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I. gentle reader, you are proposing to embark on a career of what the harsh world too readily calls crime, and Judges reward with a term of seclusion, would you rather carry it on secretly, or would you take your wife into partnership 2 It is a question which cannot be lightly answered, because the answer must depend in great ineasure on the character and disposition of the lady. For there are wives who, like eminent statesmen when they suddenly and brazenly veer round and give the lie to all that they have hitherto said and taught and professed, are ready to aver that the thing is the only right thing to do, and to cover it up with a gilding of fair words and pretence, so as to make it appear most beautiful, virtuous, and unselfish. Other wives there are, again, who can never be brought to see anything but the naked ugliness of the thing standing out in front of the written law, and refuse any assistance, and go melancholy and ashamed. You will now hear, if you have the patience to follow up this narrative, what happened to a man who adopted a certain course of action without his wife's knowledge and consent previously ob. tained. I do not know, that is to say, what Harriet Rolfe would have said, or what co-operation she would have afforded her husband. Perhaps the path which opened out before him, showing such vistas of ease and delight, might have attracted and tempted her as well—but I do not know. Meantime it is a curious speculation to think of the difference it might have made had Harriet herself been a consenting party to the line adopted. It was not a deep-laid conspiracy, hatched after long meditation and brooding. Not at all; it grew out of small beginnings, and was developed, as such things often are, by the assistance of unforeseen circumstances. James Rolfe knew perfectly well that he would get nothing from his uncle's will, and was not in the least surprised when he learned its contents. The history of five years spent as an articled clerk in the office, and five more spent in acquiring experience at the cost of his patrimony, caused his uncle to resolve that his nephew should be left to make his own way in the world. This shows what a high opinion he had formed of this nephew. Further, on several occasions he communicated this opinion to James. Therefore when Tom proposed that he should prove the will and take over the management of the property, James considered it the greatest piece of luck which had ever befallen him. At first he sat down, the papers before him, with all the zeal which one expects of a man paid by the hour instead of by the job, without limit as to time. He began by investigating the circumstances connected with the trust-money, something of which he already knew. Next he made, as he thought, the discovery that the whole estate was not more than suffi. cient to discharge the trust. He communicated this unpleasant discovery to Tom as a fact about which there was no doubt. It had the immediate effect of causing Tom's departure for Egypt. If it had not been for that discovery the second chapter of this book—nay, the whole book—would have been impossible for a truthful historian. Now at school the youthful James had never been able to add up his sums and to reduce his pounds to pence with the correctness desired by his masters. The immediate result was unpleaSant; the more enduring result was hatred and continued ignorance of all mathematical science. Therefore, as an accountant, he blundered. And it was not until Tom was gone that he found out what a big blunder he had made. Never mind; when he returned there would be time to set him right. Six weeks after his departure there came the first alarming telegram in the papers. James Rolfe read it and changed color. Then he reflected, and winked hard with both eyes. In moments of mental agitation he always winked hard and tight with both eyes. Some men turn red or pale or both ; others fidget with their hands; others wriggle in their chairs; James Rolfe winked with both eyes. The next day and the next and the day after there came more telegrams of a similar character. “Harriet,” said her husband, solemnly, “my cousin Tom must be dead. Four days have passed and he has not come back. The last fugitives who have escaped have returned to camp, but he has not come in. Captain McLaughlin, of the 115th, and Mr. Addison, correspondent of the Daily Herald, are still missing. There is no doubt, I very much fear, that Tom is dead.” “Then who'll have all the money, James o' “There may be a will,” he replied, fully aware that there was none. “It ought to be mine by rights. But there may be a will.”

* Begun in HARPER's Bazar No. 43, Vol. XX.

“What other relations has he?” “He has cousins by his mother's side, but the family all went to New Zealand long ago. By his father's side I am the only first cousin.” “Then—oh Jem, won't you have it all?” “We must distinguish, Harriet,” he replied, in a legal tone; “we must distinguish. I certainly ought to have it all.” “He was engaged, you told me.” “Yes.” James was reminded by the question of certain last words and a promise. And again he winked with both eyes. “Yes, he was engaged. I shall look into his papers, Harriet, and find his will, if he left one.” His heart leaped up within him and his pulse quickened, because he knew very well that there was no will. The time was one of great tightness. The rent was overdue, and the landlord was pressing. James Rolfe's private resources had wellnigh come to an end, and his practice was meagre indeed. It is not enough, as many have discovered, to call yourself a solicitor, if your language, your manners, your appearance, and your general reputation fail to command the respect and confidence which bring along the client. James's appearance reminded the observer of a swashbuckler in private modern dress. Now, rightly or wrongly, people like their solicitors to exhibit a correct and sober tenue. His tastes led him to racing, and therefore to billiards, the turf being somehow the first cousin of the billiard table. Both are green, to begin with. He was well set up; a big, handsome fellow, with brown hair straight and short, a smooth cheek, and a full mustache; the kind of man who at forty will have developed a figure and put on a double chin. His wife, whom he elevated to that proud position from a stall in Soho Bazar, was, like himself, big-limbed, full of figure, and comely to look upon. There was no woman anywhere, Jem proudly felt, who could compare with her. In fact, when Harriet was well dressed and in a good temper she was a very handsome creature indeed, She would make a splendid stage queen with her masses of brown hair rolled up under a gleaming gold coronet, a black or crimson velvet dress showing her white arms and setting off her regular features and her ample rosy cheek, her broad white shoulders and her great blue eyes. Rubens would have painted her with enthusiasm. She must have come from the country, for in London such women are not grown. In other things, besides comeliness, she was a fitting partner for James Rolfe: like him, she ardently loved all the pomps and vanities of the world—every one— and especially the vanity of rich and beautiful raiment. Next, she loved the vanity of the theatre, which she regarded as the proper place to show a good dress. She also loved the vanity of champagne, the festal drink; that of good eating; and that of cheerful society, where the men did what they pleased and the ladies were not stuck-up and stiff. “Harriet,” said her husband, a few days later,

