The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 13, 1896, Page 24

B} = 4 THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1896. . AN UNCORVENTIONAL JOURNEY [N SISKIYOU The beginning was conventional enough. There was the usual visit to the ticket of- fice, under the Grand Hotel, and the ‘_xsual exchange of chinking coin for two bits of rustling paper. No journey could have begun under more prosaic circumstances. It tapered off into the unusual and uncon- ventional. 3 There was a school to be taught to begin with and a girl to teacn it to end with. The school and the girl were 500 miles apart, as the crow flies, and 5000 as_civili- zation measures. The girl was in San Francisco, the school in the wilds of Sis- kiyou, behind mountain after mountain piled deep with April snows. There was no misapprehension; the girl knew where the school was and the school knew where the girl was, and each had faith that the school and the girl would come together at ihe appointed hour. The girl haa climbed mountains on foot and on the humble mule. Perhaps some of the spirit of the mule had communi- cated itself to her, for she gave no thought to the difficulties and possible dangers in store, saying only to herself, “I must, I will, Lean.” Perbaps the snow would be melted early in the spring so a horse could travel the trail; perhaps it would not have melted at all and its crust would hold a surefooted horse, and perhaps, on the other hand, it would be just between these extremes—in | a state of yielding. Now, a yielding snow- ‘ bed, twenty feet deep and fifteen miles | wide, is anything but pleasant to cross, especially for a girl five feet two in height. By the time she found soljd footing there | would be little—I should say very little—of her in sight. Still, there were the cther‘ “perhapses.” The girl swept the last one aside and enjoyed her vacation, viewed the Midway and the Streets of Cairo—for it was in the days of the Midwinter—and said, | “Get thee behind me” to all misgivings. | The day of departure came, as such days | have a disagreeable habit of coming, ex- actly on time, wearing a smile as though they thought themselves welcome. The | aforesaid exchange was made at the ticket office and the good-byes said—that is, | those which refuse to be put off with the | threadbare “Perhaps I shall see you again | before I go.”” The Oregon express pulled | out with no more than its usual noise, the porter made beds as composedly as though | no one of importance was on board, and the girl slept the sleep of the unworried. All night the train puffed and scolded its rapid way throuch the Sacramento Valley, smiling in the moonlight; past its orchards in bloom and 1ts fields dressed in deepest green. All the morning it climbed up and flew down amid the wonderful nature-pictures of the mountains, past mossy falls, below castled crags, and ever beside the snow-clad sentinel of Siskiyou. The clackety-clack of tbe wheels played a most aggravating tune. ‘‘How-are-you- going-across-the-snow?” it beat out in its measured accents, and ‘‘What-will-you- do-if-you-can’t-get-there?” until the girl felt that a demon was traveling by her side. At Gazelle the demon gave a fare- well shriek of scorn and prophesied disas- ter as it vanished, leaving the girl behind. She knew what to do next. There was the stage with a driver, and there in front lay range number one with a resting-place on the other side. The journey was tapering. A ride on the front seat of a four-horse stage is not the worst way of getting some- where. The road wound round and round on the hillside, slanting up one way, then turning on itself, yet getting nearer and nearer the summit—like a human life. The summit reached at last, the roads showed brown against the green of the second growth, like a brown serpent spread to restin the sunset’s giow. Then down the other side in the twilight, through the narrow valley in the dark, and up to the gleaming lights of a little town. . The girl was tired. She was not cross, of course; teachers never sllow them- selves to become cross; still it would hard- ly have been agood time to argue with her. Thedriver had told her of the back- ward spring which had kept the snow from melting, and the last few days ofsun which might bave loosened the crust. He had also kindly told her, ‘“Folks saia she never could do the trip and ought not to be allowed to try. If she had no sense herself her friends ought to have some for her”—which was pleasant to hear and made her resolve to go on. The friend who came to meet her was that rara avis, a man of tact. He glanced at the weary eyes and the stubborn mouth and then he said: “Lome on, child, and have a cup of tea before you say a word. ‘We fixed a late supper and let the babies stay up to see you.” Blessed be they who know when not to talk. On the morrow there wasa council of war. If the girl would go she must have a guide, and the guide must be a respon- sible person to be trusted on thatlong