The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 25, 1896, Page 25

THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, FRIDAY, DECEMBER 25, -1896. 23 the mother came to her, kissed her and asked what she wanted to know. “I can’t explain exactly,” said Molly, who was rather old-fashioned in her iuené and ways of speaking. I thought it was to-be a different kind of Christmas, that ¥ was all.” “‘What kind of Christmas, darling?” “Why—different!” said Molly. Then seeing that further explanation Wwas re- quired she made a desperate effort over Lerself and continued: *I thought every- body was going to be good and lové each other and forgive everybody that had done them any harm—that's what I mean by a white Christmas. All white and clean, don’t you know, motner. Don’t you think it would be nice?” “‘\ ery nice, indeed,” said Eleanor with a sigh, “Do you think we shall ever have a Christmas like that, mother P *‘Some day, perhaps.”’ “Not this Christmas?” “‘Ah, no. my darling, I fear not.” “Mother!" “Well, Molly?" “Didn’t you say the other day that God gave people what they prayed for, if it was a right thing for them to have, “Yes, my darling; but we don’t always know what is the right thing.” “But it must be the right thing for | people to be good and love one another,” said Molly, logically; *“so that if you and I, mother, were to try and pray very hard, | don’t"you think the white Christmas might come?” “It might, Molly, perhaps.” But there was a dull despair in Eleanor's tone. What whiteness of love and forgiveness was likely to come into her life again? “We'll try, mother,” said Molly, with sanguine anticipation in her tone. And the mother could not but kiss her and teil her to go to sleep, and that everything vould be made right in God’s own time. @ *'But Pmay g5k izt she hekad's Tithe inxious! ““Oh, yes, dearest, ask him—ask him by all means. Ah, yes, pray, Molly—pray that th may be a white Christmas some day for your grandfather and me.” There was a tone in her voice which Molly scarcely understood, but she fell asieep with a certamn gratification in feel- ing that her mother sympathized with her and would pray fora white Christmas 100, As Eleanor passed an uncurtained wio- dow in the corridor she looked outand saw that it had stopped smowing. The sky had cleared a littie and the starlight threw a faint radiance which was caught and reflected by the snow. As she looked out she saw a man’s dark figure crossing the avenue, and she caught ber breath in astonishment. Who could it be? it was too slight and tall for her fatber, and she did. not think it likely that any of the gardeners or stablemen would be out at that hour. Instead of going to her room she ran downsiairsand spoke to the butler. ‘‘Is your master in the library ?'’ “No, ma’am; he has gone out.” ‘Gone out—on a night like this?'’ “It is not snowing now, ma’am. Mr. Carteret thought he saw some one in the avenue, so te went outto look. He woula not allow any one to accompany him, ma’am.” figure crossing the snow. Eleanor knew that it was almost useless to await his return. She dared not ask him whether he had seen the man, or all. She was not on terms with him to | speak unless he spoke to her. It was a state of things. For she loved in spite of all. She Jingered in the breakfast-room, near | 1 door, in order to see him come in her father had also seen the black | ther he had met with any adventure | “Shall I follow you, sir?’ said Robert, doubtfully. i *No, no; keep indoors; you'll catch cold,” said the Squire, who could be genial | enough with his dependants when he | chose. “It's quite fine; I'll just walk {down the avenue and’back again. You can shut the door.” He descended the steps, and the hall door closed bebind him, for Robert was only too glad to exclude the fresh, cool air. | For some little distance he saw nothing | unusual; then he remarked footsteps in | the snow, and saw that they tended to the | outer gate. He tracked them one by one | in the faint starlight, and they led him at | tast to a spot where stood the dark figure | which he was certain that he had seen | from the front door. Yes, there it stood, | leaning against the gate, and not moving | in’ the very least as the Squire approached. ‘‘Halloa! Who's there? What are you j doing?” cried Mr. Carteret, involuntarily | lifting the. stick that he carried in his hand, althougis with no ill intent. | | “There is no need to strike