“Tom is really dead. There can be no longer

any doubt about it.” “Is it really and truly certain " “Everybody has given him up.” “Oh, Jem—and all this money ! Is it really ours ?. Oh s” . Jem did not immediately reply, but he shut both eyes hard. Then he walked to the window, and looked out into the back garden of the villa. Then he returned to the fireplace and played with the things on the mantel-shelf. Harriet waited, and watched him anxiously. “Harriet,” he said, “I am his cousin and his solicitor. I have therefore been to his lodgings this afternoon and paid the rent, and carried away his books and papers and clothes and everything.” “Well ?” “So far as I have gone—I have examined all the papers, which did not take long—I have found no will.” “Then—oh, Jem”—Harriet sprang to her feet —“everything is ours!” “Don’t be in a hurry. There may be a will. The property can only be ours if there is no will, because, Tom would certainly have given, it to that girl.” Harriet sank back in her chair. “I thought,” her husband continued, “before he went away that there would be no money after all.” “No money? Why? With all your uncle's fortune 1” “Because it seemed at one time as if there were liabilities that would swallow up all. Why should he make a will when he had nothing to leave? There was not even an insurance; there is next to nothing in the bank; there are his books, but what are they worth o' “No will, you think, Tom ? Then—” “No will, I am nearly sure. But for the present we cannot be absolutely certain.” “But then he may not be dead, after all.” “For my own part, I have been certain from the beginning that he is dead. The party were surrounded and attacked. A few escaped. When

the place was visited again the other day there

was nothing but the skeletons left. I have no doubt at all that he is killed.” “Oh!” It was a long and rapturous interjection. “Are you sure, Jem Oh! And no will Can no one take the property away from us?” “There is no will, Harriet. It will be all mine.” He spoke with an authority which commanded faith. “How much is it, Jem * much it is.” - “There's a house in Russell Square beautifully furnished, where my uncle lived.” “Oh but there's more than a house.” “There is property of all kinds—freehold houses, lands, investments—which come to, we'll say, fifteen hundred a year, I dare say. Harriet, we’ll go at once and live in Russell Square.”

Oh, tell me how

“We will, Jem.” “We'll give up this measly little villa.” “We will—oh we will; and Jem—dear Jem —promise me you won't play ducks and drakes with this money as you did with your own.” “No, my dear, I will not. I’ve done with betting, don't you fear. It's all over, Harriet. And I say, old girl, we've had our little tiffs about the money, and I own we have been hard up once or twice.” “Once or twice only” It seems to me that it's been nothing but a stand-up fight ever since we got married. Hardly a day but I wished myself back at my stall in Soho Bazar. Once or twice And you led me to believe that you were so well off.” “Well, Harriet, I was in love, you know. But that's all over, and what I wanted to say was that it's all to be forgotten now, just as we shall sink the stall when we go into society and take our proper place.” “Poor Tom Addisons” she sighed. “I shall put on mourning for six months—not crape, of course, because I hate it—but half-mourning for six months. Half-mourning is always becoming. Poor Tom Addison 1 And I shall always be sorry that I never saw him. I could have grieved for him so much more truly if I had ever known him.” “Oh I never mind that,” said her husband, brutally. “Sit down and enjoy a good cry over him, just as if you had known him. You'd like him back again, wouldn't you? Nothing we should either of us like better.” “Don’t, Jem. Of course it makes a wonderful difference to us. But we may have our feelings, and there's a proper way of talking about things.” “Feel away,” Jem grinned, “and talk as much as you like, but don't talk him back again. Yes, you can talk, I know, as well as the tinker who talked off the donkey's hind-leg.” “Then there is that poor dear girl who was engaged to him. What's become of her? I wish I'd known her too. I could have called upon her and condoled with her—in black silk.” “She is a governess somewhere, I believe. It's rough on her, isn't it? I hope she'll get another lover.” “Lovers are not to be had for the asking, Jem. There's not enough to go round, as everybody knows, and very few girls get more than one chance; unless, of course, they are more than commonly attractive.” She smiled, feeling herself to be one of the exceptions. This conversation makes the residence of Mr. and Mrs. James Rolfe in Russell Square intelligible. It also explains why Mr. James Rolfe sat every day in his uncle's office in New Square, Lincoln's Inn, his own name being put up instead of his uncle's, and there carried on his business. When James Rolfe was an articled clerk there came to the office once a quarter, to receive on each occasion the sum of seventy-five pounds, in five-pound notes, a gentleman named Captain Willoughby. He was an elderly man of distinguished appearance and excellent manners. The senior clerk received him, gave him his money, and took his receipt. The whole business did not take more than five minutes. On the last quarterday of March, commonly called Lady-day, Captain Willoughby had not called for his money. James was in no hurry to find out what had become of this man and who were his heirs. Indeed, he was at first fully occupied in mastering the details of a complicated estate, and it must be owned that he was not good at mastering details. Presently, things becoming a little clearer, he began to inquire further into this matter, and he discovered several curious and interesting things; namely, first, that no message or intelligence had come to the office concerning Captain Willoughby; secondly, that no person had sent in any claim as heir; thirdly, that no one had inquired after the Trust; and fourthly, that Cap

