a doily or a fruit napkin laid upon a plate. The water may be scented, or a geranium leaf or a spray of citron aloes may float upon the surface; but pure water, not ice cold, is more in vogue. The finger-bowls are usually put on the table with the fruit or the dessert at the conclusion of a meal.

Another often overlooked point in diningroom etiquette is that of leaving the napkin unfolded on quitting a table where one has been a guest for but a single meal. The inference produced by folding the napkin is that it will be used again, and this is an unpleasant sug. gestion when one knows that she herself, the only person who ought to make use of the tumbled damask will be absent at the next repast. Since no one else will care to take the napkin into service again before it is washed, she lays it unfolded by her plate as she rises from the table.

If mothers would but teach their children certain items of ordinary politeness, the latter would possess an ease of manner far surpassing anything they can attain by the study of manuals of etiquette in their riper years. Good manners should be inculcated at so early an age that they would be second nature to the child, youth, and man or woman. "Third helps" should be discountenanced, as well as the custom of permitting a child to make his or her entire meal of one article of food, and the trick of hovering over the contents of a dish of bread, cake, or fruit, in order to pick out some coveted bonne bouche. "Take the piece nearest you" is an old rule, and a good one.

Promptness at meals is a virtue of which absence has caused deep anguish of spirit to countless long-suffering housewives. The tardiness at breakfast from indulgence in a last nap, or at luncheon from a too protracted shopping expedition, or at dinner from an over extended round of calls, may seem a trifle to the delinquent, but to the house-keeper it means injury to the food and disturbance of her own peace of mind. The habit of always being ready when a meal is announced should be especially binding upon a guest. For one who is receiving the hospitality of a home, to requite it by disregarding its customs is the extreme of ill-breeding. Conformity to the rules of the house in this respect, and in the particular of not presenting one's self in the drawing-room at an uncanny hour in the morning, should be observed by all visitors, while the duty of being always ready on time when invited to take a drive, or to go to some entertainment, would seem too obvious to be mentioned were it not that one sees this unwritten law so constantly violated.

A mistake occasionally made by the unaccustomed hostess is that of using the wrong form in presenting her friends to one another. The introduction should be made to the older person, or to the one chiefly to be honored. For instance, Mr. Jones is a grave and reverend senior, Mr. Smith a lively young man about town. Therefore the form of presentation should be, "Mr. Jones, let me introduce Mr.

gentleman to a ladymith." In presenting a

the lady's

be mentioned first. Quite out of date is the phrase, "Let me make you acquainted with Mr. or Miss So-and-so."

Such points of common civility as a wo man's thanking a man for yielding his seat to her in a car or ferry-boat have been so extensively discussed of late that their reiteration may be tiresome; yet it would be well to preach their practice until the present public manners or lack of manners had undergone a radical reform. The gracious courtesy which should mark the entire conduct of the true lady is never more apparent than when she thanks a weary man for the kindness which spares her fatigue at the cost of his own comfort.

AS DECREED BY FATE.

A STORY OF ALL-HALLOWS EVE. BY FLAVEL SCOTT MINES.

NOW

old man, do make up your mind. to accept, and come with us to the mountains. We only need you to complete a pleasant party, and you can paint in New Hampshire as well if not better than in New York. You can do just as you please, too." That certainly is an inducement, Frank,' returned Tom Graham, lazily. "How many are in the party?"

"Six. Mother and father, my cousin May Warren, her friend Miss Dorothy Seymour, and yours truly start to-morrow to Boston by boat, and you can complete the number as soon as you wish."

66

66

Yes," interrupted Warren; "and she is as charming herself as possible. Do come, old man. I can't possibly take care of two girls for three months. I'll leave Miss Seymour to your tender mercies, and devote my self to my cousin; she's only a sixth cousin, you know."

"So? Clever scheme of yours, Frank. One moment you say I may do as I wish, and in the next breath you kindly hand a young lady over to my safe-keeping for three mouths. I'm a bachelor, Frank, a confirmed bachelor-confirmed a B.A. by my alma mater-and now-"

"Pooh!" said Frank, derisively. "You're a crank, that's all, and an outing of this kind will go toward making a companionable fellow of you."

was dazed, and then he sat down with a sigh. "A strange dream for All-hallows," he said. "Perhaps it was not a dream."

He glanced at the evening paper, which he still held. The "society notes were uninteresting as he ran down the column, until a name caught his eye, and he read,

"Miss Dorothy Seymour has had added to her already large fortune the sum of one hundred thousand dollars, left by her uncle."

'Her already large fortune!" Tom could scarcely believe his eyes. Her already large fortune!" Then she was an heiress even when he met her, and he knew it not. Frank had not told him. Why had he failed to do so?

One hundred thousand dollars, then, was nothing to what she had possessed before! Then his heart rose at the thought. He might win her, after all. The conditions had not been changed. He had loved the heiress unconsciously, and she-she believed in him!