solitary ride with only his mountaineer’s eye to guide him over the trail buried by the sncw. There was cne who knew the way and with whom the girl was willing | to go, but would he go? It wasno little thing to aska man to cross that snow twice; a service hardly to be estimated by doilars and cents. * Yes, Wili would go. He liked her de- | | making no effort for speed. It wasenough The guide would | | They didn’t go galloping along. If you i have ever ridden on a wettrail you know that. It was jog, jog at a walking pace, picking foot-places in the slippery path. | At 9 the smooth white side of the first | snow hill loomed up ahead. The guide shook his head. The horsestook a few floundering steps and shook their heads. | The girl looked back and shook her head. | There was no show for ahorse. The crust was there, to be sure, and strong | enongh to bear a man, but the horse broke | through at every step. Should they go | back cr go on? They would go on, the | girl said, with a set of her lips that meant | unreasoning versistence. They went. The horses neighed after them. Now con- | ventionality was left behind. | Slippery? Rather. The hobnails in the | girl’s strong shoes could hardly make a foothold. Every time the foot had to be | set down with force to keep from sliding. Off came the jacket, on went the green | goggles. The work had begun, the ques- | tion of a woman’s endurance was to be | settled. Steadily they plodded along, to be slow and sure. RS "’”%,//2;\& Mountains and mountains and mountains! East, west, north and south were lost; merged into one ragged circle of moun- tains. Those nearer were clothed from base tc apex with snow, which curled into a great comb on the crest of a ridge. The guide told how the combs break and fall in the spring, leaving a great scar on the white. Farther away the foothills were brown, with a glistening -crown on the higher peaks; and still farther, all blended in the blue of distance. The girl could have rested there for hours, leaning against the friendly pine, painting that picture on her soul. The guide was practical. Months before a half-breed had been hired to come to the other side of the snow with fresh horses on this day. The guide knew the genus. ‘‘He won’t believe we're coming anyway, and he won’t wait long,” he urged; “‘we'd best get over as early as we can.” In theory it is easter to go down than up. This time it was harder. On the south side the snow was softer, giving way at every step three or four inches. It was as comfortable as walking in deep sand, and besides it was dreadfully wet. Every PR i ~Zr “Steadily they plodded along through the white World of silence.” termination and felt sare of her endur- | ance. “1 wouldn’t undertake to get any other woman in Callahan over that range this time of year,” he told them frankly, “but | the teacher is strong asa boy. I've seen } her climb.” 3 1 Elaborate preparations were made. A | lunch sufficient for an African expedition | was put up. The girl’s baggage (one | small valise) was packed. Very particu- | lar advice was ziven by various people— | taken in one ear and sent out the other. They started early on Friday morning on horseback. If they found the snow too soft the horses were to be left till called for and they were to go forward on foot. It was seven miles to the snow. The morning was bright, full oi the promise of April. The miners along the trail were busy making holes while the water flowed. The | river dimpled and made faces. The wet | oozed from the rocky hillside ana trickied | down with little ripples of delight. The | spirit of the day filled the girl. The snow would hold, she felt sure. It was so an- noying that the guide did not feel sure. | the oaks never rustled, there was no tread consult marks on trees and tell how deep the snow was. Twenty feet was common. uch giants were the pines they were not warfed with that twenty feetoff. The air was clear, the sky from the snowlight was a puregreen. The pines barely moved, of deer or rabbit, no sound of bird. Caught and {rozen in the snowcrust were bits of | moss, pine tasselsand oak leayes, mounted as no botanist could do it. A white world of silence. It was beautiful, wonderful, but oh, such hard work. The guide beguiled the way with tales of other journeys over the road; showed | where he broke 2 snowshoe and feared a grave in the vast whiteness; pointed out the place where he always camped with the mules in the summer; and told of the danger of sliding masses in the later spring. A thoroughly good fellow, the guide. The girl will never forget his kind ways. It takes a short time to tell, it took a long while to do those four Kours of step- ping upward on the glassy surface. The iew from the top was grand indeed. once in a while feet would slip and girl and guide would be sitting flatin the snow laughing. it is too wevk an expression to call it wet. At the bottom of the first ravine the melting snow had made a rushing torrent. Now, here was a