tain Willoughby's address was unknown. It was

strange that if the man was dead his heirs did not come forward. The mystery of this Trust began to worry him. Where were Captain Willoughby's heirs? Was he really dead? If so, why had no news been sent to the office? “The trust-money,” he said, presenting the case to himself, “was given to my uncle. Here is Miss Willoughby's letter in the safe: “Give my nephew three hundred a year, and let the rest accumulate for his children if he marries.” And here is the deed which my uncle drew up to secure the carrying out of the Trust. The nephew did marry: there's my uncle's note at the back of the letter. He married an actress and she died. Had he any children 2 I don't know. If he had, let them come and take their money. They must know where their father came for

his. If there are no children, the money reverts :

to Miss Willoughby's heirs: Well, let them come and claim it. There is nothing to prove the Trust but this one letter and the deed. They may have a copy, but it isn't likely, or I should have heard of it by this time. Besides, Miss Willoughby died seven years ago; her will has long since been proved and her money paid over by my uncle, her executor, to her heirs, and not a word said about the Trust in her will.” You now begin to understand what it was that James Rolfe did. First, he constituted himself sole heir. If anything, he said, should be left after the Trust was paid, it could be divided among all the cousins if they came to claim it. Until they should claim their share he would continue to take and enjoy the whole. Next, he said nothing to his wife about the Trust: he did not endeavor to find out if Captain Willoughby left any children, nor did he acquaint the heirs of Miss Willoughby with the facts. As for his promise as regards Katharine, he put that away in a corner of his brain where it was not likely to disturb him. And he told his wife nothing of that promise, any more than of the trust-money. Conscience sometimes makes dreadful ghosts to

appear in the dead of night and whisper terrifying things in the ears of some solicitors who do these things. In James Rolfe's case there were no ghosts at all. Conscience acquiesced. He slept beside his handsome Harriet the sleep of the just and righteous. No one knew about the Trust: there was, to be sure, the letter in the safe with the deed, but the key of this safe was in his pocket. No one knew about the Trust, or about his promise as regards Katharine—ridiculous, to think that he was going to give that girl his uncle's estate | No one knew except Tom Addison and himself; and Tom was dead. If he had told Harriet the exact truth she might perhaps have insisted on the restitution of the trust-money to Miss Willoughby's heirs, and she might have proposed a compromise as regards Katharine. On the other hand, she might have acquiesced in her husband's proceedings, and even given him assistance and a moral support. Who knows? But he did not tell her, and she continued happy in her great house, for the first time in her life free from worry; now her husband was rich there would be no more trouble. Of course he was honest. Honest ? The doubt could not arise. A gentleman is always honest—who ever heard of a gentleman being a rogue and a robber of orphans?

CHAPTER v. KATHARINE.

ToM was dead. The worst misfortune that could happen to any girl had fallen upon Katharine. She had lost her lover. In modern warfare the war correspondent runs more risks than the warrior. The latter only takes his turn in the fighting; the former must be always in the front; the combatants are looked after and kept in safety; they are like the pawns of a chessboard, moved from cover to cover; the correspondent has to find his own cover. The earlier war correspondent had to keep in the rear with the camp-followers and the commissariat: he picked up what information he could gather, an object of much suspicion and some contempt. He now marches with the van, goes out with the forlorn hope, sits down in the thick of the fight with his note-book, and takes ten men's share of the bullets. Consequently he sometimes gets picked off. - The hope that the two missing Englishmen might return was never strong, and grew daily more faint, until it finally vanished quite. They were dead. There could be no longer any doubt. From the great gray desert there came no more news or message from the dead than comes across the broad silent ocean from the shipwrecked sailor whose craft has gone down beneath his feet. Even the men of the Savage Club, a truly hopeful and remarkably cheerful body, among whom are many war correspondents, men of peril and daring, gave up pretending to hope any longer—Tom Addison, one of the best of good fellows, was dead. It is good, if you come to think of it, even at the first amazement and stupefaction of grief, to be obliged to go on working as if nothing had happened at all. The old commonplace about the clown who has to tumble and grin while his wife lies sick unto death, may just as well be put away and done with ; first, because clowns are not, as a rule, I believe, so sensitive a folk as to suffer their emotions to hinder necessary work; and secondly, because the business of making other people laugh by horse-play is in itself serious, not mirthful, and therefore compatible with the saddest heart; and thirdly, because if the clown was of a more than commonly feeling disposition, and if his business really required a mirthful heart, it would be good for him to be taken out of himself and his grief for a while. Katharine had a much more difficult duty than that of any clown: she had to go governessing. . You must not look glum before children; you must not cry in their presence; you must not suffer your face to relax into gloom for a moment; yet your smile must not be fixed as cast-iron; you must laugh with them, play with them, chat with them, and pretend so well as not to be found out or even suspected. All the time that you are with children you must put any private sorrows of your own away and out of sight. The governess who knows nothing and is only amiable and kind to the children, with a leaning in the direction of religion, is rapidly dying out; the march of civilization tramples upon her. The high-schools and the Cambridge colleges are making her existence impossible. Therefore Katharine was happy in having obtained a post as governess in the simple and unpretending family of the Emptages. - They lived in Doughty Street, where they occupied the lower part of the house—that part which commands the kitchen. There were six children, all girls; the youngest was six and the oldest fifteen, and they were all Katharine's pupils. The bread-winner was a clerk in the City: he had, I do really believe, all the virtues of his profession; not one or two, but all; they are too many to enumerate; suffice it to say that he wrote like copper-plate, and kept books with accuracy; was as punctual as the clock; never wanted any amusement; did not smoke tobacco; drank a half-pint of beer with his dinner and another with his supper; walked into the City and out again—he had walked in and out for thirty years, being now five-and-forty; and his salary now reached the very handsome figures of three ... hundred, at which point it would remain. His father was a clerk before him; his brothers and uncles and cousins and nephews were clerks; his wife was the daughter of a clerk: he was steeped in clerkery. In appearance he was neat, clean, small, and spare, with a modest whisker of black hair; he had ventured to become as bald in front as if he were a partner; he believed that

he had attained to a really lofty elevation on the both spare five-minutes from their work. good thing, I repeat, for the mourner to get up,