He hurriedly arose, and looked at his watch. He had been dreaming for two hours, and it was nearly nine o'clock. Nevertheless, he would see her-he would go to her.

"You are a nice fellow," said Frank, tumbling into the studio next day. "What do you mean by this base fabrication?" and he waved aloft the note Tom had written the night before.

That was a mistake," laughed Tom. "I haven't gone away."

"So I perceive," Frank remarked. "What did you mean?"

"Why didn't you tell me four months ago that Miss Seymour was a rich woman? Or Or why didn't you let me know even yesterday?" retorted Tom.

"Four months ago," said Frank, calmly, "I knew that Miss Seymour did not wish the fact proclaimed abroad, and yesterday I thought you were in possession of all knowledge of the subject. Well, what are you going to do?"

'To marry Dorothy as soon as possible," rejoined Tom. "She appears to be willing."

BY CHRISTINE TERHUNE HERRICK XXIX.-FAMILY DINNERS FOR

Oyster Soup.-One quart oysters, 2 cups milk, 1 egg, 1 table-spoonful butter, pepper and salt to taste. Strain the liquor from the oysters, and bring it to the boiling point in one vessel while the milk is heating in another; drop the oysters into the scalding liquor, and leave them there until they begin to crimp; stir the butter into the milk, and pour this upon the beaten egg; turn this in with the oysters; cook together one minute, and serve immediately. Scrie persons like a pinch of ground mace added to oyster

soup.

Baked Cabbage.-Wash and quarter a small cabbage; put it on in plenty of boiling water, and let it boil furiously (uncovered) for twenty minutes; by doing this, and having a cup of vinegar on the stove at the same time, you do away with the disagreeable odor which usually accompanies the cooking of cabbage; drain it when done, and chop it fine; add to it a table-spoonful of butter, one egg beaten light, a scant half cupful of milk, and pepper and salt to taste. Bake in a pudding dish to a good brown.

Cup Puddings.-One cup sugar, 2 tablespoonfuls butter, 1 cup milk, 2 eggs, 2 cups flour, 2 small teaspoonfuls baking-powder, 1 salt-spoonful salt. Beat the yolks of the eggs light, and mix with the creamed butter and sugar; add the milk and the flour, mixed well with the salt and baking-powder; bake in small cups or deep patty-pans, and serve one to each person. Eat with either hard or liquid sauce.

Corn-beef Soup.-Heat to boiling with a WHAT TO EAT AND HOW TO sliced onion a quart of the liquor in which a piece of corn-beef was boiled; just before it begins to bubble, drop into it the freshly broken shell of an egg, boil up once, and strain. Put the cleared soup back on the fire, and when it boils again, add to it two cups of milk in which have been dissolved two table-spoonfuls of flour; pour a little of this on a beaten egg, and return all to the fire for a minute before serving.

Turnip Purée.-Eight turnips, 1 onion, 1 stalk celery, 4 cups water, 2 cups milk, 1 table-spoonful butter, 1 table-spoonful flour, pepper and salt to taste. Peel and cut upthe turnips, and put them over the fire with the onion in the four cups of water; let them cook until tender, and then rub them through the colander, and put them back on the fire. Cook the butter and flour together in a saucepan; add the milk, stir into the turnip, season to taste, and serve.

Browned Onions.-Peel rather small onions,

and boil them until tender; drain off the water, and pour over the onions a cupful of soup or gravy; let the onions simmer in this for ten minutes; then take them out, and keep them hot while you thicken the gravy with browned flour. Pour over the onions just before sending to the table.

Qrange Rolly-Poly.-Two cups flour, 1 cups milk, 1 table-spoonful butter, 1 tablespoonful lard, 2 teaspoonfuls baking-powder, 1 salt-spoonful salt, 4 fair-sized sweet oranges, half cup sugar. Sift the baking powder and the salt with the flour; rub the butter and lard into it; add the milk, and roll out the dough into a sheet about half as wide as it is long; spread this with the oranges peeled, sliced, and seeded; sprinkle these with sugar; roll up the dough with the fruit inside, pinching the ends together that the juice may not run out; tie the pudding up in a cloth, allowing it room to swell; drop it into a pot of boiling water, and boil it steadily for an hour and a half; remove from the cloth, and lay on a hot dish. Eat with hard sauce flavored with lemon.

Turkey Soup.-Break up the carcass of the cold turkey after all the meat has been cut from it, and p it, with bits of skin and gristle and the stuffing, over the fire in enough water to cover it; cook gently for several hours, and then let the soup get cold on the bones; strain it off, skim it, and put it back on the fire. Have ready in a saucepan two cupfuls of milk, thickened with a table'spoonful of butter and two of flour; stir this into the turkey liquor, boil up, and serve.

