclay is—an ac- quaintance of mine, and I ara sure she will see me at once. Kindly show me the way to her!” And with an air that | completely subdued the girl, Judith stepped over the threshold, and smil- ing, half-gloomily, half-amusedly,. fol- owed the girl to the nearest door, which she flung open, saying, “A lady to see you, mum,” and shut the visitor in. t For a moment Judy was only con-) scious that she was in the watidiest room that she had ever seen im her life. The dingy curtains were looped up anyhow, the common-looking; chintz covered furniture was dusty and’ disar+ ranged, the gaudy carpet was littered, and in the window, huddled up on h perch, was 2 miserable-looking can: The cheap-looking, open piano was | strewn with music, and some books:and | knick-kancks on the small center-tabie | had been pushed aside to make room for a japai.ned tea-tray set for two per- sons. Just as Judith’s heart gave a heavy throb as the thought struck her that Elsie might have used one of} those very cups, a voice behind her said, mockingly: “Oh, what a surprise! Judy Hatfield, as I’m a living sinner. Thave beer looking at you all this time, but hare only just discovered your identity. How are you, Judith? Very pleased to see you! But—excuse my rising, won’t you?—my spine is weak, and my doe- tor has ordered me to Hie on my back for eight hours a day.” During this speech Judith discovered that on the sofa behind the door lay Mrs. Barclay looked pretty, with her thickly-lashed gray exes, smal? features and nice color, but as untidy as the yoom in her faded pink silk piegnoir, with dirty lace at meck an@ wrists. She held a paper-bound novel in one hand, while the other was limply held out for her visitor to shake. “Make yourself at home. and come and tell me all the news,” Mrs. Barclay resumed, with her customary quickness in taiking; “and don’t mind me saying, Juaith, that I find you very much al- tered. You are thinner than ever! ‘The cares and responsibilities of that fami-! | I | ly are making you look old before your | Press, ‘ m | I don’t blame time. Why don’t you cut it, aud get married? I should, in your place. How's my chum, Elsie? Bless her! I jump>d for joy when I read in the paper the announcement of her marriage; but it wasn't kind of her to omit sending me cards, I suppose, though, that Some- body Townshend, Esq., of somewhere in the North and somewhere else at Claxton, is a cut above a captain in the merchant service, though I wouldn't have ‘elieved that Elsie would have ever become proud.” 2 Having made two or three vain ef- forts to obtain a hearing ,Judith fol- lowed Mrs. Gardiner’s advice gud watched Mrs. Barclay’s face as Bhe chattered. There was 3 set smile on it that the girl did not like, and the rest- less eyes never met hers for a second. Judith was so intent on watching and trying to make up her mind which would be the best way to set about her task that her companion found the ep- portunity to take breath and go om again. And how’s my friend John, with the wicked dark eyes and the variable tem- per? Pity he met with that misfortuae, Judith—there’s a splendid nan spoiled! I almost fell in love with him. You are tired, and had better have a cup of tea. Sorry I didn’t you were coming. A frietd of mine called to see how I was getting on—my hus nd is 2way—and we had tea together; but I'll just ring the bell—” “No, thank you,” replied Judith. “£ felt so tired when I reached town that I had a cup of tea at the terminus.” “Did you go into that ref buffet alone? Oh, dear me, wha I dare not do that sort of t the men stare so that I lose all m. nerve, instant quiet-looking persoi better able to look afte: fort than we poor, frivolous-looki girls. There’s Elsie, now. 'm suret if she was to go alene into such aj the men would mob her—they would, indeed! I suppose she has not tered?” Judith laid her gloved hand on ene of the limp white ones near her. “Mrs. Barclay—Edith,” 1 may as well confess t ng to prevent my asking you about e, but you cauno E here with you, I feel convinced, or you know where she is.” An unwusical peal of laught« ed her. “Poor old girl!” exclaimed Mrs. clay. “I thought you looked strange; I do believe you are suffer from sunstroke. Have ne sod W ter—do! You are quite ligh j Judith ight into the prett fected expression of 8 what tr I ne age! your 0 1ee headed ble we are all in about her. tell you that we are anxious, husband is q should have never the ent to you before, nt of it until this with me now, Editi water, Judith; 3 en her wheres Judith; “but Iam 7 forgive yeu for bet knows how Claude sure that, if I could only dozen words with her, s sent to return. Please te t when she is Miss Hattield, esp not here. I don’t mind I have seen her—indeed. that she ¢ame to me oF ing, but when she v fused to say where she wa I ean also teil you one even if she saw you, you would not in duce her te return to her husband—and her. A man who could browbeat aud insult a young wife as he insulted her is not a fit man to-b married.” “You are hardly in a position, to judge of Mr. Townshend's merits or de- merits,” Judith returned, warmly. “No doubt Elsie, in the heat of the moment, somewhat overstated her grievance to you, but in a calmer moment, she could not but attest to her husband's good- ness.”” “Well,” replied Mrs. Barclay, withan ironical laugh, “she told me that she had made a mistake in marrying, Mr. Townshend. Oh, no; Elsie made no confession of love for the middle-aged mari, L assure you; indeed, she: sad that one of her sisters had lavished up- on him rather more of that sentiment than was desirable. You see; 1 know the whole stcry.” Judith rose, her face aflame; as much on Elsie’s account as her own) an looking straight at her tormentor, saiv “IT hope Elsie will never regret: m ing you her confidant, Mrs. Barciay. L will admit Sunday 1 am sorry you cannot find it) im your heart to do a generous action, if only. in return for Elsie’s staunch frie¢nd+ ship; which did not fail you when ev- ery one else was against you: Won't you do so? Let me implore you?” she added, pleadingly. “You forget, 1 do not know where si is. You must really excuse my wish: ing you gocd evening, Miss Hattield;” and she bowed in a ceremonious fash- jon that left Judith no other altermma- tive than to take her departure. (To Be Continued.) Making Him Understand It. “I see,” said Mr. Wallace, “that some man in Chicago lived nineteen years ow beer alone.” “And I waint to say,” said’ Mrs. Wal- lace, “that if you tried it that would be the way you would live—alpne.”— Cincinnati Enauirer. Those Tell-Tale. Reportees.. ie “Well, dear, did you notice thas s\ \ came home early last night?” Wife—Yes; 1 noticed in this mern- ing’s paper that the apparatus for heat- ing the club rooms would not be in working order before tonight.”—De- troit Free Press. Connected Lt With Cyclones. Kansas Cousin—What do you call this cellar? Miss Emersenian Goggles—This is our famous new subway, “Gosh! I didn’t know ye had any such high winds here!—Cleveland, Plain Dealer. r “It beat: Mh ery ats all how some people spend money.” . ee _“Yes: and it beats all how some peo- ple get money to spend.”"—Detroit Pree L 9