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him off prematurely.

social ladder; certainly there were fewer above than below him; and he considered his career a remarkable example of what may be effected by ability backed by industry and honesty. His wife was small and neat like him, but she looked much more worn, because to keep six children neat and respectable is work of an even more responsible character than that of a clerk in a City house. I suppose there was nowhere a harder-worked woman, and, fortunately for her

governess, there was nowhere a kinder-hearted

Woman. Katharine began her duties at nine, and she left the house at seven, eight, or nine in the evening, for there was no limit as to hours. She received, in payment for her services, her dinner— it really is a shame that the same word has to do duty for all the various functions of eating which take place between noon and night—and her tea. In addition, she was paid quarterly the sum of twenty pounds a year. This is rather more than a shilling a day—in fact, seven shillings and eightpence-farthing a week. It is a great deal of money for a clerk on three hundred a year to pay a governess, but then it released his wife and saved a nurse and allowed the girls to be fitted for those occupations which are open to genteel young persons for whom the Board school could not be thought of and at any genteel Ladies' Seminary the education of all the six would cost a good deal more than twenty pounds a year. Katharine's pay, to look.at her side of the bargain, after paying for her bed and breakfast, left her a little over two shillings a week for dress, gloves, boots, books, omnibuses, and amusements, and everything. A noble margin Yet until the news came from Egypt she was perfectly happy. What matter for a few weeks of pinching when her lover would come home again and take her out of it? She gave herself up therefore cheerfully to the children, teaching them all the morning, walking with them, amusing them, making and mending and darning with them and for them, bearing a hand in laying the cloth, and, in short, behaving as the mother's help rather than the lady governess, insomuch that she was become the sister of the children and the daughter of the mother, who held out her arms to her in her trouble—they were thin arms, worn to the bone with work for her children—and kissed her, and wept over and with her whenever they could It is a

brush out the ashes from his hair, sew up the rent garments—Katharine's two shillings a week allowed of no rending—and go to work again, though the clay-clods upon the dead man's grave are still wet, and though his voice yet lingers in the brain, and though he is still expected to lift the latch and take his accustomed seat. Katharine went on with her teaching. In losing her lover she lost everything. His death— though this she understood not, mercifully—condemned her to a life-long struggle for daily bread. These life sentences are always being passed, and generally upon the innocent. The father makes an Ass of himself, or Fate cuts The sentence of the Court is that the girls shall be sent into penal servitude for life as under-paid, half-fed, incompetent teachers, wretched artists, miserable literary hacks, and so forth. Happily the decrees of the Court are not published. If the girls were to understand what lies before them—the loveless, hopeless, dependent, and starved life—one knows not whither they would turn in the misery of the prospect before them. The twenties, when one

is hopeful, pass into the thirties, when one is

strong still, and the thirties into the forties, when the strength of youth has changed into endurance; and presently age falls upon them, and it grows daily more difficult to find work, and in the end they come to understand their own history, and the hopelessness of their case all along, and the severity of the Law. Poor ladies who can help them? Who can take them out of Harley House ?

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appearance of one who lived upon four times

that salary. The young Germans who come to London in the day of small things practise the small economies: they share bedrooms: they know where to go for meals of a satisfying kind, large in bulk to satisfy the Teutonic hunger, but cheap. Eighteenpence a day is considered by some of the younger adventurers as an ample allowance for food: for everything not absolutely necessary, a German who means to rise must wait. Dittmer was a sturdy, well-set-up young fellow, actually without spectacles. He had the blue eyes and the fair hair of his country: his manners were gentle: he firmly believed in the enormous superiority of Germans over the rest of mankind. He loved dancing, though he got

none: he could sing, playing his own accompaniments, the folk-songs of which the good German never tires: he sang them with great feeling: and in the evening when the largest lamp was lit—the gas lamp—and the children, with Mrs. Emptage and Katharine, sat at the table sewing, and Mr. Emptage sat by the fireside, his legs crossed, with an evening paper, enjoying the leisure of a good gentleman who has put away care for the day, it was pretty to see Dittmer spreading his fingers over the keys, and to listen while he warbled, one after the other, the ditties of the father-land. It became the custom with the young man when Katharine staid until nine—no one could stay later, because that was the time for the family supper—to walk home with her as far as the door of Harley House. English young men as well as Germans ardently desire to tell about themselves, their prospects, their aims and their ambitions, but they stifle the yearning. They talk to each other for a while, but not after their career is actually begun. A German young man, on the other hand, looks about for a companion of the opposite sex, to whom he may confide everything: she becomes his friend, his adviser, his sympathizer. Sometimes she is young and pretty, when the result is inevitable: sometimes she is young and plain, when the result is generally much the same: sometimes she is middle-aged or old, when the friendship may become a very sweet and tender one. How much good might be done if ladies of a certain age would let it be known that they were ready to undertake the part of consoler, adviser, and sympathizer each to one young man! One feels, speaking as a man, perfectly ready at any age to do as much for a young lady. Katharine played this part to the young German, while he talked about himself. “I am not, Fräulein,” Dittmer Bock explained, “hochgeboren. My father conducts a Delicatessen-Handlung in Hamburg, opposite the Jacobi Church.” May one disguise the good Dittmer's English 2 Any one may speak it as he spoke it. In fact, the German-English of to-day is as easy to write as the French-English of sixty years ago —witness the humorist in every American paper. “My father had ambitions for his sons above the Delicatessen-Handlung. He wished that they should become great merchants, such as used to be found in London.” “Are they not found here still?” . Dittmer shrugged his shoulders. “I find the memory of great English merchants, and I find great German houses—Hamburg is the place where you must look now for great merchants. Did you ever hear of the Godefroi brothers?” Katharine never had.