Chocolate Custards.-Four cups milk,4 eggs, 1 cup sugar, 4 table-spoonfuls grated chocolate, 2 teaspoonfuls vanilla. Put the chocolate over the fire in a double boiler with part of the milk, and let it cook until smooth; add the rest of the milk, and when this is hot, pour it upon the sugar mixed with the beaten yolks of the eggs; return to the stove, and cook until the custard begins to thicken;

Baked Corn.-Two cups canned corn chopped fine, 1 egg, half cupful milk, 1 table-spoonful butter, pepper and salt to taste. Beat the egg light, stir this and the milk into the corn, season, and bake in a buttered pudding dish until firm.

Plain Fruit Pudding.-One cup molasses, 1 cup milk, 13 cups flour, quarter cup seeded raisins, quarter cup currants washed and dried, quarter cup shredded citron, 1 cup suet, 1 salt-spoonful salt, 1 small teaspoonful soda. Chop the suet into the flour, first mixing the latter with the salt and soda; add the milk and molasses, and beat thoroughly; dredge the fruit and stir it into the pudding:

ting it in the boiling water; cut the clusters apart, and arrange them, stems downward, in a pudding dish; pour a cup of drawn butter over them, season with pepper and salt, sprinkle with fine bread or cracker crumbs, and bake until of a good brown.

Coffee Jelly.-Two cups clear strong coffee, 1 cup sugar, 1 cup boiling water, half cup cold water, half box gelatine. Let the gelatine soak in the cold water an hour; stir the sugar into it, and pour over both the boiling water and the hot coffee, strain into a mould. When cold, turn out in a glass dish, and serve with whipped cream.

saucy fellows, and disdain mere acorns if they can feed on choice sweet nuts. They love green corn too, and mulberries; blackberries as well. See! They have rifled the nut clusters; but you need not go away empty-handed. A wild grape runs riot here, and hangs its black sweet clusters in easy reach-quite too easy in fact.

You have only to pluck and fill your basket, whereas the orthodox thing for a grape hunter is either to "pull down the vine," or else to climb the sapling that upbears it to the very top, then clasp it with both hands and swing off, bringing tree and vine to earth. Grapes so obtained have almost the savor of forbidden fruit-a wild, fresh, woodsy flavor, with a hint of dawn and dew that no clusters from the vineyard may hope to equal.

A little further on stand persimmon-trees in clumps. The little clear space about them held a pioneer's cabin eighty odd years ago. There is no trace of it now, save the big flat stones that mark the hearth and these thickgrowing trees.

Persimmon beer was the height of liquid luxury in those days. To make it, the ripe fruit was gathered, mashed, and kneaded with corn meal into big flat cakes an inch thick. After baking, these were broken up in water, and allowed to ferment. The result was a clear pale yellow liquid, sweetishsour, with a faint sparkle to it-in short, the champagne of that primitive era. These trees did not furnish it. Instead they sprung from seed thrown away in beer-making. They are bare of leaves now, but hung thick, with soft, sweet, tawny yellow globes, thickdusted with purple bloom. A week ago they looked fully ripe, but if you had tasted one, the bitter roughness would have clung to your mouth half the day. Frost has sweetened them, as adversity does some men and

women.

Children

It is the same with black haws. and 'possums count them well worth eating. Some folk are apt to find too little fruit to the amount of seed. Even the birds, save in stress of snow, refuse the big coarse red ones that shine like rubies all over thorny branches. The rare small red ones, growing in clusters much like the garden currant, are dainty morsels for any palate. It loves the lowland-all the hawthorns do-and seldom Its grows twenty feet away from water. leaves are among the last to fall. Gather laden branches of it, if only for their beauty. Box- elderberries are the only things that compare with it. Mark the grace of them: round beads, true coral red, hang in clusters by white stalks from out a thick crimsonfleshed bract. See how thickly they are sown along smooth slender green branches that join at almost right angles to make up a big bough! The boughs come out as squarely from a smooth yellow-gray trunk. The tree never grows very tall-thirty feet at most. Frost fairies may well choose it for their revels. If it is so lovely by daylight, think what it must be all aglitter with diamond dust in the gray shine of stars!

Here the ground is thick with buckeyes. Steal one when nobody is looking, and slip

boil in a brown-bread mould two hours and a half. Serve hard sauce with it.

5. Roast Duck. Canned Green Pease. Boiled Potatoes. Lettuce. Cracker and Cheese. Lemon Tarts..

Canned Green Pease.-Turn the pease from the can into a colander; pour over them several quarts of cold water, so as to rinse the pease thoroughly from the liquor in which they were canned; after this, pour as much boiling water over them, and set the colander over a pot of boiling water, covering the pease; let them steam there until heated through, dish, and put on them a couple of teaspoonfuls of butter, and pepper and salt teaspoonfuls of butter, and pepper and salt

to taste.

Black Bean Soup.-Two cups black beans, 6 cups cold water, 1 onion, 2 sprays parsley, 4 or 5 cloves, 1 teaspoonful mixed thyme and sweet-marjoram, 1 quart corn-beef liquor. sweet-marjoram, 1 quart corn-beef liquor. Pick the beans over carefully, wash them, and put them in soak in the cold water; let them stand all night, and in the morning transfer them to the soup kettle; put with them the onion, herbs, and cloves, and simmer all together gently until the beans are soft; rub them through a colander, réturn to the fire, add the corn-beef liquor, and boil for an hour; pour on two hard-boiled eggs, quartered, and a few thin slices of lemon, laid in the tureen.