me, Mr. Car- | | teret,” a voice came out of the darkness to say. “You can make your daughter’s life miserable as much as you like, and no- body interferes with you; buat it is a differ- ent matter when you come to deal with | men.” “Who the devil are yout” exclaimed the Squire. He lowered his stick and | peered into the darkness. ‘Do I know you?” “I don't suppose you do,” said the man, indifferently. He stepped out of the shadow and showed the Squire the pale face and glaring eyes of the stranger who had played the violin in the kitchen of the George. ‘‘Now do you know me?” “Not in the least.” | “Iamyour daughter’s husband—Lance- lot Hervey.” “Then you are the greatest scoundrel unhanged!” said Mr. Carteret in a tone ot | furious anger. ‘‘You stole my daughter 1 from me by your arts, sir, and when you | had taken her to a foreign country and | burdened her with the care ot two chil- dren vou deserted her, miserable ruffian | that you are! Deserted her for another { woman, and left her to starve! Defend | | yourself if you can—I'll give you three | | minutes to do it in or to get off my land— | or I'll thrash you within an inch of your life.” “No need to do that,” said the man, | quietly. “I'm at death’s door already, It’s just that which brought me here, Mr. Carteret. I want to see my wife before 1 die. I’ll answer to her and not to you for | any harm I've done. But DIl tell youone | | thing. If [ have ever injured her I've not | | been’as cruel to her as it seems you are | yourself and bave been ever since she came home to you.” | “Idon’t know what you have heard or | what you mean,” said the Squire; but | | bis tone, although gruiff, was a trifle | i subdued. “I’ve heard this,” said Lancelot Hervey; | “I've heard that you bave never forgiven | her for running away with me, that you never gpeik to her, that you treat her | | with coldness and scorn, so that all the world knows it and speaks of it. I heard of 1t in a public place; it was a matter of common talk in your own village. Do you call that sort of treatment anything less than cruelty 7"’ *'Not one father in a hundred would be as generous to her as I have been,” said the Squire, condescending to answer the aceusation, rather against bis will. ‘“‘Generous! You think that's the same thing? You think generosity will satisfy a woman’s heart and soul? I came here to look at Eleanor, and, if she was happy, to g0 away again without a word., ‘I find | ike sare that no harm had hap- | to him. He did uot appear for | an hour, and she had grown pened nearly nervous and apprehensive before his re- | turn. She had put out the gas, and | watched bim unseen as he entered. | she thought, something was His step seemed unusually heavy and slow; his ad and shoulders were bent; there was a/grim, dark look upon | bis fac He- went to tke library and locked himself in, while Eleanor crept spftly upstairs to bed. There was a strange foreooding at her heart. The Squire had gone to the front door 1o look at the sky and predict the weather, | as is the way of country gentlemen. The | tler held the door open, and Mr, Car- t stood on the doorsill, remarking on the clearness oi tbe sky. when he, like Eleanor, saw a dark figure cross the enue., “Whacan that be?” he said quickly. *‘One of the men, I expect, sir.” ““What are the men doing on this side of the house at this hour? It looks as if there were something wrong,” said the Squire. '‘Give me my hat and coat, Robert; I'll take a stroil down the avenue myself.” that the very yokels in the alehouse des- canton the misery of her iife. Do you know what that means to me? It means that I shall stay here and see her and ask her to come away with me again. I may have been thoughtless, I may have been cruel even, but she would be happy, liv- ing bher own life with me, rather than | suffering perpetually from her father’s anger and caprice. *You insult me, sir. It isfor you tode- | fend yourself, not to accuse me.” “1f I defend myself at all it will be to Eleanor.” “You will not see Eleanor.” “I will see my wife, even if I have to force my way to her.” “You will not see her without my con- sent, and that [ shall not give.” “Tyrant to the last!”’ cried Hervey, bit- terly. “Will it make any difference in your eyes if I tell you that I am dying? That I wish to ask her forgiveness? That Iam on my way to & warmer climate, and that 1 risk my short soan of life even by coming here to-night? And yet I must “Go