“They were boys who worked and looked

about them. Perhaps they had read history and knew about Whittington and . Gresham. And they rose and became rich; they discovered an island, and they established trade with it and planted it. They became rich. They founded the great German Colonial Empire of the future” —here Dittmer spread his arms—“which will grow and grow until it swallows up your English colonies one after the other. I, too, shall.look about the world until I discover another island like Samoa. Then I shall go there and begin to trade and to plant.” “It is a great ambition, Dittmer.” “It has been my resolve since I was a child. In order to carry it out I have learnt what I could—mathematics, languages, book-keeping, short-hand, physical geography, commercial and political history, and the present condition of trade over all the world. I know every harbor and its exports and imports, and the principal merchants who carry on its trade.” “That seems a great deal to learn.” “Modern trade wants all this knowledge. There will very soon be no more English merchants, because your young men will not learn the new conditions of trade. In every office there must be clerks who can write and speak foreign languages. Your young men will not learn them, and your schools cannot teach them. Then we come over—we who have learned them. For my part, I can write and read English, Swedish, Danish, French, Spanish, Italian, Dutch, and German. Do you think we shall be content to stay here as clerks? No, no. . Do you think that I have come here to sit down with forty pounds a year? We are cheap, we German clerks. You say so. Mein Gott! you will find us dear. We are learning your trade: we find out all your customers and your correspondents: we learn your profits, and we undersell you. We do not go away. We remain. And presently, instead of an English House there is a German House in its place, because your young men are so stupid that they will not learn.” At this point Dittmer Bock was quite carried away and became almost the American newspaper German. “I study English commerce—I study how it began and why it is now coming to an end. The English clerk will not learn anything, and expect to be paid like an Amtsrichter at least. In Deutschland we learn, and we are poor at first. Jawohl' we are poor, but we can wait. It is your high salaries in your army, in your navy, in your Church, in your trade, in your administration, which ruin Great Britain. Everywhere the German merchant drives out the Englishman and the American : your commerce goes out of your hands: for the moment only it remains in Lön

don, thanks to the Germans and the Jews. When

we have taken Antwerp, it will all go there— all—and where will be your London then 2 All —all shall be Deutsch....” Then he fell into a philosophical vein. “Let us look around. Already France decays —for want of men: England has begun to decay, for there will soon be no more Bauern, no villagers, for soldiers, and to make strong and pure the bad blood of the towns. Deutschland alone will

spread until it has swallowed Holland, Belgium, Scandinavia, and India and the English colonies, and has controlled America. There will be only three nations left in the world—Deutschland, Russia, China. Will there be one grand worldkingdom, with Berlin for its world-centre 2 Always we see in history commerce which passes from hand to hand: everywhere one people which decays and one people which advances. It is curious: it is wonderful.” “But all this will be after your time, Dittmer.” “As for me,” he answered, coming down from the prophetic level, “I shall become another Godefroi, and find another Samoa.” “I hope you will, Dittmer,” said Katie. “Fräulein”—he left off talking about himself —“my heart is sorrowful for you. Every day I tear open the paper and I look for news. I say, Oh! perhaps to-day it comes—the telegram that he is well.” “Dittmer, please stop. Please—do not say such a thing again.” “But there is hope, since they have learned nothing about him.” “How can there be hope 2 No—he is dead. I have his letters. I shall carry them all my life.” Involuntarily she laid her hand upon the pocket where they were kept. “The letters are all I have of him. He is dead, Dittmer. And, oh my heart is breaking. Never speak again of news. There can be none, unless they find his bones upon the sands. No news—no news. He is dead—he is dead.” They finished their walk in silence. When they reached Harley House, Katharine saw that the tears were running down Dittmer's cheeks. “You are good and kind, my friend,” she said. “Oh it is something to have a friend in the world.” He stooped and kissed her hand. “Fräulein—” he began, but he choked and said no more. It is remarkable that although we boast ourselves to be the grand articulately speaking race of Man, the most expressive things are those which are omitted. Dittmer Bock never finished that sentence, yet Katharine knew what he meant, and that she had a servant as well as a friend. One evening he had been silent and dull at the house, even refusing to sing. He spoke to her on another subject. “Fräulein,” he said, “there will be more trouble.” “What is it, Dittmer ? for me?” “For our friends. Therefore for you as well as for me.” “What is it, then 2" He proceeded to tell her, with many excuses and apologies to himself for betraying the confidence of the House, that in his position of confidential secretary and letter writer, he knew a great deal more than the clerks in the outer office knew : that the partners spoke more freely in his presence than before others: that in this way, and by putting things together, he had learned that, owing to the depression of trade and the bad prospects of the future it was in contemplation to make a considerable reduction in the expenses of the establishment. “What does that mean?” “It may mean that Mr. Emptage will be sent away.” “Oh I that would be terrible for them.” “Or perhaps his salary would be reduced.” “But they are poor enough as it is.” “I shall be kept because I am cheap. They think I am cheap. Ho! The English clerks are sent away because they are dear, and because they know neither short-hand nor any foreign