Scalloped Cauliflower.-Boil the cauliflower tender; hang it in a piece of net before put

THE

"AFTER FROST,"

HEN comes the wine of the year. What though flowers are nipped and summer birds all gone, the world lies lapped in liquid melting haze, the scent of fruit and corn comes keen from field and orchard; over all, soft late sunshine sifts in long low slanting lines. Frost itself is cruel. It comes heraldlines. Frost itself is cruel. It comes herald-, ed maybe by a thunder-gust; there is the pour of big drops or the pitiless pelting of hail, and vivid flash or two, and crashing peals overhead. Then out of the northwest sweeps something keen and deadly. The clouds vanish. All night long that biting breath sweeps over the face of earth. At dawn the world looks much the same, only flowers and creepers are oddly stiff. Half an hour of sunshine shows what havoc has been wrought. Summer lies in ashes, with hardly a rose left for her bier.

All day the sharp wind blows, and for yet another day. Then it veers west, southwest, south, and sits steady for a fortnight. Breathing rather than blowing, you can barely feel it as you walk abroad. The nut woods are a glory of yellow leaves. Overhead they have thinned to a mere gold-lace against they have thinned to a mere gold-lace against the blue. Underfoot they lie knee-deep, a rustling, fragrant carpet, in whose depths you find scaly barks, chestnuts, big hickory nuts, or white walnuts. Black walnuts are so big and plenty that the sparse leaves cannot hide them. A fruitful tree will completely cover the spread of its branches with the round-yellow-brown globes. For hazel-nuts and chincapins you must st go to the thickets. Both love and cling to deep, rich, sunny virgin soil. Unless they are very plenty, the squirrels will be apt to get them all. They are something of epicures, those small

Take a anybody sees, the charm is broken. handful of crab-apples, too, for perfume. They will smell of the wilds while they keep

a drop of juice. Gather silk-weed pods for luck. The darkies say that if, when they burst into a torrent of white floss, your breath will not blow it away, good fortune will abide with you till the silk-weed is again in seed.

Flowers are scarce enough to be precious. This cluster of blue gentian blooming in the thicket brings more joy than all the milky way of blossom the asters spread last week. Bear it home in triumph; and if you care for curious forms, go through the deep oak wood, and dig up a clump of waxwhite Indian-pipe as well. Take along some of its native earth, and plant the flower, that is without leaf or root, in a low, flat bowl. Wreathe it with oak leaves and fern, and lay a handful of scarlet sumach so the Indianpipes will peep up through it; or if you are weary of the color riot, leave the earth bare except for a few acorns and acorn cups. The over-cup, fringed half an inch deep about the edge, is the handsomest of all acorns. Failing that, white oak or post oak will do excellently well.

Through days of splendid languor the south wind blows on to dawns of mist, wherein spectral trees weep slow tears. Upland pastures and hedge-rows are hung with lace of cobweb, all agleam with pearls. Lowland, the meadows are greener than in May. Each grass blade wears a diamond. Rabbits frisk and nibble in dew-dim clover. At the far verge a red-bird, aperch on a tall swaying weed, swings and sings, and at last flies away. Wood-doves in clouds hover and settle in the corn field. A flight of larks preen their yellow breasts, and chatter noisily in the big bare sassafras that has been a hedge-row landmark this many a year. this many a year. Out of the mist above comes the appealing cry of a young hawk. He is lost in the world of vapor, and calls for his elders. Something glimmers in the grass too tenderly yellow for the hue of decay. A dandelion, too impatient to await the spring, has flung wide its unminted gold. That means sunshine within the hour. The flower never opens in face of persistent clouds. Even now the ghostly glamour fades, a ball of red fire swims overhead, the low sky lifts, and an every-day world lies smiling up to its maker and builder,

THE fair bright weather-more significant THE of late summer than mid-autumn-lingered at Pengavissy after its wonted fashion. It did not vanish readily from this part of the Cornish country; there were days of dazzling sunshine, of soft warm winds, of calm translucent seas, long after most of the watering-places were bereft of humankind, and one could hardly believe that the cold winter was so close at hand, only waiting a turn or two of the hour-glass to be once more dominant, lord of the storm and the wind, and the driving snows and hail, and the furious sea with its toll of wreckage and of human life, ever ravenous and remorseless.

There was peace at Pengavissy yet. The tourist and the tripper came but seldom, business was slack, it was the end of October almost; the four-horse coaches from Pilchardtown, from Truro, and elsewhere, were off the road; business men were back in town, pale-faced and anxious, at their stools and desks and counters; the fashionables were returning from their foreign pilgrimages, and the holiday season was at end for most folk. But Pengavissy remained in all its beauty, as though it were the home of an eternal summer, dedicated to Daddy Kerts and the landlady of the White Lion, and the few aborigines who were hovering about and praying already for next season and next year's largesse.