situation! How was the | girl to cross that water? No tree across, no stones, no anything. . The guide's rub- ber boots made it easy for him, but wet as the girl was she shuddered at the icy stream. Nothing troubled the guide. He was not a conventional person, anyway. He gathered the girl in his arms and waded in. Setting her down on the other side with as much ceremony as he would use with a bag of meal he started back for the valise. The girl looked at him to see whether she cared or not, but ashe looked very matter-of-course she said nothing and plodded on. After all, she thought, bow else could she get across. In the same undignified manner they crossed a dozen gullies that day. All the sunny atternoon they stumbled and floundered in the wet snow till 4 o’clock. The patches of bare ground showed now and then. With hurried pace they sought the spot where the horses were to be. Alas! ales! Tea:s came into the girl's eves—tears of anger—and she could have quartered that derelict half-breed. Only he wasn’t there. A dying tireand a bunch of white horsehair on a bush showed where he had been. The guide looked with pity. *“Now, that’s too bad! You're all fagged out, and it's ten milesifit’sa yard tothe nearest house.”” The girl laughed. It is much better o laugh than to cry. “We’'ll have to put one foot before the other till we get there, that’s all,” she said much more bravely than she felt. *It's on solid ground and that’s a comfori.” One foot was tired and o was the other, and it was hard work to put one before the other. It was best to move quickly to keep warm in wet clothes. They dried in a few miles, never causing the least chill. I have otten wondered if the girl could have crossed any more hills. The road was level or nearly so, winding about among the hills. Sunset came. The guide brought ‘out all his kiaowledge of wood- craft to cheer her, telling wondrous tales of birds, beasts and trees. The girl wouldn’t taitk. The twilight faded into dusk and the moon came out. There were stealthy steps in the leafy gloom, wings ffluttered as they brushed the trees, and the streams sang louder and clearer in the black ravine. The pace was adull plod now, a steady springless tread. The girl walked behind too tired to even think. It was simply a question of physical en- durance. The guide looked at his watch. It's 10 o’clock,” he cried, “and here’s Brown's brush fence.” The brush fence was a Tar- tar. They couldn’t find the barsand in desperation they squeezed and clambered through it with a new strength, given by the nearness of rest. Inthe dimness was a house. Before the house was a restless shadow moving up and down. They didn’t step. The shadow n.aterialized into Mr. Brown. He was surprised to see them and sorry to send them on, but there were seven people at the house that night and only three beds. 1 wonder if poor Mr. Brown wanders spirit-like in the moon- shine many nights in the year when Mrs. Brown hLas company. Why couldn’t she fix him at least a bed on the floor? Mr. Brown bas my sympathy. I'm afraid he didn’t have the girl's. It was just one mile to the doctor’s, where the guide knew there was a welcome. That mile took the girl just one hour. Every step was harder. The doctor seemed to think it most natural to be wakened at 11 o'clock by a wandering couple. The girl would have nothing to eat or drink. She wanted a bed. The doctor’s sister tucked her in with the as- surance that she never could rise in the morning. The girl didn’v care whether she ever rose. Her head touched the pil- low and then—oblivion. ! In the morning the girl woke and real- ! ized. She moved one foot to see if she could; then one arm, then she sat up dis- gusted. After all that fatigue she could not be interesting. She could get up and walk. I'm thinking the girl must have been made of very common clay. Since she was able she thought best to ride the ten miles to the school, on the same white horse whose tail had left a token on the bush. The hali-breed was ou hand, full of excuses. ‘It was so cold he feared to stay on the trail longer.” Cold! And tbe girl carried her jacket every step of the way. The guide was left behind at the doc- tor's to go home alone. He would send the girl’s trunk by the first mule train in June. He hoped she wouldn’t get sick from the trip. She didn't. Long after, when the snow was gone and the trail was dusty, the girl traveled it again, on the back of a trusty mule. The trip was easier far, but the romance was taken out. She would not like to walk it again, but that unconventional stroll of thirty-three miles is not the least pleasant of her memories. Orive HEYDEN, ; BY ADEL YOUNG MAN, 28 YEARS OF AGE, DE- sires to make ihie acquaintance of a well-edu- cated young lady, with a view to matrimony. The young man has extensive property interests; has Spent the greater part of his time in travel, but has now concluded (o settle down. Address *A. K.,” Berlin Postoflice; discretion guaranteed. Picture to yourself