Trouble for you or

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Fit were not for clothes a great part of the world would have nothing to do, and nothing to think about. Clothes are to some what books and pictures and bric-à-brac, music, poetry, and conversation, are to others. They take the place of metaphysics, astronomy, and psychological research. Possibly it may require as much thought to plan a reception gown as to calculate an eclipse, especial. ly when the purse is slender; to imagine a new shape for a bonnet, a new drapery, a new trimming, as to invent a philosophical solution of the universe or to compose a symphony; but the mind is more enlarged and enriched by the one than by the other. We do not exactly want to live for clothes, to satisfy our souls with such material things, although many are apparently content to give all their leisure and thoughts to them, and are no sooner off with the old clothes than they are on with the new. They always have a dressmaker in the house and shopping on hand. Their literature is fashion reports. They have no interests to speak of apart from this frivolous pursuit, or none so great, so absorbing. Happiness for such people consists in a wardrobe where no omission can be detected. But let it not be supposed that this adoration of clothes is a peculiar. ly feminine trait, although many believe so. Are not fop and coxcomb both in the masculine gender, and is there any feminine synonym for them? Of course it may be urged that men have nobler

occupations which consume their time, that their minds are not so narrow as to be agitated by the shape of a collar, but this is perhaps only an argument in favor of the higher education of wo. men. If their minds were as elegantly and suitably furnished as those of their brothers, would they not have something more interesting to devote themselves to ? Dress is a kind of recreation, like poetry or music, not the absorbing interest of a lifetime, although one might suspect quite the reverse. Too profound attention to it is debilitating to the mental fibre; like some poisons, it has an accumulative effect; one cannot trifle with it or it asserts itself, and becomes an intoxication in one case, a fetich in another. It is always a pleasure to see well-dressed people; a gown that fits badly, colors ill assorted, tawdriness, depress one like bad drawing, like “sweet bells jangling out of tune”; but those who put their soul into their clothes, into the hang of a skirt or the set of a sleeve, have generally very little else to recommend them, and one soon exhausts their resources. “A sweet disorder in the dress” may be advised for artistic effect; it relieves primness and gives a touch of piquancy to a toilette; but the disorder must not lapse into a disease; one is not more certainly born with a genius for music, for literature or art, than another is born with a taste for dress, knows what to wear and how to wear it.

ANSWERS TO COR12/SPONI) ENTS.

Louise C.—We can give you no information on the subject. L. S. U.—The persons you mention are not identical. REGARDr.—The articles will probably appear in book form. DREss-MAKER.—Get Valenciennes trimming lace with met to match to trim a canary satin evening dress. As the wearer has a thin neck, gather the net as a full guimpe, along the high lace collar and shoulders, gathering the lower edge into the satin corsage, which should be cut in a V, beginning just under the armholes in the side seams, or else extending to the shoulders as in the foulard and moiré dress illustrated on page 508 of Bazar No. 29, Vol. XX. You could accentuate the bias effect by putting two or three V's of moiré ribbon in the under-arm seams and meeting in a point in the middle of the front. Another pretty way of trimming a corsage with lace and ribbon is shown in a fichu on the next page to that just quoted. Mits. T. R.—A better plan would be to have your whole skirt of black lace, using the shaw] for an apron, and buying enough deep lace to complete it. If you wish, the foundation skirt can be of rose-colored silk or satin surah. Turn in the neck of the basque in Vshape, and drape with lace, either white or black. We do not reply by mail to such inquiries. W. C. F.—You will find directions for preparing pine pillows in an article in IBazar No. 36, Vol. XIX. MARIE VAN.—Your suit will be in good style.

E. L. C.—Skirts of green cashmere, or of green .

faille prettily draped, or else of black lace, will be handsome with your green velvet basque. See late illustrations of bridal veils in the Bazar. We do not reply by mail. UI.U.-Make handsomely draped skirts of your green repped silk, and get a basque of green velvet to wear with it. Striped point d'esprit net, either black or white, will be pretty for your evening dress made up with moiré ribbon like the short dinner gown illustrated in Bazar No. 42, Vol. XX., on page 716. Rosic DARTLE.—Most of your many questions are answered at length in the revised edition of Mammers and Social Usages, which will be sent you from this of— fice on receipt of $125. . M. P.-Satin is not as fashionable as silk, so you should get Gobelin blue silk and velvet for the visiting dress. Dark green or brown cloth is suitable for a bride's travelling dress made in tailor style, with a jacket to match, and a felt hat or bonnet. A cashmere and moiré combination dress in dark terra-cotta can be worn either in the house or street. The checked