The White Lion had been startled by two visitors, a lady and gentleman, the lady after a hasty repast proceeding at once down the cove, escorted by the gentleman, the gentleman returning escorted by Mr. Kerts in the darkness along the dangerous pathway which meandered up the cliff-side to the level country beyond. The lady was left at the serpentine-worker's home-her own old home for some years of her girl's life-and the gentleman came back to make a home for a while at the White Lion.

"Yours is a breakneck kind of a locality, Mr. Kerts," said Sir Felix, when they were in the sitting-room of the White Lion together. "I don't think I should care about spending my life here."

"It takes time to get used to it; but once used to it, you would not want to live anywhere else," replied Kerts.

'Ah, sir, you're a great doctor, and that's better than either of those fancy kinds of earning a crust," Mr. Kerts remarked. have heaps of poets and artists come to see me in the course of the season, but I don't think much of them."

"Perhaps they think enough of themselves to make up for it."

And

"Aye, sir, they do, that's true." Kerts threw out his chest and gave a sonorous laugh of approval at the other's jest. Daddy Kerts was in high spirits; Patty had come to see him, and to share his home, shadowed though it was by a sick woman's presence in his best rooms-a woman waiting to die-and the serpentine-worker was elated by the sudden appearance of the girl who had been as a daughter to him, whom he had loved as a father, whose greatest trial and trouble had been her going away for good. "Will you sit down, Mr. Kerts, for a few minutes?"

66

"Thank you, I think I will," said Kerts, suiting the action to the word. The hills get more steepish to me, and a man feels it round his loins a bit when he tries to do too much of up-and-down work in a day; not that I feel old-God be praised!-for I've a lot to do. I'm never idle-never shall benever want to be."

"Most praiseworthy of you, Mr. Kerts," said Sir Felix, a little absently, and already a trifle bored by Mr. Kerts's self-assertiveness. "Can I offer you a glass of-"

"Water. No, thankee; I never take anything between meals."

"Nor I-of that description," Felix added. "I've been wanting a kind of a talk with you for ever so long about yourself and my Patty," said Mr. Kerts; "about your life and hers together presently-wanting, in fact, to give you two young persons-not that you are, sir, particularly young yourself, mind, and mayn't be even a trifle too old for hera bit of sound advice. I'm a poor man-one of the people, Sir Felix-but I think I can advise you well, and give you many comforting words."

66

"We shall find some better time for all that business," said Sir Felix, restlessly. "You don't mean beginning to-night, of course?"

Begun in HARPER'S BAZAR No. 29, Vol. XXIII.

"I cannot say. It depends upon Sister Edith's state of health."

"So long as you can do her any good?" "Yes, exactly so."

"Then you won't be here long. For," remarked Kerts, it isn't in you, sir, clever as people say you are, to give new life to that

"I am afraid you are right, Kerts," said the surgeon; "but we will speak of that further on."

"You seem to want to speak of everything further on," Sampson Kerts remarked, in mild protest or astonishment.

"I am of a procrastinating disposition, you perceive."

"Ye-es. It looks like it, but it isn't." Why not?"

"The man who puts things aside for another time never succeeds in this world as you have done," said Kerts. Why, I remember you myself, long before you knew me by sight, a half-starved, herring-gutted young sawbones in Pilchardtown, trying hard to make ends meet, and not succeeding very well, and now you're a big man."

"Who tells you I am a big man? Patricia?"

"No; she hasn't mentioned your name." "Oh, indeed!"

"I have heard a lot from Miss Kean-I can't abide calling her Sister this and thatand Pilchardtown is proud of you."

"I am very much obliged to Pilchardtown, I am sure, for its good opinion.

"And Mike mentions you in all his letters, and thinks a lot of you; and so," he added, surprising Sir Felix by extending his huge hard hand to him, "you've come-almost without my thinking of it-to look like one of the family. One of us!"

"Thank you, thank you," said Sir Felix, taking the serpentine - worker's hand, and shaking it up and down in a rather flabby fashion. "I am grateful for all men's consideration of me."

"So you ought to be. Why not?"

Sir Felix did not know why not; did not want to talk of himself, or what his friends. thought of him. And the man facing him had given him a cue.

"Ab, Mike! There's a clever young fellow for you, indeed; one with the fire of genius in him, Mr. Kerts."

"Yes, he's clever-so they say," he added, a little doubtfully.

"He is not one of the artist lot of whom you think so little, and who think so much of themselves. He does not know how clever he is," said Sir Felix; "does not see his future as I see it, as Ulric Consterdine saw it years ago."

"And I don't see it myself," said Mr. Kerts, sorrowfully. "I only see how much he holds aloof from me; goes abroad for years at a time; never comes down here, after all his promises not to forget a man-after all his precious talk."