a bud of a girl just 18; a sweet face—innocent, fair and fresh as the rose, when out of its bata of dew it smiles to greet the morning sun; big, melting eyes, gray-blue, like midday skies; bair, captive sunshine, happy to be prisoner on such beautiful domain (for poets and sculptors rave over just such heads), and a cherub mouth that seemed to breathe a tale of kisses al! unkissed. To all this add a form that completes a poem and you have a portrait of Blanche Douglas. Heiress to fortune and endowed with rare graces Blanche was nevertheless the embodiment of unhappiness. An orphan, kept like a bird in a cage by a watchful guardian aunt, Blanche knew no friend save Mrs. Mellan, the nurse; and youth- ful companions she found only in dreams. The aunt, Mrs. Percy Douglas, fed her with literature on the homeopathic plan and the girl’s constant longing for books worth the reading was never appeased. Illness on the part of Mrs. Douglas de- termined that lady on a European voy- age. Blanche and the nurse were to ac- company her. The plans were successful, and a fortnight’s travel landed the little party safely at the most pretentious hotel in Herruable. Europe, to Blanche, had meant liberation ina degree from what had seemed almost tyrannical restraint; it had meant pleasurable sights and scenes, walks on classic ways, and new and brilliant associations. Disappoint- ment was hers. The health resort proved -dull;-and her splendid anticipations came to naught. The bird from over the sea was still vainly beating her wings against the bars of her prison cage. But Herruable agreed with tke aunt, who rapidly regained strength, only to in- crease her well-intended watchfulness over her discontented niece. To come right out with the plain trauth, Mrs. Douglas had already mortgaged Blanche's future to the scion of a rich Gotham family—a Mr. George Burnette. A financial marriage it was to be. The maiden's love was a con- sideration entirely foreign to the premises. And =0 1tcame about that when Blanche one morning in the midst of a shower of tears murmured: “My life is a plague. I see nothing, and have nothing to read. Ttere is never a young friend to while away a moment with. Noray of sunshine atall. Oh! would that I had never been born!” the good nurse, Mellie, sought to | comfort her, and, defying one of the aunt’s solemn injunctions, placed in the girl’s hands a newspaper of the day fresh from Berlin. It was better than a choice repast to her. She read everything in it— editorials, news, advertisements, and under this last caption ran upon tne peculiar paragraph which serves as a pre- lude to the story. **Now, at least I shall find diversion,” she said to herself, as her eyes twinkled and her face brightened up. “Even such folly as this wili be a relief after these weeks of dismal existence. Mrs. Douglas would take a fit if she guessed my inten- tion.” And Blanche wrote like this: D:ar Sir: In venturing to reply to your ad- vertisement in this morning’s Berlin News I wish to remark that while your acquaintance- ship will no doubt afford me Ppleasure, I would be pained to have you become the vietim of disappointment with reference to me. Letme describe myself: I am of medium height, have light brown hair and horrible gray-blue eyes. One more week and my stay here will be at an end. Berlin is the next city on the list, and it you would see me there kindiy write to the address of B. D., Herruable P. O. WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN--By H. R. Hurlbut Thrilling are my thoughts and tender, As | sit beside the sea; Thoughts of all the untold treasure That will come one day to me. And I find an eager longing For that future to begin— With dull care forever banished When my ship comes in. And I know the world would wonder Could it see the scenes I paint On the canvas of my future— Cherubs fair, and smiling saint, And idyllic bits of woodland Far off from the city’s din, Which I know the world holds for me ‘When my ship comes in. And my soul is filled with rapture O’er the sight, surpassing fair, As the sunlight gilds the towers Of my castles in the air; Till I fear 1 may be sighing For the dreamings that have been For the real When my may seem so different ship comes in. THE LOST SHIPS. NE of the most singular effects of the long devression of business under which every important branch is suffering is the fact that it no longer pays to salvage a vessel once it is wrecked. The wholeex- tent of the seaboard of the western coastis marked by wrecks of the last forty years. Until three years ago the business of wrecking was a very profitable one and many fortunes were made out of it. Once asbandoned by the owners the wrecker purchased the hull ot the wrecked vessel for little or nothing and all that could be made out of it was his. Al- most every portion of an ifon vessel was in demand, from the rigeging to the anchor. The sheathing that covered her sides and every other portion made of steel was bought up by