black and white silk will answer for a lower pleated

skirt with long drapery and basque of black cashn) (*re. BELLE.—A white cloth or diagonal skirt made plain, bordered widely with green velvet, and a long draped over-skirt and basque of green cloth or cashmere, will be handsome for a house dress. Make the basque a gathered waist, with a white corded silk vest braided with gilt. See stylish drapery on the silk and wool §§ illustrated on the first page of Bazar No. 35, Ol. Florr Nor F.—Make your black plaid wool by any of the tailor designs lately given in the Bazar, and trim it with silk cord passementerie. Vickbum SAPIENTI.—Your black jacket and the green trimming on your hat are still in good style. To wear with them get a green serge or ladies' cloth dress, or else have a green cloth basque with skirts of plaid in vague brown and green bars. Use any heliotrope dress you have, but do not buy new garments of heliotrope shades. CARoi,INE AND Others.—Read about young ladies’ dresses in Bazar No. 44, Vol. XX., and about furs in the New York Fashions of the present number. INQUIRER.—A gown of colored moiré and changeable velvet, such as is mentioned in Bazar No. 44, Vol. XX., a black lace gown with both velvet and moiré waists, or else a trained dinner dress of faille and brocade, and a tea gown, will be suitable for a winter in Washington. - UNINFortMED.—Your drap d'alma should be made in tailor fashion by any design recently published in the Bazar, and trimmed with silk cord passementerie. For a wrap get a handsome cloth tailor-made jacket trimmed with black Persian or fox or marten fur. A black velvet basque with faille skirts will be handsome for you. T. H. Q.S.–Get red serge drapery for your red serge skirt, and have a red velvet waist with it. A white wool dress with some gold braid will be pretty for you. Use white or yellow moiré with it, and make it by the youthful design for a wool muslin dress on page 701 of Bazar No. 41, Vol. XX. M. A. C.—Put silver braid on the wrap and green velvet and gray cock's feathers on the hat; also retain the gray fur. Use your brown velvet for the skirt alone, with Gobelin blue basque and drapery. Trim the basque with mixed blue and brown passementerie. Newmarkets of checked or striped cloth will still be worn. A small sling-sleeve cape of black velvet or black plush—not the brown plush that looks like an imitation of seal fur—with some beaded passementerie, will be a pretty and stylish wrap for you. A. J. S.—A copy of the Bazar containing details of infants' clothing will be sent you from this office on receipt of 10 cents. Baiti; ABA MAY.—Cover your satin entirely with the net, making a gathered waist and long full drapery on the skirt. Drape it with jet ornaments and black velvet ribbon, or else moiré ribbon, but do not get a jetted front or a side panel of jet. Subscribert.—Put a wide band of velvet, headed by pointed passementerie, around your skirt to hide the stitches made by pleating. A. K.—The Gretchen dress has a pleated waist strapped across. Newer dresses for girls are described in Bazar No. 41, Vol. XX. Quaker gray has brownish drab tints. Mauve is pinkish lavender. NELLlk.—Get either Suéde-brown or gray cloth in. of corduroy to make up with wine-colored broadcloth. Mignon.—A cloth tailor jacket is better than an ul

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A STUDY IN CHINA.
By MARY E. WILKINS,

HE air was very soft and sweet. The cherrytrees in the yards were in blossom, and also the little plum-trees, but the apple-trees lagged behind. There were very few houses for a mile or two; most of the way were apple orchards, and smooth meadows bordered by stone walls. The grass in these meadows was a glittering young green, and there were groups of golden dandelions in it. A slender young woman came slowly down the road. Her poor cotton gown, of a faded pink color, was bedraggled with dust and dew; her green plaid shawl, hanging half off her shoulders, was ragged. She carried in one hand a great basket bristling with vases, colored glass bottles, and little plaster images, in the other a large bundle tied up in an old snuff-colored cloth. Out of this last, tucked carefully between the folds, peeped a little bunch of spring flowers, anemones and violets. The girl could hardly carry her burdens; she could scarcely put one foot before the other and drag herself along. Every now and then she stopped to rest, setting her basket on the wall, and leaning herself against it. A young man in a light express wagon drove slowly along behind her, walking his horse, and watching her curiously. He was a handsome fellow, dressed in coarse gray. There were grain bags heaped up in the back of his wagon. Just before he reached the woman she sank quite down in a little heap by the wall. “Drunk s” ejaculated the man. Then he chirruped to his horse and cried “Whoa s” almost with the same breath. He threw the lines over the horse's back and sprang out, then bent closely over the prostrate figure by the wall and looked in her face. “Good Lord l’” said he. “She ain't drunk—she's in a dead faint " There lay the poor young creature on the green grass, among her little plaster images and her rags. Her face was white as death. . “Poor thing!” muttered the young man, and began rubbing her hands. “I wish I had some water,” said he. Presently she began to gasp and try to rise. “There, there,” said he, soothingly, holding her down; “lie still a minute. If you get right up now, you'll faint away again. Feel sick, don't ou?” “Oh dear!” groaned the girl. “You’ll feel better in a minute; just lie still.” | He continued rubbing her hands; she fixed her great eyes on him dazedly. “Where were you going?” asked he, presently. “Boston.” “Well, I'm going two miles that way, and I'll take you along as far as I go. Were you going to stop along to sell these things " “No ; I've got to go right home. I'm sick.” “Well, I'd go right home if I were you. Suppose you can get into the wagon if I help you, now o' “I’d jist as soon walk. no trouble.” “Trouble? I guess it won't be much trouble. There, I'll stow away the basket and the bundle in behind here. Now!” He almost lifted her into the seat, then sprang up beside her and took the lines. She reeled when the horse started, and he caught hold of her. “I guess I shall have to hold you in till you get a little steadier,” said he, laughing. “Your feet don't touch the floor, anyway, do they " 44 No.” “Any one could get shook out mighty easy going over the rough places if they didn't sit pretty firm. Been away from home long?” “A week.” “Pretty hard work travelling round this way, ain't it o’” “Awful hard,” said the girl. denly began sobbing and crying. dear!” said she. “Don’t cry. I wouldn't.” “I can't help it; I'm tired to death; an' it ain't often anybody treats me the way you do. Folks don't waste much pity on me generally.” “Well, they ought to. It's more than I’d want to do myself—tramping round from morning till night lugging those things. I shouldn't think you’d have strength enough.” “My arms ache dreadfully sometimes.” “I should think they would.” The young man said this in an absent way, looking ahead uneasily. They were coming to a house on the left side of the road. There was a blue glimmer out in the yard as they drove along; they could see through the trees that it was the blue dress of a girl who was moving about there. The one in the wagon straightened herself up, and brushed her shawl across her wet eyes. “Don’t you want me to git out now "asked she, “Get out *" said the young man. “Why, we haven't gone half a mile yet.” Still he looked embarrassed and doubtful. “I didn't know but you’d want me to. coming to a house.” “What if we are * The house won't mind, I guess.” “I didn't know as you’d want to be seen rid. ing with anybody like me.” “I don't care who I'm seen riding with, as long as they behave themselves; and you are doing that, so far as I see.” “There ain't no need of your holding me in, anyhow; I ain't faint none now.”

