The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, March 17, 1895, Page 17

THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, MARCH 17, 1895. [Continued.] I see her, whether she | -hipered back; and, with od-night, 1 Willie’s arm hurried him off. Charlie was left alone with Calder. “What the deuce did she mean?”’ asked Calder. “I don't know,” answered Charlie. “Where did you meet her?” “Oh, down at home. The fellow she was with isa son of a tenant of ours; she’s going to marry him.” 1e’s a nice little girl, but I'm hanged if I know what she meant. And, as the one was thinking exclusively tha Glyn and the other spared a t for no one but Ag: Brown, they did not arrive at an explanation. One result, however, that chance encoun- or had. The next morning Miss Agatha n received a letter in the following terms: Madam: I hope you will ing, but I think vO! Charles him t and excuse me intrud- d wish to know that on and that I met ith Mr.Wentworth. As you vou hed passed Mr. Merce- or three in o Lang Mars! could not mal out how far happene 1 at Lang not know it. Of course r Mr. Wentworth i . 1 should be much 50 kind as to tell me gentlemen again. Mr. K me f & Tortntghd 11 am, madam, TTIE WALLACE. nd with Calder!” ex- “OH; dear! oh, yours re 3 “In London, claimed Agatha Glyn. < ANTHONY S W . v cept when Nellie got a pen in her hand and set herself to compose a polite letter. The expedition, was, of course, te see the Chase—the old home of the Lords Warm- ley, for which Agatha felt a sentimental attraction. She had told herself that some day, if she were rich (and Lord Thrapston not being rich she must have had some other resource in her mind), she would buy back Langbury Chase and get rid of the Mercerons altogether. There were oan a widow and a boy, she had heard, an v should have their price. So she went to the Chase in the businesslike mood of a possible purchaser (Calder could afford anything), a8 well as in the romantic mood of a girl escaped from every-day surronnd- ings and plunging into a past full of inter- est to her. Had she not also read of Agatha Merceron? And in this mixed mood she remained till one evening at the pool she had met “the boy.” mood became more mixed still. Shedared not now look back on the struggles she had gone through before her meeting with the boy became first a daily evemt, and | event. She had indulged It was not to last; but overpoweringly sweet to be gazed at by eyes that did not remind her of frogs, and to see swiftly da her a lithe, stra head that, Lord Byron then the dai herself for one for once it ws ight figure crowned with a she said, reminded her of But, alas! alas, why- had | nobody told her that the boy was like that before she went? Why did her grand- father take no care of her? Why did Calder never show any interest in what she did? Why, in fine, was everybody so cruel as to let her do exactly what she liked, and thereby get into a scrape like this? One thing was certain. If that boy were in London she must avoid him. They QN '\ N\ “IS IT POSSIBLE THAT IT IS YOU?”» ] dear! oh, dear! wish place! Then she took up the letter and rere: “I}{e and I mustn’t meet, that’s all,’ ¢ What is to be done? I I'd never gone back to the wretched | dit. | 88 Then she slowly tore the letter into very small pieces and put them in the waste basket. “‘Calder has no idea where I was,” she said, and she sat down by the window and | looked out over ‘the park for nearly ten | minutes. g “‘Ah, well! 2 I should like to see him just | once again. Dear old Pool!” said she. = | Then ghe suddenly action ohly to be excused in one in her position, and burdened with her sins, by | the fact of her having at the moment a | peculiarly vivid vision of Millie Busnell going head first out of a canoe. CHAPTER VIL. » { The first Viscount Thrapston had been | an eminent public character and the sec- | ond a respectable private person; the third had been neither.” And yet there was some good in the third. He had loved his only | son with a fondness rare to find, and for | ten whole years, while the young man was | between 17 and 27, the old lord lived for his sake a life open’to no reproach. Then the son died, leaving a lately married wife and a baby girl, and Lord Thrapston, de- prived at once of