back to the inn,” said the Squire, rather hoarsely. *‘I will tell her that you are here; she can come to sse you if she likes.” “I will see her now,”” cried Hervey, with one of those sudden bursts of impulsive rage which had been his bane through life; and with a sudden, swift movement he tried to pass the Equire, who barred his way. But the Squire would not budge. In another moment the two men were wrestling together as if for life; and they were more equally matched than one might have imagined, for the Squire, though old, was muscular, and Hervey had the strength of feverish passion. But such a struggle could not last very long. Suddeniy the younger man gave way and went down like a log—as 1t seemed to Mr. Carteret, without any especial violence on his part. Down he went into the snow, which had drifted into a bank by the path, and a mass of snowdrift fell over and across him, as if it meant to bury the prostrate form from sight. And Hervey aid not move. The Squire, becoming suddenly ashamed of his vehemence and alarmed at his son. in-law’s stillness, drew near and peered down into his face. A horrible thought seized him. Was the man dead? And dead, by the Squire’s own act? He had never thought of himself as capable of committing a crime, but now it flashed across him that he might be guilty of murder if Lancelot Hervey died. Not a movement, not a gesture, not a sign! The man’s face was rigid; his glazed eyes showed faintly between the half-closed lids; the mouth had fallen open. Mr. Carteret felt his heart, but it seemed to have ceased to beat. There was no stir of pulse at his wrist, no throb at his temples, no faintest flutier of life or breath. After a long examination the Squire rose painfully to his feet. He bad seen death before—he could not be mis- taken in its signs. “I will fetch help,” he said to himself. “Iwill go to the stables—surely somebody will be sbout. Or no, I will go tothe lodge; but it is too late to do anything— too late—too late!” He took a few steps along the road, and then a new thought came to him which made himx hesitate. The man was cer- tainly dead. If the Squire went for help he would only arouse curiosity—suspicion, even. Would Eleanor suspect him of baving brought her husband to his death? ‘What was the use of going for help at all? John Carteret went back to the dead man’s side. Yes, he was dead. He was rigid already. He was past the power of help. The best thing, therefore, was to leave him where he was. The gardener or the lodgekeeper would find him in the morning and nobody would hear more than that a stranger nad been found dead in the snow, just inside the Squire’s ave- nue. It was the easiest way to say noth- ing—to do nothing. And so the Squire walked slowly back to the hous: and entered it with bent shoulders and banging head, as Eleanor had remarked from her vantage-point within the door of the little darkened room. And it was the last thing that she was likely to suspect—that he had left her husband’s dead body by the wayside, in the snow. CHAPTER I(IL Mr. Carteret could not sleep that night. It seemed to him at every moment as though he saw the prostrate form, the rigid features of the man whom he had always considered his enemy, and the hgunting recurrence of whose face now gave him intolerable pain. He could not help remembering that Eleanor had once loved this man, and the remembrance added bitterness to his thoughts, For what right had he to prevent a meeting between the husband and wife? He had not been so tender .a father him- self that he should dread the pain for Eleanor, or even resent the way in which Hervey had treated her. Surely it would only have been fair to allow bim to plead his own cause, and to take her away—if she would consent to go—from the place in which she had been miserable, For she had been miserable—he knew that now. He knew very well that every line of her face breathed unhappiness; that she had grown pale and thin; and that ner beauty was well-nigh worn away with secret fretting and with tears. He knew it, and yet it seemed to him as if he had never acknowledged it until now. Lancelot Hervey’s words had shown him the aspect which his conduct must wear in the sight of others. And he did not like the aspect at all. To think of it as a kind of “cruelty” went home to him with curious sharp- ness. He had always considered tbhat he was behaving extremely well to Eleanor. But what would she say now if she