"When did you see him last?"

"I haven't seen him since- Oh, good Lord! this must be the very chap, or his ghost grown up, or something. Mike, is it you? Say it is, if you can, will you?" he exclaimed, in his sudden confusion and surprise.

"Yes, uncle, it is I," said the figure, standing in the doorway.

46

And I was just saying-never mind what I was saying-but I'm very glad you've come to Pengavissy," said his uncle.

Sampson Kerts got up and shook hands with his nephew, put both hands upon his shoulders, and shook them too in their turn, and then addressed Sir Felix again:

"Why, we're getting quite a big and happy family, you see. You and Patty, and Mike and-"

Patty-is she here ?" asked Mike, in a voice almost of affright.

"Yes; she came to-night." "You have brought her down, Felix, to my uncle's?" asked Mike, turning to his friend.

"May it not be the finger of Fate?" "Oh, bosh! Fate has no fingers, and there is no Fate," cried the doctor, lightly.

"Well, it is a dream, then," cried Mike, essaying a light vein himself to match that of his friend, but not succeeding very well in it; "will that do?"

"Yes, it is of the dream type, because it is all unexpected and strange, and full of surprise," said Sir Felix.

"We shall wake soon," answered Mike; then he took off his light overcoat and pitched it into a corner of the room, and sat down. "Wake up in Pengavissy, as though life had never been branched away from it-eh, uncle?"

"Perhaps so; don't quite follow you, though," answered the serpentine - worker, dubiously.

"And what will the waking be. I wonder?" said Michael Garwood to himself.

Patricia clasped her hands together and wrung them very hard..

"I was afraid you would say this," she confessed.

"Where's the necessity for delay?" "It is too sudden-too brutal-too hard upon him!"

"Ha! you doubt. You are not sure." "I am a woman," murmured Patricia. "What am I to, understand by that?"

"I do not wish to be quick to stab him, and if he cares for me so much," said Patricia. "Sometimes I think he does not; that his first love, his greatest, is in the profession

ALHAMBRA.

See illustration on double page, Supplement.

to tell him. And sometimes I think differently, and then my heart sinks."

"Men like Felix Durant feel the deepest," said Sister Edith. "It is not your poetical, emotional, hysterical nature which suffers most or longest.

"Then you would advise me to wait-to give him time, and myself time?" said Patricia, eagerly.

If you have the least doubt in your heart." "I have not."

"Then tell him at once," was given forth sternly, and like a mandate.

Patricia still fought faintly against this decree.

"I-I do not wish to break it to him here -he has been so kind and gentle and unsuspecting all along-so sure of me," she added. "And you have been so weak

'No; I have tried hard to like him," Patricia replied. "I have been so sure that my love would come in time-that it would please my father-everybody-that no one cared for me save him; and now-I can't bear it any longer!" cried Patricia.

"Yes, you are weak," said Edith, thoughtfully; "one of those weaklings vain of her own strength, my poor Patricia, and so com. ing swiftly and surely to the trouble which is in store for those who do not know what

"Who does know?" asked Patricia, a little rebelliously.

Those who trust in their God," was the solemn answer.

"Ah! yes, yes-I had forgotten," said Patricia. 'You are religious; your thoughts are not of this world; you have faith." "And you have not?"

"I would act justly-at the sacrifice of my own happiness, even-if I were sure it was right."

"You would marry Felix Durant?" "That cannot be right, Aunt Edith." "No. Harm would come of it. I have said so.

'Very well. It is all settled, then," said Patricia. "When shall I tell him? Today?"

Patricia turned quickly to her aunt. There was a strange ring in the voice which per plexed her, which might have its story to tell even, and she drew a quick breath of surprise. prise. Was it possible? was it likely? had it been at any time likely that Sister Edith should have loved this Felix Durant, her junior by several years, a boy when she was a grown-up woman? Was taking the rigid Vows of her grave order a reason for it even? There had been things as strange as this, as wonderful, as real, as full of lurid romance and deep affection-unguessed at, unacknowledged, unknown.

"There! do your duty, Patricia, and God speed you!" said Sister Edith, hastily, and with a faint peevishness, as one tired of the subject; "I can hear him coming toward

"I know his step. I can tell his quick, impetuous step from any one's," said the sick woman.

It was not easy to guess, with the shingle sliding and crackling under the feet of the person advancing, blurring the distinctness of the step altogether. They were sitting at a bend of the cliff where the serpentine-worker's cottage was not in view, where the man would turn suddenly and be in full front of them, like one rising out of the earth. The Pengavissy rocks and paths were full of odd twists and turns; and as the steps advanced nearer and nearer both women kept their gaze fixed on the curve of the rock round which he would come-recking not of the cares which were waiting for him, watching sadly, anxiously, and with their hearts beating with a singular rapidity. They were so near the great change of a man's life, the demolition of an idol, and the tragedy of it, the pity of it, smote with a greater force than one had imagined that it might do. For the old loves are uprooted and lying in the dust with such terrible frequency, and hearts break every day! It is all so very

would have flung their battle-axes against the glorious walls, and sent their flying darts shivering through the lace traceries of the doorway.