rolling-mills to be utilized for something useful, The great castings of the cruiser Charles- ton were largely composed of this ma- terial. But nowadays no attempt is made to save the material of a vessel ihat goes ashore. Down on the Santa Barbara coast the English ship Gostord, sunk two seasons ago to save her from the flames, still stands fully rigged in shailow water waiting for the wrecker, ’ The ship was a new one and cost $150,000 and was but little injured when she was scuttled but it will cost more to save her than she will bring and she must be con- tent to remain where she is until more prosperous conditions in business prevail. Ihe great steamer New York, built at a cost of $1,000,000 and wrecked off Point Bonita three years ago, is another in- stance. It will not pay to try to save the 6000 tons of old steel that is left of her, and she will rust away until prices of scrap ad- vance. The steamships Colombia and St. Paul are in exactly the same sitnation as the New York. Their engines and boilers were saved, but the rest of the vessel is absolutely of no account, except to mark the grave of the nautical reputations of their late commanders. ‘When the wrecking business does revive there will be plenty to do. Wrecks have been very nugierous in the last few years along the coast, and at intervals of a few miles black hulls can be seen projecting above the surf. At present money is savel by leaving these vessels to the ten- der mercies of the wind and sea. ————— An evidence of the striking uniformity of size among the Japanese is found in the fact that recent measurements taken of an infantry regiment show mno varia- tion exceeding two inches in height or twenty pounds in weight, EARNS HIS DRINK. HE architect who arew the original plans for the new City Hall did one thing he did not calculate on, and that was to provide a means for practical jok- ing for the jolly young fellows who earn their tidy salaries as clerks in the various departments of the municipal sovernment. When a friend of one of these employes on whom 1t is safe to piay a joke, and who is not posted, first visits an office, he is generally asked if he would not like a quiet nip of pood liquor, and if he assents is given a dark hint tigat there is a supply not far away. Several of the boys are go- ing along, will he wait until they get their hats? Why, certainly. Then the proces- sion, with oneof the jokers at the head, starts out. Through the main corridor to he central staircase that leads to the basement they go, and the visitor at once conjures up visions of a secret ‘‘well’ run- ning on the sly without the knowledge of the City fathers. Oncein the basement the party plunges into one of the dark and gloomy passages that are such mysteries to the stranger 1n the hall, and after a turn or two in the labyrinth the victim is completely lost. Just as he is- abont to expostulate and ‘plead an important engagement down- town, a sudden turn brings the cavalcade to a door, on which one knocks gently. As if in response to an answer from the other side he says, “All right; come in,” and ushers the victim into the open air in a totally different portion of the hall whence he started and directly 1n front of a place of business where ‘‘steam or lager, 5 cents,” and *‘choice wines, liquors and The visitor usually takes the joke good naturedly and says, “These are on me.” cigars'’ are the most conspicuous signs. | noon. The answer was three days in coming. The firm, elegant handwriting was char- acteristic of good education and breeding. The girl forgot about the humor that was in her thoughts when she penned the silly answer. The letter ran: Mademoiselle: Among many answers re- ceived yours is the only one to which I shall reply. For permission so graciously accorded me to call upon you while you are visiting Berlin I thank you. Strance it may seem that 1should have advertised in & public print, but destiny, I think impelled me to that action. After perusing your letter I seem to have known you for years. Assuring you of my true and honest feelings in your regard, I am, yours, A.K. Blanche for th2 first time began to real- ize that she had dived into deep water, writing to a man she had never seen ami whom she knew only through a single let- ter and by his initials, and more than that, almost promising to marry him. Well, she would meet him just once, any- how—only that and nothing more, “Blanche!” the aunt called to her, “You may prepare for the journey to - Berlin. wi:l.!:.ln in thao morning early. Mellan wi elp you. Our add; Totdt Bavor: ress there will be The nurse’s assistance was The traps were packed in short time, and .8 hasty mess lin advised “'A. K.” of the n. ments: Blanche had become ositivel: The very first thing she I:iirl at Hyosfgi: Yay was to speed a note to the hero of her goke informing him that he might find her in the reading-room of the caravansary at a certain hour of the following after- not required. surprisingly iage (o Ber- ew