hope and of vestraint, returned to his old courses till age came upon him and drove him from ractice into reminiscence. Mrs. Glyn ad outli her husband fifteen years and then followed him, fairly snubbed tq death, some said, by her formidable father- in-law. The danghter was of sterner stuff, and early discovered for herself that noth: ing worse than a scowl or a snarl was to be feared. On her, indeed, descended a relic of that tenderness her father had en- joyed, #nd Agatha used to the full the ad- vantages it gave her. She knew her own importance. It isnot every girl who will be a peeress in her own right, and she amused her grandfather by caimly inform- ing him that it was not on the whole a sub- ject for regret that she had not been a boy. *You see,” said she, “‘we get rid of the new viscounty, and it’s much better to be Warmley than Thrapston.” The fact that she was some_day to be “Warmley” was the mainspring of that hare-brained aunt to Lang )Farsh in com- any with Nettie Wallace. Nettie was the aughter of Lord Thx:\(;nston's housekeeper, and the two girls had been intimate in youth, much as Charlie Merceron and Wil- ie Prime had been atthe Chase;and when Nettie, scorning servitude, set up in life for herself Agatha gave her custom and did not withdraw her friendship. In return, she received an allegiance which refused noue of her behests and a regard which abolished all formality between them ex-1 | to tell “Calder. began to laagh—an |, must never meet. It was nonsense for Mr. Sigismund Taylor to talk of making a clean breast of it—of a dignified apology to Charlie, conpled with 2 no less dignified intimation that their acquaintance must be regarded as closed. Mr. Taylor knew nothing of the world. He even'wanted her ’r. No. She was truly and properly penitent, and she hoped that she received all he said in that line ina right spirit; but when it came toa question of expediency she would rather have Mrs, Blunt’s advice than that of a thousand Mr. Taylors. So she wrote to Mrs. Blunt and ked her to lunch, and Mrs Blunt, being n _ accomplished painstaking and having no reason to suppose that her young friend desired a confi!:ien(ial inter- view, at once cast about for some one whom Agatha would like to meet. She did not ask Calder Wentworth—she was not so commonplace as that—but she in- vited Victor - Sutton, and, delighting in a happy flush of inspiration, she added Mr, Vansittart Merceron. The families were connected in_ some way, she knew, and Agatha certainly ought to know Mr. Mer- ceron. Accordingly, when Agatha arrived she found Victor, and she Lad not been there five minutes' before the butler, throwin open the door, announced “Mr. Merceron.’ Uncle Van had reached that state of body when he took his time over stairs, and be- tween the announcement and his entrance there was time for Agatha to exclaim, quite audibly : “On!” “What's the matter, dear?” asked Mrs. Blunt; but Uncle Van’s entrance forbade a reply and left Agatha blushing, but re- lieved. Was she never ‘to hear the end of that awful story? It might be natural that, her hereditary connection with the Merce. rous being disclosed, Mr. Vansittart should discourse of Langbury Chase, of the Pool, and of Agatha Merceron; but was it neces- sary Victor Sutton should chime in with the whole history of the canoe and Miss Bushnell, or joke with Mr. Merceron about his nephew’s heart affairs? The whole topic seemed in bad taste, and she won- dt‘ed that Mrs. Blunt did not discourage it® But what horrible creatures men wera! Did th really think it impossible for a [ gir] to like to talk to a man for an hour or $0 in the evening without —? “You must let me bring my nephew t meet. Miss Glyn,” said Unclo Yan, gra ciously, to his hostess. “She is so interest- ed in the family histogy that she and Charlie would get on like wildfire. He's mad about it.”” “In fact,” sniggered Victor (Miss Glyn always detested that man), ““so interested that, as you hear, he went to meet Agatha Merceron every evening for a fortnight !’ “You'll be delighted to meet him, won't when the | ing toward | hostess, | HeRE w2 G..,:.