knew that he had carried his' barshness and hardness of heart eo far as to deny ner husband access to her, and afterward to wrestle with him, to fight with him—it had an ugly sound— until he fell to the earth dead! These were the thoughts that troubled him all through the night, and drove him out in the early morning to the avenue gate, near which he bad left the body of Lande- lot Hervey the night before. He was out before light, remembering dismally as he went down the avenue that it was the morning of Christmas eve and that a strange Christmas would be the one that dawned for him on the morrow. All Christmas jov had been put away from him by his own hand. True, he had had littie of it during the past few years, but he had taken a certain kind of pleas- ure in the joy of those around him, and he had beén looking forward to the de- light of his grandchildren in the day’s festivities. Now he felt as if their langh- ter, their merry words, would pierce him to the heart. He reached the spot where Lancelot Hervey had fallen and at once he stood aghast. There was no trace of him left. Snow had fallen heavily during the night and had drifted higher than ever up the bank already formed. The mound was white and smooth; no hand or foot could huve touched it for many hours. And the frost had deepened steadily, so that the bank of snow was almost as hard as stone. The Squire stood and looked at it in dismay. If Lancelot Hervey were still there he 1aust be a foot or two deep under the snow. And it would take a spade to get him out., unless the snow melted, and snow heaped up in that manner was not very likely to melt. ~Mr. Carteret remem- bered that one year a bank of drifted snow did not melt for full six weeks. What could he do? What excuse could he make for baving the snow removed—a thing which we had never done before? Of course if it were carted away the body would be discovered—a ghastly discovery— a ghastly sight. The Squire turned sick at the idea. Perhaps, however; some one had seen the body already and carried it away. In that case the Squire wouldn’t hear of it directly. Any event of importance in the village was always brought to his notice, and 1f 2 stranger had been found deéad in the snow he was sure to haye a report of the death before very'long. He resolved, therefore, to go home and wait for a few hours before giving any orders atout the snow. If no case of sudden death were brought to his notice before the day was out, he should know that Hervey still lay beneath that heap of snow, and he would take measures accordingly. But he could not face Eleanor at break- fast. He felt that he had wronged her too much. He went back to his own room and feigned some slight indisposition which prevented him from breakfasting with the rest of the family. Later in the day he descended to his study and sat there doing nothing, anxiously awaiting the notification that he expected of the sad and sudden death of a stranger in the snow. But he heard nothing of the kind. “Anything going on, Stevens?” he could not help inquiring nervously of the bailiff, who came to him in the course of the morning, and Stevens answered stol- idly: i “Nothing whatsomever, sir. Aunt Maria came to see what was the matter when she found that he did not appear at luncheon, but he sent her away rather fretfully. A glass of wine and a biscuit were ail he required, he said. And he aid not wish to be disturbed. “I am sure your father is ill, dear,” said Aunt Maria to Eleanor, in a tone of anxious foreboding. “Or else something is wrong.” “I hope not,” said Eleanor. And it added yet another to the many pangs she had to endure, that she could notv go to her father and ask for his confidence. At dusk little Molly, who knew nothing of her grandfather’s desire to be alone, stole into the study, and stood beside his chair. ’ “‘Are you better, grandpapa, dear? Shall you be ready for the Christmas tree to- night?” *Is that you, Molly ?” caid the Squire in a curiously shaken voice. ‘*‘Come here, child, let me feel you. I havebeendream- ing, I think.” She climbed upon his knee instantly and without the slightest fear. “You'll be well enough to come to the tree, won’t you?’’ she asked. “'The tree, my dear?”’ “The Christmas tree, grandpapa. It is going to be lovely, and there are presents for every one—there’ll be a present for you, grandpapa, €0 vou must come.” Tue grandfather sighed, and drew the child a little closer to his breast, “You mustn’t sigh, grandpapa. That’s like mother; she does sigh such a great deal! If we get the white Christmas, I shouldn’t think you would want to sigh any more.” ““What do you mean, my darling?’