The Goth of our day only wants to associate his somewhat obtrusive personality with historic places. This is not disrespect. He does not want to picnic in Whitechapel or be photographed in the Ghetto. On the contrary, this is his way of expressing approval of a place. It is appreciation in its rudimentary form, like the sense of smell in savages.

It is for this reason we can laugh goodhumoredly at the smug-faced British tourist -for the artist, who is German, has taken pains to define the nationality, and of course no American ever does such things-who, unabashed by the centuries looking down upon him, sits astride one of the lions of the court, and makes a hat rack of another.

Always the British husband and father, he groups his family about him, and calls in the glorious sun of Spain and the historic stones to witness to his comfortable domesticity. He has come long distances to see a well-spoken-of but untenanted palace, hereafter he will regard it with even greater favor, speak of it approvingly to his friends, and point out particularly the virtues of the lion on which he sat. It is through himself and his relation to things that, like many another, he arrives at a knowledge of the value of things themselves.

But the ghosts of bearded Moors and proud hidalgos that ought to people the Alhambra are used to the ways of tourists. Now they press around and look with wondering awe in one another's eyes about the trim girl with her mysterious shadow box, who, with semiprofessional air, stretches out her hand.

"A little more to the left. Lift your chin. a trifle, Mr. Bull. There!"

Then, as ghosts can look, they peer into the dark recesses, and in the twinkling of an eye see the scene transferred to the thin film within. "This is magic. These mannerless people have mastered the black art," the Moor whispers, while the hidalgo crosses himself and mutters,

Another group watches the scene with more composure, knowing that grateful tourists are apt to drop coins behind them, and that these are worth waiting for. It is interesting to observe how this alone of the human element introduced falls naturally into artistic relations with the scene. By the grace of the artist, to serve his humorous idea, the prosperous citizen and the independent girl tourists are admitted into the Court of Lions, but the peasant and his seated spouse are here by all the laws of art, which are a part of the divine right.

See illustration on double page. theme which ever moved the heart and brain of man has been such a source of artistic inspiration as that of the Madonna and Holy Child. Its evolution from its simplest form of mother love has been as interesting and important historically to art as it has been as a dogma of the Church.

No one needs to look for explanation of this beyond his own most elementary conceptions. It is like a leit motif in music, a comparison we have all learned of late, whose few simple notes a child can catch, but which echoed and re-echoed, caught up here and there, reappearing in new combinations, braided in with glorious attendant harmonies, is always new, yet always familiar.

Until the fourteenth century the mother was always represented standing, holding out her Child to be adored. Then, from being seated in a simple chair, with the child John only admitted at her side, still rendering the more human side of affection, it was but an easy step to her enthronement, and from that to her glorification among the clouds, as in later works.

Near her throne were allowed only the four orders, angels, saints, virgins, martyrs. Then the glorious company of apostles and prophets was admitted. Still later came the dignitaries of the Church and its orders; and after these its defenders, and the noble families that were its supporters rather than its followers. Thus, step by step, through the triumphal progress of art, were reflected the growth and magnificence of that marvellous ecclesiastical hierarchy; and now art, while delighting the eye, serves also to quicken the historical sense.

how unlike, in its proud gaze, to the bewildering sweetness of the Murillo types!

"Notre Dame de Carmen" was painted by

Manuel Dominguez, a contemporary painter, whose "Sancho Panza among the Duchess and her Ladies" some transatlantic travellers may have seen. It hangs in a chapel of Charles III. in the Church of San Francisco el Grande, where it is known under the title of "Presentation of the Scapular of the Carmelite Order by the Virgin to the General and other Holy Men of the Order."

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

X. Y. Z.-It is not good form to take an escort to a private house, unless you have asked an invitation for him.

E. M. R.-Mrs. B. should certainly ask for Mrs. A., and leave a card for her.

TAILOR GOWNS.-You will find fashionable designs for tailor gowns in Bazars Nos. 40, 33, and 31, with diagrams and Supplement patterns that will be of great assistance to you.

S. M. W., WAY OUT WEST, AND OTHERS.-The addresses you wish will be sent privately on receipt of a stamped addressed envelope.

A CONSTANT READER.-Miss Furniss's play A Veneered Savage appeared in Bazar No. 25, Vol. XXI.; A Box of Monkeys was printed in Vol. XXII., No. 51. "MAZEPPA."-The groom wears morning costume, that is to say, black frock-coat of Melton, waistcoat of the same, and trousers with fine stripes and of lighter tint; gray is a suitable color. The gloves should be pearl with black stitching.

B. F. H.-Plain cloths and plaids are preferred to plush for girls' coats. Make them long, with a large cape, and trim them with fur or velvet.