(_"\L you, Agatha? We must arrange a day,” | said Mrs. Blunt. o | “Calder knows him,” added Victor. “He’s an idle young dog,” said Uncle Van, “but a nice” fellow. A little flighty and fanciful, as boys will be, but no harm | in him. You mustn’t attach too much im _ | portance to our chaff about his meetings at the Pool, Miss Glyn; we don’t mean | any harm.”” | Agatha tried to smile, but the attempt | was not a brilliant success. She stam- | mered that she would be delighted to meet | Charles Merceron, swearing in her heart | that sooner she would start for Terra del | Fuego. But her confession to Mrs. Blunt | would save her, if only these odious men | would go. They had had their coffee and | their liqueurs and_their cigarettes. What | more, in heaven’s name, could even a man want to proFifiaw the god of his idolatry ? Apparently the guests themselves be- came aware that they were tresp: TUncle Van, turning to his host blandest smile, remarked : “I hope we're not staying too long. The is, my dear Mrs. Blunt, you're always so kind that we took the liberty of telling Calder Wentworth to call for us here. He | ought to have come by now.” Mrs. Blunt declared that she wouid be offended if they thought of going before Calder came. Agatha rose in despair; the confession must be put off. She held out her hand to her hostess. At this moment the doorbell rang. “That’s him,” said Victor. “Sit down again for a minute, dear,” urged Mrs. Blunt. There was renewed hope for the confes- sion. Agatha sat down. But hardly had she done so before the strangest presenti- ment came over her. She heard the door below open and shut, and it was borne in upon her mind that two men had entered. | How she guessed it she could not tell, but | as as she sat there she had no doubt at all | that Charlie Merceron had come with Cal- | der Wentworth. Escape was impossible, | but she walked across to the window and | stood there with her back to the wall. | “Mr. Wentworth!” she heard, and then jculting the servant short, came Calder’s voice. t “I_took the liberty—" he began; and , for with his he did not know how he went on, for her head was swimming. | “Agatha! Agatha, dear!” | Blunt. | Perforce whe turned, passing her hand | quickly across her brow es! It was so. | There he stood by Calder’s side, and Calder was sa, | Ty | ceron.” | She would mnot look at Ck She | moved slowly forward, her s fixed on | Calder, and bowed with a little set smile. | Luckily people pay slight attention to one | another’s expressions on social occasions, | or they must all have noticed her agit; tion. Asit was, only Calder Wentworth looked curiously at her before he turned aside to shake hands with Uncle Van. Then she felt Charlie Merceron coming cailed Mrs. ng: car Agatha, this is Charlie Mer- voice. *Is it possible that it’s you?” he asked in a low voice. Then she looked at him. His face was pale and his eyes eagerly straining to read what might be in hers. “Hush¥’ she whispered. ‘“Yes. Hush!” hush!” "{i_m, but he called you Glyn?” YIS “And he says you're engaged to him.” Agatha clasped her hands and Calder’s voice broke in between them: ‘‘Come along, Merceron. we're waiting | for you.” | “They've got_into antiquities already,” | smiled_ Mrs. Blunt. *“You must come | again, Mr. Merceron, and meet Miss Glyn. A\‘fusm'z he, Agatha?” Agatha threw one glance at him. “If he will,” she said. Charlie pulled himself together, muttered something appropriate and shuffled out under his uncle’s wing. Mr. Vansittart | was surprised to find him a trifle confused and awkward in society. Outside the house Charlie ranged up side Calder Wentworth, leaving U Van and Sutton together. “Well, what do you think of her?” asked Calder. Charlie gave no opinion. He asked just one}?uesuon: hl How long have you been engaged to er?’ ‘“‘How long? Oh, let’s see. About—yes, just about a year: I never knew that | there was a sort of connection between | you and her—a sort of relationship, you know. 1 ain’t strong on the peerage.”” ‘A sort of connection!” There was that in more senses than the one Calder had | been told of-by Uncle Van. There was a connection that poor Charlie thought | heaven itself had tied on those summer | evenings by the Pool, which to strengthen | and confirm forever he had sallied from | his home, like a knight in searcn of his | mistress the world overinolden days. And | he found her—such as this girl must be. | Stay! He did not know all yet. Perhaps | she had been forced into a bond she hated. He knew that hnp{)ened. Did not stories | tell of it, and moralists disclaim against it? | This man—this creature, Calder Went- | worth—was buying her with his money, | forcing himself on her, brutally capturing her. Of course! How could. he have | doubted her? Charlie dropped Calder’s arm as though ithad been made of red-hot iron. 1 “Hullo!” exclaimed that worthy fellow unconscious of offense. Charley stopped short. “I can’t come,” he said. “I—I've re- membered an engagement”; and without more he turned away and shot out of sight around the nearest corner. “Well, 'm_hanged!” said Calder Went- worth, and with a puzzled frown he joined 4 his other friends. CHAPTER VIIL . Leit alone with Mrs. Blunt, Agatha sank | into the nearest chair. | “A very handsome young man, isn't he?’ askedgthe good old lady, pushing a chair back into its place. “He'll be an ac- quisition, I think.” Agatha made no answer, and Mrs, Blunt, glaucmg' at her, found her devouring the carpet with a stony stare. ““What on earth's the matter, child ?” “I'm the wretchedest, wickedest girl alive,” declared Agatha. ““Good gracious!” “‘Mrs. Blunt, who do you think was in the summer-house "when Mr. Merceron went there?”’ “My dear, are you ill? You jump about so from subject to snbject.” “It’s all one subject, Mrs. Blunt. There wa;a‘{x ifl the;e"’ Gt X ‘Well, my dear, and if there was? Boys will be boys, and I'm sure there was 1’1’0 harm.” , S Oh!"” “‘No harm! “‘Agatha, are you crazy?” demanded Mrs. Blunt, with an accent of sternness. fancy,” pursued Agatha in be- ncle £ “Could Jancy. espairing- playfulness, mimicking Uncle Van’s manner, “how Miss Bushellglookad, and how Victor looked, and how eyerybody looked?. Could I fancy it? Why, I was there ! “There! Where?"’ “Why, in that wretched little temple. I | was the girl, Mrs. Blunt. I—I—I was the | milkmaid, as Mr. Sutton says. I was the | country wench! Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!” Mrs. Blunt, knowing her sex, held out a bottle of salts. “I'm not mad,” said Agatha, “You're nearly hysterical.” Agatha took a long sniff, | nearer, and a second later she heard his | “I think I can tell you now,” she said, more calmly. But was ever & girl in such an awful position before?” It is needless 1o repeat what Mrs. Blunt said. Her censures will have been long ago anticipated by every right-thinking P"W“. and if she softened them down a ittle more than strict justice allowed, it must have been because Agatha was an old antipathy. TUpon her word she always wondered that the poor child, brought up by that horrid old man, was not twice as bad as she was, “But what am I to do about them?” cried Agatha, “Them”’ evidently meant Calder and “Do! Why, there’s nothing todo. You must just apologize to Mr. Merceron, and tell him that an end had better be pur— ““Oh, I know—Mr. Taylor said that; but, Mrs. Blunt, I don’t want an end to be put to our acquaintance. I' like him very, Bfilrlyumuch. Oh, and he thinks me horrid! ““Takeanother sniff,” advised Mrs. Blunt. Of course, if Mr. Merceron is willing to acquaintance—'’ **Oh, but I know he won’t. Charlie—"’ “Knew who, Agatha?” “Mr. Merceron,” said Agatha, in a very humble voice. “If you knew him at all, you'd know he wouldn’t do that.” “Then you must send him about his If you knew him_atrociously, but Calder Wentworth must be considered first; that is if you care two straws for gin to doubt.” ¢“Oh, I do, Mrs. Blunt!” ‘‘Agatha, these men. “Don’t talk as if there were a dozen of them, dear Mrs. Blunt. There are only two."” “‘One too many,” “Yes, I know. Yon—you see, 'm—I'm accustomed to Calder.” |7 “Oh, are you?” “Yes. Don’t be unkind, Mrs. Blunt. And a charming change—that— ““Upon my word. you might b grandfather. Talk about heridity sen, and all that.” “Can’t you. help me, dear Mrs. Blunt?" “I can’t give you two husbands, if that’s what you want. There, child, don’t cry. Never mind me. Have another sniff.” “I shall go home,” said Agatha. “‘Per- hapf’ grandpapa may be able to advise me. you your and Tb- favorite of hers, and Lord Thrapston an old | let bygones be bygones, and just be an | business. Oh, yes, I know. You’ve treated | the poor fellow, which I be- | ‘“Yes, dear; but you shouldn’t swear, should you?' Lord Thrapston felt that he had spoiled the moral effect of his regroof. and with- out dwelling further on that aspect of the subject, he addressed his mind to the more practical question. The outcome, differ- ent as the source was, was the same old verdict. “We must tell Calder, my dear. Itisn’t right to keep him in the dark.” “I can’t tell him. Why must he be told ?”” “Well,” said Lord Thrapston, “it's just possible, Aggy, that he may have some- thing to say to it, isn’t it?’ “Idon’t mind what he says,”’ declared Agatha. “Eh? Why, I thought you were so fond of him.” “So0Iam.” “And as you're going to marry him—" “I never said I was going to marry him. I only said he might be engaged to me, if he liked.” “Oho! So this young Merceron—" “Not at all, grundpapa. Oh, I do wish somebody would help me!” Lord Thrapston rose from his seat. “You must do what you like,” he said, “I'm going to tell Calder.” “Oh, why ?” “Because,” he answered, *“I’'m a man of honor.” Before the impressive invocation of her grandfather’s one religion Agatha’s cppo- sition collapsed. “I suppose he must be told,” she ad- mitted mournfully. ‘I expect he’ll never speak to me again, and I'm sure Mr. Mer- ceron won’t”’; and she sat on the footstool the picture of dejection. 5 Lord Thrapston was moved to enunciate u shameless girl, which of | a solemn truth. “Aggy,” said he, shaking his finger at her, “in this world you can't have your fun for nothing.”” But then he spoiled it by adding regretfully, “More’s the pity!” {and off he hobbled to thé club, intent on then Gharlic was something so new-such | finding Calder Wentworth. For some time after he went Agatha sat on her stool in deep thought. Then she Tose, sat down at the writing-table, took a pen and began to bite the end of it. At last she started to write. Idon’t know whether I ought towrite or not, but I must tell you how it happened. Oh, don’t think too badly of me! I came down just | because I had heard so much about the Chase, and I wanted to see it, and 1 came as I did with ttie Wallace just for fun. I never meant to v T was a dressmaker, you know; but people would ask questions, and I had to say some- thing. I never, néver thought of you. thought you were about 15. And, you know— | oh! you must know—that I met you quite by RN T \ No %o DNy e v. - o ‘\\\}\\ ; Z@Q)J&fi 5 X ¢ o == ‘“AGATHA, ARE YOU CRAZY ?” “Your grandfather! Good gracious, girl, you're never going to tell him!” “Yes, I shall. 1‘.rnndyapu’s had a lot of experience; he says so.’ “I should think he had!” whispered Mrs. Blunt with uplifted hands. ““Good-by, Mrs. how unhappy I am. Thanks; yes, a han- som please. Mrs. Blunt, are you going to ask Mr. Merceron here again?’’ Mrs. Blunt’s toleration was exhausted. ‘‘Be off with you!” she said sternly, poll;nnng a forefinger at the door. Y Lord Thrapston at home. Drawing a foot- stool beside his chair she sat down. Her agitation was past and she wore a gravely businesslike air. ‘“‘Grandpapa,” she began. “I have got something to tell you.” “‘Go ahead, my dear,” said the old gen- tleman, stroking her golden air. er {)azher had curls ?ike that when he was a 0y. “Something dreadful I've done, you kno:v‘. But you won’t be, very angry, will ou?”’ % “We'll see.” “You oughtn’t to be because you're not very good yourself, are you2” and she first glanced up into his burnt-out old eyes and then pressed her lips on his knotted, lean o e he, “I t lay th y,"’ said he, ‘I expect you play the denceg%\'ith the yo"lng felFows, donPt you?"” Adgatlm laughed softly, but a frown suc- ceeded. . “That’s just it,’’ she said. “Now, you're to listen and not interrupt, or I shall never be able to manage it. And you'remnot to look at me, grandpa.” 