* “I mean the white Christmas inside,” said Molly, quaintly. “Love and forgive- ness and goodness everywhere, you gnow, grandpapa. It's what mother and me have agreed to pray for, so that we may have a white Christmas all over . the world, us well as at Moorsholme.” . *‘Have we got it at Moorsholme?’ asked the Squire, and choked a little at the thought. However, he came to the Christmas- tree that night and was quiefer and gen- tler than. was his wont, and spoke once tb Eleanor of his own accord, in such an al- tered voice that she was startlea and thought, like Aunt Maria, that he must beill; and when the presemts were all given and the lights out Molly came to him to say good-night, and said as she clasped him tightly round the neck: “‘Haven’t we had a nice evening, grand- papa? Don’t you think the White Christ- mas is coming very quick?'’ He tried to answer, but at this moment his eye met Kleanor’s and the words upon his lips died away. There was a question in her face and what seemed to him an unspoken reproach. He kissed the little girl, put her down and turned hurriedly away; but before he reached the dcor cf the room he had come to a new resolve. “Eleanor,” he said, over his shoulder, in a strangely hoarse and unnatural tone, *‘Eleanor, come here.” She started, and ber face twitched, and she moyed forward silently. He took her by the hand and led her away to his study. And those who saw the action gasped and stared, because it was the first sign of real kindness that the Squire had shown his daughter since she fled from his house to marry Lancelot Hervey. Kleanor accompanied him with a feeling of onein a dream. But by the time she faced him in the study she was white as death, She wrenched her hand away and spoke sharply, almost wildly. “There is something wrong!'’ she cried out. “You would not be so kind if you had not bad news for me. What is it? What is it, father? Is—my husband— dead?” “God help me, I fear he is,” groaned the Squire, hurrying away from her. “Why do you say ‘God help me’? Why do you fear that he is dead ?” “Because, Eleanor, my dear and Mr. Carteret came toward her again and took her by both hands—*l am to blame— to blame, perhaps, for his death.” “Father!"” “Forgive me if you can, my child. I little thought to have to ask your forgive- ness. But what can I do? Your own little daughter, with her words of love and for- giveness and charity—" And then the Squire broke down. He scarcely knew what happened, until he found himself in the armchair, with his hands before his face, and Eleanor kneel- ing beside him—just as she used to kneel in her girlish days, with one arm round his neck, and the other resting upon his knee. ‘Father, don’t grieve in that way! - Tell me the worst; I can bearit. Is Lancelot dead ?”” I fear so, Eleanor.” “But why do you say you fear? Do you not know ?”’ “Eleanor—he was living yesterday.” “Living—yesterday ?"’ she echoed. “How do you know that?” “*My child, he came here. . . . and Irefused to let bim see you. 1 thought it was for the best. Forgive me if you can.” There was a pause. And then she said, ““Ob, father!” in a tone of such agony that the Squire involuntarily winced. But he dia not shrink from the task he had set himself. ‘‘He came here last night,”’ said Mr. Carteret. I saw him cross the avenue and I went out to look—" “Ah! I saw him, too,” breathed Eleanor, with her hand on her heart. “We met beside the avenue gate. there—he pleaded with me for you, Eleanor. Hesaid he wished to see you, to explain the past to you, to ask your for- giveness. He told me that I had been cruel to you, more cruel than he had ever been. Inever meant to be cruel to you, Eleanor; I thought I was only just—" “Ob, father, never mind that; oniy tell me what became of Lancelot—my Lance- lot.” All the woman’s heart was in that cry. But before the Squire couid answer an interruption came, and in 2 most unex- pected way. It was the rule of the house that no one entered the Squire's study without pre- vious announcement, but on this occa- sion a visitor who had but a short time before entered the house walked siraight into the room with the look of one who meant to have his way. It was the village doctor, and as soon as he ap- peared