CRITIO.-Girls of fourteen will wear fur capes, gray krimmer and seal in preference. Their coats are long, with lengthwise tucks in the back, lapped fronts, and large revers collar of velvet or fur. Tan or blue cloths and plaid wools are made in this way.

MAY.-Mark household linen with your initials in large Latin script. It is correct to send a calling card in both cases you mention. If the reception is given by an intimate friend, you may prefer to write a friendly informal note of regret.

B. N. Get plain black canvas grenadine for a skirt, and use that you have for a pointed bodice with large sleeves. Do not try to stiffen it. "My dear Mr. S." is the more formal mode of address.

NEWPORT.-The tailor gowns illustrated in Bazar No. 38 are suitable designs for black wool dresses worn as mourning. A pattern of the plaid gown you mention is given in the Supplement of Bazar No. 27. RAMONA. Such mirrors are still used. The long coat will make a tea gown in the way you suggest.

TWIN CITIES.-To make your black faille stylishly, use the simple design illustrated on the third figure on page 728 of Bazar No. 38. Trim with black silk muslin and passementerie. Bind the worn edges of your plush cloak with Astrakhan. The patterns on the Supplement do not allow for seams.

IGNORANOE.-The cloth travelling dress is correct. You can supply your further needs in London and Paris. Take a dark silk dress with you. On the steamer you will also need a comfortable wrapper, an ulster, and changes of under-clothing. Ladies wear full dress at the opera in Europe.

LILIAN R.-Bazar No. 43 of last year's volume contains an article on Halloween customs. Your letter. came too late for an answer in last week's issue.

QUEEN ANNE.-Braiding the hair tightly at night will give it the fluffy effect. India silks and embroidered white muslins make the prettiest curtains for a country house. We are not familiar with the knitting pattern you mention.

HELOISE.-For black skirts that can be washed occasionally, get merino or délaine of pure wool, and make with straight breadths, hemmed, and separate from a foundation skirt. Use alpaca or moreen for a separate petticoat. A pretty laced corselet could be worn, of the merino or delaine, with a blouse of the same, or of striped flannel. A jacket of black cloth completes the

suit for the street.

IOWA.-Get an Astrakhan shoulder cape, either gray or black, and a tailor jacket of cloth. Have a round bolster about twelve inches in diameter.

NEW ENGLAND MOTHER, IONIA, AND OTHERS.-For children's clothing read New York Fashions of Bazar No. 41.

MATURE MAIDEN.-Do not change your style of dressing because you are thirty years old. Use any of the pretty designs for gowns and jackets worn by your younger sister, choosing dark shades of warm rich colors because of your "undecided complexion." For the street have tailor gowns of maroon or blue cloth or serge, and for house gowns wear cashmere or bengaline of Jacqueminot-rose color, the dark violet shades, or pinkishi heliotrope, and also very dressy black gowns of net or bengaline, with gilt and velvet in their trimmings.

LIMA. Use the velvet of your jacket for a deep V-shaped yoke and high flaring collar, and complete a mantle by making high-shouldered side pieces of the silk of your other wrap. An edging of ostrich-feather bands will be becoming, and will conceal marred places on the velvet.

J: A. T.-Get dotted Swiss muslin curtains, and trim with a gathered ruffle four or five inches wide. A breadth of linen is used for sheet shams. The newer fashion is to carry the spread either over or under the bolster, yet pillow and sheet shams are still used. Mink shoulder capes are fashionable. Certainly it is worth while to have one made with pointed front, high shoulders, and flaring collar, out of those you 'have.

M. E. N.-There are two exchanges for women's work in this city; the original one is at 329 Fifth AvYoung ladies' house dresses are made to lie on the floor from two to five inches.

enue.

M. E. A seal-skin cape is fashionable and useful for a young lady; it will cost $50 or $60.

DOT.-Use dark red cloth for the vest of your gown. Make a slashed coat with open jacket front, large sleeves, and a straight habit skirt.

F. W. F.-Read suggestions just given "Dot" for your green cashmere. Have a black bengaline vest and trim with black velvet. Use blue bengaline as a vest and sleeves of your gray cashmere, with a corselet and plain skirt of cashmere, banded with the blue silk. Hat crowns are low. The one you suggest will answer this season. Skirts are still quite plain; bodices are much trimmed, and collars are high. Small triple capes are less fashionable than they have been. MUNROE.-Use your silk for large sleeves and a plain habit skirt, and get either blue brocade or black velvet for a bodice or coat-basque to go with it. Trim with black passementerie.

M. H.-Faced cloth, brocade, or bengaline in silver gray or beige colors will be suitable for a house wedding, and afterward for the theatre, visiting, etc. Have a velvet slashed bodice, with sleeves and skirt of the cloth or bengaline. Send a card in an envelope to Mr. and Mrs. Smith, another to the Misses Smith, and a third to the son. Make the black faille with a pointed bodice fastened on the left side, and frimmed in yoke shape with two or three rows of turquoise and jet passementerie. Have full sleeves and straight habit skirt.