3 The narrative—that thrice-told tale— began. As the comments of Mr. Taylor and Mrs, Blunt were omitted, those of Lord Thrapston may well receive like treatment, more esgnecillly as they tended 1ot to edification; but before his grand- daughter had finished her story the old man_ had sworn softly four times and chuckled audibly twice. “I knew there was a girl in that temple soon as Calder told me,” said he. *‘But you didn’t know who it was. Oh, and Calder doesn’t?” “Not he. Wen,l?;on’ve made a pretty lit- tle fool of yourself, missie. What are you gomiw do now? “‘That's what you've got to tell me.” . “I? Oh, I daresay. No, 1o; you got into the scrape and you can get out of it. And—" He suddenly recollected his du- ties. “‘Look here, Agatha. I must—hang it, Agatba, I shouldn’t be doing my dx}ty as—as a grandfather if I didn’t say that it’s a monstrous disgraceful thing of you to have done. Yes, — disgraceful, by heav- en”; and he took a pinch of enuif with an air of severe virtue, reat good fortune Agatha found | | lunt. You don’t know | accident, and was just as surprised as you were. And the rest was all your fault. I didn’t ‘want to come agein I refused ever so many promised you wouldn't and then you did come. It was really all your fault. And I'm very, very sorry, and you must please try to forgive me, dear Mr. Merceron, and do not think mea very wicked girl. I had no idea of coming every evening, but you per- suaded me. And how could I tell you I was engaced® You know you never asked me. I would have told you if you had. Iam tellin Mr. Wentworth all about it, and 1 don’t thin] you ought to have persuaded me to meet you asIdid. Itwasn'treally kindor nice of you, was it? Because, of course, 'm not very old, and I never thought of all the horrid thinge people would say. Do, please, keep this quite a secret. I felt I mustwrite you justaline. I wonder what you're thinking about me, or whether yowre thinking about me at all. Youmust never think of me again. I am very, very unhappy, and I do_most earnestly hope, dear Mr. Merceron, that I have not made rou unhappy. We were both very much to lame, weren’t we? But we slipped into it without knowing. Good-by. I don’t think I Ih':x‘ll ever forget the dear old Pool, and the teniple, and—tne resi. But you must please forget me and forgive me. 1am very miserable about it, and about everything. I think we had better not know each other any more, so gluue don’t answer this. Just put it in the rp and think no more aboutit, norme. I wanted to tell you all this when I saw you to- day, but I couldn’t. Good-by. Why did we ever meet? AGATHA GLYN. _She read this rather confused composi- tion over twice, growing more sorry for herself each time. Then she put it in an envelope, addressed it to Charlie, looked out Uncle Van in the directory, and sent it under cover to his residence. Then she went and lay down on the hearth rugand began to cry, and through her tears she said aloud to herseli: “I wonder whether he'll write or come.” Because it seemed to her entirely im- possible that, in spite of her prayer, he should put the letter in the fire and let her go. Surely, he, too, remembered the dear old Pool, and the temple, and—the rest! [To be continued.] Copyright, 1895, by Anthony Hope. you know times; and you come if 1 came, Meissonier’s ¢ Meissonier’s favorités among his own pictures were the ‘‘Siege of Paris,” the “Death Scene,” which is at Amsterdam; the ‘“‘Barricade,” which he had present to_Eugene Delacroix; the ‘‘Prayer,” the “Virgin of 8t. Mark,”” the “Tuilleries,” amson,”’ ““1807” and ““1814.” The “1807" is in the New York Metropolitan Museum, having been bought by the late A. T. Stewart and presented fo the museum by his busiress successor, Judge Hilton, It is one of the artist’s largest and most labored works, and he appears to have been at infinite pains to secure historical accuracy in the details. For instance, he learned from an officer who had served under Ney that that general had been in the habit of wearing his capote with the sleeves hanging loose, after the fashion of a hussar'’s jacket, and Ney is so painted in the picture. Having adverted to his idea of giving merely a hint of war’s destruction by the trampling down of a field of unri grain, he added: ‘‘How many diffict might I not have avoided by replacing this green field with dust!” Doubtless the trouble that the picture had cost him made it seem to him more perfect than it really is. Yet he always regretted not having begun it earlier, when there were more veterans of the Napoleonic wars alive to supply him with further details. An unacknowledged feeling of dissatis- faction with the picture, partly on this, ganly on purely arlistic grounds, was per- aps at the botfom of his painting the sub- ject all over again in water colors, quite as much as the desire to have it engraved. This water color was bought for 200,000 francs by M. Simond. The original picture cost Judge Hilton 250,000 francs. e need hardly add that it is now considered one of thechief treasures of the Metropolitan Museum.