arrange- *‘I shall wear a red pink,” mantic maiden, nevta tharos “'A red pink you, too, Lsa, K.” and then “B. D.”’ appeared. JUST FOR A JOKE E MAARS must wear. The flower will be our sign of recognition.” The day of meeting came—a warm, mid- summer day. In the reading-room the girl selected a cozy nook near one of the great big windows, darkened by heavy green portieres, took possession of a large armchair and opened a book. She sat there, not reading, but drraming. Her eyelids drooped. She fell asleep. Shedid not see the large door open and the entry of a tall man. She did not feel the earnest gaze turned upon the charming picture meade by her slumbering self in the win- dow nook. She wore a red pink. The man wore none, and he inwardly de- plored his forgetfulness. In truth, Blanche’s white suisse gown, richly trimmed with soft lace, outlined her girlish form well on the dark back- ground. One of her small white hands hung down by her side;.the other rested on her lap where lay the book. Something startled the young man. The book lay at his feet. Two big gray- blue eyes interrogated him. Pickingup the book, he stammerea an excuse for baving disturbed the fair dreamer. “You have not disturbed me,” said the maiden. In this way a conversation often beg It began thus between Blanche and the stranger. The young man wag attractive In appearance and captivating in manners, and the girl silently regretted the absence of a sign of a red pink. The room was very warm, and ere long she was being shown the beauties of the gar- den by the gailant géntleman. Near a bed of pinks, under a wild chest- nut tree, on a rustic bench, Blanche seated herself, and the young man now began to draw in the sand of the walk some letters. The maiden saw the letters, and then did a most unaceountable thing—gave a cry, sprang up, and after a moment, vanished into the hotel. Astonishment was written for a moment on the young man’s face. Then he laughed and sauntered away. Flusbed and excited Blanche rushed into the vresence of Mellan, the nurse. The secret she could no longer contain. She confided all to Mellie. The latter in turn, stadying her duty, whispered the alarm- ing tale to the aunt. “Thank heaven!” ejaculated Mrs. Doug- las, “‘the information comes in time. We may save her yet. Is she determined to disgrace us? If this story gets about it will ruin her prospects forever. Burnette would scorn the thought of marryinga madcap. It has been my one aim for years to keep that girl from folly, and this is the most miserable plight I could well imagine. Let her see nobody while we remain in Berlin unless in your presence, Mellie, or in mine.”” No sooner had Mrs, Mellan rejoined the girl than a bouquet of red pinks was banded in by a messenger. A card at- tached to the flowers mentioned an hour when Alfred Kronis would be pleased to call. Mrs. Mellan, as faithful to the Douglas trust as a Roman sentinel to his duty, was present at the next meeting of the hero and heroine of the pinks. ““You have visited New York?” queried Mrs. Mellan, when the subject was travel. “Just three years ago,”’ Kronis an- swered, ‘‘the guest of a fellow student, Burnette.” “l know a George Burnette, who was educated in Berlin,” observed Mrs. Mellan, *The self-same man.” “Perhaps you met Mrs, Percy Douglasat the Burnette home?"” “Assuredly, I did.” And the result of this exchange of words was that Kronis soon found himself in the presence of Mrs. Douglas, who ex- pressed delight and concluded the inter view by inviting to tea on the following evening the Kronis family—father, mother and son. Fraught with much enjoyment was that tea. It was over at last, and Blanche £tood near one of the windows cooling her face. ‘‘Take a stroll in the garden with Al- fred, my dear,” suggested the aunt. *You will find it far more pleasanc out in the evening air.” But, why follow the couple. They said foolish things; shelooked up into hiseves; he pressed her hand; they kissed. *“You should have heard the pretty com- pliments Mrs, Douglas paid you an hour ago,”’ said Alfred. “‘She declared you were the pink of girls; that you never in all your life gave her a moment’s grief, and that you are as good as you are beautiful.” Once again in the house, Mrs. Douglas came and whispered something to Blanche. It was to the effect that George Burnpette had rested his hopes on Blanche’s own decision in accordance with the dic- tates of her heart. The bird found all the happiness im- aginable simply by flying from one cage into another. Of course, the newer cage was the brighter one, and its surround- ings were more calculated to inspire & constant happy song. Said Alfred to Blanche, on the day their engagement was' proclaimed, *“What do you think of advertising, my angel?” - **Glorious, for some purposes; but we'll never meddle with it any more, shall we, dearest ?” ‘‘Yes, yes; but not in the same form, of We'll advertise the marriage next. And advertising, anyhow, is society’s most agreeable food.”