Mr. Carteret started from his chair with the conviction that in: some way or another the hour of his doom had come, *I have an important communication to And vou, Mr. Carteret,” he said, “and I fear it must be made at one. Can you spare me two minutes?” ¢ 4 “We know it—we know it,” said the Squire, shaking his head. And Eleanor | put her hand wupon.the little doctor’s arm. “Does it concern my husband?” she asked. ‘“Have you news of him—a mes- sage, perhaps—for me?’’ 1¢If you are anxions for a message from himy Mrs. Hervey; 1 amrreassured,” said | the doctor. b “Reassured ?” “Listen for a momert, and let me tell you what happened to me last mght. I was driving up the lane past your gates, €quire, and goinz slowly enough on ac- | count or the heavy snow, when I caught sight of a figure lying in the drift just.in- side your gates. I knew that to'be there was certain death, so [ got down and went to look at him, and found—" “That he was dead,”” the Hquire inter- rupted, hoarsely. *I knew it; I was just telling my daughter when you camg in.” “‘No such thing,” said Mr. Thorpe, very briskly. “He was not dead at all. He had fallen backward in a curious catalep- tic seizare, to which he has been occa- sionally subject—"" ‘It was Lancelot! Lancelot!” Eleanor, with clasped hands. “It was a Mr. Lancelot Hervey, cer- tainly. I got him into my trap with some difficulty, and drove him to my house, where he very soon recovered con- sciousness. He told me’—with a keen glance at the Squire—‘'his whole story; and I have come to-night to plead—if I may say so—his cause.” “You mean—that he—that he—is still— living ?” eaid Mr. Cartaret, tremulously. “Certainly, and much better. He was afraid some rumor of his appearance and iliness might come to Mrs. Hervey’s ears, and he asked me to see you both to-night, and to ask you—well, I don’t know exactly what I was to ask you, but I think I may venture to remind you, Squire, as an old {riend, that to-morrow is Christmas day, when our parsons tell us that feuds should end and enmities bs buried, and some- thing of the nature of love and peace should enter our hearts, eh?"” *‘A White Christmas,” said the Squire, almost inaudibly; then, as Mr. Thorpe looked at him curiously, he added, with | emphasis: “I am only too glad, sir, to know that I was mistaken when I thought | Mr. Hervey dead. Ishould like to see | him myself as soon as possible; but as for my daughter, she must speak for herself— and for him.” **Oh, take me to my husband,” Eleanor | cried, and it was plain from her words | that her love for Lancelot Hervey had | been sleeping only and was not destroyed. And when the doctor went on to tell her, very gently, that although he was living he was very ill, and would require great care if he was to survive the winter, she only became doubly anxious {o see him and to assure him of her undying love. As for the Squire he was so repentant and so much relieved that he would have been willing to take his son-in-law to his arms and heart without any explanation of the past at all. But vancelot insisted upon telling his story in his own way, and it soon became plain to every one concerned that he had been maligned by his enemies and mis- judged. He had quarreled with Eleanor, but he had not been false to her; and al- though he had found it difficult to con- quer his wounded pride sufficiently to ask her to forgive him for his carelessness of her feelings, he had at last set out upon a search for her which serious illness alone had precluded from an earlier success. There was nothing for husband and wife to do but mutually to forgive each other, and to rest content in the knowledge that whether their lives were long or short nothing but death could part them again. Little Molly awoke to a new world on Christmas day—a white world within and without, for the snow lay thick and white over field and wold, ana the hearts of those who were dearest to her were white with the mantle of forgiveness and charity. 