—Art Amateur. GIRLS OF ANCIENT ROME. Their Life as Compared With That of the New Young Women of To-Day. That a stern Roman matron such as “Volumnia, the mother of Coriolanus,” as Shakespeare describes her, should ever have had a girlhood, with all its natural playfulness and sweet simplicity, is diffi- cult to imagine. Itis not easy to picture to oneself Portia, the wife of Brutus, in short dresses and dandling and dressing a primitive doll. And yet we are assured by Professor Peck that the ancient girls that seem to have grown old long ages before our civilization began were at one period of their lives very much like the ‘new women” of to-day. There were many an- xious parents in Rome when Julius Cewsar was swimming the Tiber with Cassius “on araw and gusty day” who were commun- ing among themselves and seriously con- sidering the momentous question of “‘what will we do with our girls?” ‘Women’s rights were not understood, or, if understood, were but little heeded in these “brave days of old.” In fact, the troubles of the little beings who had the misfortune to be born females began at a very early age. Shortly aiter their en- trance into the world they were laid down on the ground before their honorable papa for consideration. If he ordered them to be raised, raised they were in a double sense—then and there from their low es- tate on the cold, cold ground, and also morally and educationally raised. The boy baby was subjected to a similar low treatment at his birth. If the father was silent and passed away from the presence of the baby without making a sign it was understood that he should never again be called to look upon the face of the unwel- come little stranger. 1In this early stage of being the prospects of the modern baby have improved very largely. It is needless to pursue the life of the little one, who, if she belonged toa good family, had a name given to her eight days after her birth. As time went on she passed through the ordinary infant mala- dies, if not without suffering it may be presumed that at least she made little noise over them. Italian babies do not cry. They are wrapped up in cocoon-like bands and are bandaged more like mum- mies than live babies. This is the rule of to-day and for centuries past so far as Ren- aissance and even pre-Renaissance art show forth. But in the time of the Roman em- pire the same custom of bandaging babies Was in use, as may be seen in the bas-reliefs on the front of Roman sarcophagi dating from that period. When the young girl reached the age of 13 years she was deemed fit for mar- riage. She was engaged_at any age pre- viously, even as early as in her first year. Even, as in France to-day, the rule was that the parents should select the husband for her, but she was not obliged to submit blindly 4o this choice. The law allowed her the right te refuse the party that her parents or guardians deemed eligible. The engagement ring was a simple hoop of iron, as full of zim-m;: symbolism as the daintiest jewel-adorned ring of to-day. And this Ting was worn until marriage rendered it superfluous, and then the highly artistic and richly chased gold hoops, such as fill so many cases in the jewel-room of the Naples Museum, were worn with all grace and honor. While the girl of that ancient period was still capable of being delighted with toys and games, cunning artists supplied all that she could desirein this line. Com- mendatore Lanciani has told us the touch- ing tale oingze revelation made by the con- tents of a nfarble sarcophagus found a few years ago, and though Professor Peck re- ferred at length to the testimony furnishea by the sarcophagus of the modes and man- ners of the young ladies of ancient Rome, he forgot of neglected to mention Signor Lanciani’s connection with and report of this discovery. The sarcophagus contained the skeleton of a young girl, whose name was Crepereia Tryphaena. When the marble coffin, or sarcophagus, was opened, there was seen a number of objects belonging to the deceased, which had been buried with her. Among these was an exquisite little doll, carved of oak, which had grown hard in the water that filled the sarcophagus. On each side of the skull were gold earrings, with pearl drops. A gold necklace with thirty-seven pendants of green jasper was found amon, the bones of the neck. Four rings of solis old were found near the bones of the leit Eand. One of these was an engagement ring, and two hands clasped together, carved in the red jasper stone set in it, indicated that fact. The name of the lover, Philetus, was engraved in the stone set in another, while the third and fourth were plain bands of gold. A wreath of myrtle, fastened with a silver clasp on the forehead, had been placed upon the head of the dead Crepereia. Fragments of cloth found in the segiment at the bottom of the sarcophagus indicated that this girl had been wrapped in a fine linen shroug. It is Lanciani, the director of the exca- vations where this was found, who has also furnished the explanation and interpreta- tion of the contents of this tomb, and which throw such light on Professor Peck’s subject of “Girlhood in Ancient Rome.” It is nearly 1800 years since the feet of this young girl trod the streets of Rome—the style oig letter in which her name is written indicates that period, and that same name reveals that she was not noble by birth, but the daughter of a freedman, a former ser- vant of the noble family of the Creperei. ‘The myrtle wreath on her head tells that she was on the eveof marriage when death came. The doll—which isa representation of a woman, not of a baby, andis jointed— is one of the finest specimens of that kind yet found, and is a foot in height. “Dolls and playthings,” concludes Lanciani, “are not peculiar to children’s tombs. It was custom for young ladies to offer their dolls to Venus or Diana on their wed- ding-day. But this was not the end re- served for Crepereia’s doll. She was doomed to share the sad fate of her young mistress and to be placed with her corpse before the marriage ceremony could be performed.” This, truly, is a very pa- thetic side of the story of girl life in the Rome of the past. The domestic occupations included that which has now almost passed away—the spinning and weaving of cloth. Even in fige highest families the women and daugh- ters were occupied in this task, and Ehe Emperor Augustus, when appearing before the Senators, was always arrayed in robes woven in his own household by his wife, daughter and other female relatives. It was, the highest tribute to a woman's worth and one selected for special mention on_her tombstone, besides that of staying at home, that she spun wool and kept the house.—Baltimore Sun. —————— Secretary Gresham has accepted an in- vitation from the Grant Birthday Associa- tion of Galena, Ill., to deliver the annual address there on General Grant’s birthday, April 27. A feature that will lend especial interest to the celebration this year will be the presentation and unveiling of the Iarge ¥|inting of Lee's surrender, executed by homas Nast. H. H. Kohlsaat of Chicagdo will present the painting to the city of Galena. 5 A BABY CONTRADICTS THE DOCTORS. ANl Are n.ppy,__ghd, and Well, ([SPECIAL TO OUR LADY READEES.) The theories of physicians in regard to female complaints suffer.a * Water- 100 very frequently, when sensible and thinking women take matters into their own hands. < Women are sometimes compelled to act for themselves, because of the suffer- ing forced upen them by incompetent doctors, who are baffled by very simple complaints, because they are not the right sex to comprehend them. Lydia E. Pinkham, when she gave to the world her Vegetable (!ompm}nd, lifted women from the darkness into light. She placed within their reach a guaranty, not only of health, but of del- icacy and self-respect. 3 The following letter is a little story where a “dear little boy” was the “ Waterloo.” “T have taken three bottles of your Vegetable Compound, one package of Sanative Wash, one box of Liver Pills; and now I have a dear little babe four weeks old, and I am well. I have to thank you for this. “I have spent $200.00 for doc- tors’ bills without a a cure. 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