80, as the Squire said, with a new gleam in his eye and a new tenderness in his genial smile, it was the best white Christmas that he had ever known. —Copyright, 1896. cried An unknown man in Westville, Conn., sent thirty cents in postage stamps to the Treasury Department recently as a con- science contribution. He states, that while guarding commissary stores during the war, he took from sugar barrels at various times many lumps of sugar, the value of which, with interest since that time, he computes at thirty cents, ———————— - The longest distance to which a projec- tile has been thrown was at Shoeburyness Eng., on April 15, 1888, when a Longgridge wire-bound gun threw a shot 21,358 yards, or twelves miles 238 yards. GEMS FROM THE POETS, 4 ' The Old Man's Ghristmas. I've always beeti a stickler for the plain and simple truth And I never quite could tolerate a lie; But is it right to disappoint the glowing hopes of youth? And is t always wrong to falsify? I believe I'm strietly honest—and my hair has turned 4o gray— Bat, €ir, I speak exactly as I feel ‘When I answer childish queries, and emphate ically, I say, That I still believe old Santa Claus is real. Experience has taught me, sir, that what we say is “real”— ‘ No matter what we wish, or think, or do— Is affected very largely by the way we chance to feel— It depends entirely on the point of view. Ionce believed that loyalty and love would ever last; Ithoughtns one my bappiness could steal; Since then like fleeting phantoms those “realis ties” have passed. To-day. I say thai Santa Claus is resl, FRANK S. PIXLEY. The Giant Wolf. The giant wolf, the woodland wolf, Strode southward down the wina, And the gale yelled keen and the moon gleamed green, And the little stars blinked blind. The seething snow-snakes twined before And hissed through the knocted grass, Ana he heard overhead the sheeted dead, That dance in the whirlwind, pass. His shag gray locks roughed with the wind, His white teeth fanged with wrath; Now God be good to the man whose blood He smells before his path! Now God be good to the man whose feet On the snow-blind, swirling way Shall meet the blaze of his hungry gaze And the snarling fangs that slay. And happy he that sits at home, Where tne corn-fire smolders warm, When alone in the white of the whirling night The gray wolf walks the storm. HERBERT BATES. Our Baby's Shoe. We had some bitter words, my wife and I, About some trivial thing—I made her cry. Too bad—it left us sadder than before, Till through the shadow of an open door Our spaniel, Hector, came and gently laid There on the carpet where a sunbeam strayed A tiny burden. Ah, how well we knew That little worn-out thing—our baby’s shoe. Our little one, our darling, ours no more Bince God had beckoned from the other shore And now this treasure from its hiding-place Came like the memory of our baby’s face. Blindly we found it through a haze of tears; {ione was our anger, gone our doubts and fears. Each in soft pity for the other’s pain, Love touched our heerts and gave us peace again. ‘WALDRON W. ANDERSON. Marriage: Love springs as lightly from the human heart Assprings the lovely rose upon the brier, Which turns the common hedge to floral fire, As love wings time with rosy-feathered dart; But marriage i8 the sublimest work of art Of all the arts which 1ift the spirit higher; The incarnation ot the heart's desire— Which masters time—set on man’s will apart. The many try; but, oh! how few are they To whom the finest of the arts is given, Which shall teach Love, the rosy runaway, To bide from bridal morn.-to brooding evens; Yet this—this only—is the narrow way By which, while yet on earth,.we enter heaven. MATHILDE BLIND. Woodspurge. Dark, thinned, beside the wall of stone The box dripped in the air; Its odor through my house was blown Into the chamber there. Remote, and yet distinet the scent, The sole thing of the kind; As though one spoke a word half meant That left a sting behind. I knew not Grief could go from me, And naught of it be plain, Except how keen the box can be After a fall of rain! LizETTE WOODWORTH REESE. A Doubt. You say you love me now. No doubt You think you do; you may be right. The winds of summer olow without, And all is life and light. But in the dim days yet to be, And under their wan skies with rain, Might not the heert you ask of me Throb only with its pain? Will love be then one-half so sweet? Or life a rapture that endures? Or will it pass with flying feet, This dream of mine and yours? And if love dies new hopes and fears Make a new life for men apart; We women only see through tears The shipwreek of a heart! ———— The most cos tly tomb in existence is that which was erected to the memory of Mohammed. The diamonds and rubies used in the decorations are worth two million pounds. A A i ( ~. - GHORUS: “OH, HIP, HOORAY FOR GHRISTMAS DAY--AND WE'LL ALL BE MERRY AND ALL BE GAY." s = { "w =