I don't want to make

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The young man relaxed his grasp of her arm ||

very gladly as they passed the house. The girl;
in the yard bowed and half smiled, with a won-
dering stare. “Whom has he got?” she seemed
to say. He returned her bow, raising his hat with
independent stiffness. His face was very red as
he did so. -
The china peddler looked half deprecatingly,
half curiously, at the girl in the yard, then at her
companion. “Is that your girl?” she asked, after

they had passed. She did not ask it boldly at
all—rather sympathizingly.
He blushed redder, looked at her half angrily,
then he laughed. “She doesn't mean any harm,”
he thought. “No,” said he: “I haven't got any
girl ; don't want any. Girls don't amount to
Inuch. All they care about is new bonnets and
dresses.”
“Is it?”
“Don’t you?” he said. Then he stopped sud-
denly. For a second he had thought of her and
spoken to her as a girl among other girls. But
was she, this poor pale little creature with her
basket and bundle? She was nothing like the
“girl whom they had left behind in the green
yard. She had a pretty face, though; he admit-
ted that, looking at her now more critically than
he had done. It was small and sharp, but grace-
fully outlined. She had a pretty way of turning
her head when she spoke, too.
“Me?” said she. -
“Yes, you.” He wished he had said nothing.
It seemed cruel.
“I never had no new dresses nor bonnets to
know.”
Before long they reached the large white farm-
house where the young man lived. He drove
straight up into the yard, disregarding the girl's
query as to whether she was not to be left in the
road. A stout, good-faced woman opened the
door as he drove in. -
“Who have you got there, Wells Jefferson?”
she thought so vigorously that her son seemed
fairly to hear it, though she only stood looking,
and her tongue was still.
“Hulloa, mother,” said he, with a nod and a
look which implied, “Wait; I'll tell you in a
minute.”
Then he got out of the wagon, and reached up
to help the girl down. “You go right into the
house and sit down,” said he.
“Oh, no; I ain't goin' in.”
“Yes, you are; you mind what I say. You go
in and rest a while; then I'll carry you a ways
further. I’ve got some work to do first.”
“I can walk just as well; I feel better now.”
“Nonsense ! you ain't fit to walk. Go in 1”
She obeyed at last, and went in, her head
hanging meekly. Wells placed a kitchen chair
for her, while his mother stood staring. “Sit
down here,” said he. Then he beckoned to his
mother slyly, and she followed him into the next
l'OOm.
“What hev you brought that woman here for,
Wells 2 I don't want to buy anything of her.”
“I come across her in a dead faint two mile
below here, and I took her in. It's my opinion
she's about half starved; she looks like it. I
want you to give her some breakfast, and by-and-
by I'm going to take her on again. She's on the
way to Boston, and I’ve got to go as far as Ash-
land, and she might as well ride.” o
Mrs. Jefferson's eyes as she fixed them on he
son were fairly severe with benevolent intent
and calculation.
“I could warm up the coffee, and cook her a
piece of beefsteak.”
“I would.”
Mrs. Jefferson was a kindly, dogmatic woman.
She delighted in being charitable, but she wished
the recipients of her charity to dispose of it as
she dictated.
bread and butter with your meat,” she told the
little vase-woman; and she ate it. Mrs. Jefferson
questioned her closely; then she went out and
imparted the result to her son. “She says her
name is Louise Durfee,” she told him. “I no-
ticed that little bunch of flowers she had in her
bundle; and she said she liked flowers—she
used to live in the country. Her folks lived down
Norfolk way when she was little.
was always low and shiftless, from what she
said. Her mother died, and her father married
again, and they moved into Boston. Then her
step-mother went round peddling china, and when
this girl was big enough, she went too. I guess
her father drinks, from what she said.” -
“Poor little thing!”
“She's young; she ain't but eighteen. I should
think she might find something else to do. She
don't seem like a bad kind of a girl. I can't
think she is, though I’ain't got any stock in that
kind of people.” - - ---
When she returned she expressed her opinion
about employment to the girl. “I should think
you'd rather do something else,” said she. “I
should rather hire out and do house-work in the
country, now.”
“Oh, my God!” cried Louise, “wouldn't It”,
There was a certain difference between her
manner and that of a girl of a humble class in
the country. She was at once more pronounced
and shyer. No country girl would have cried
out “My God "as she did.
“Why don't you?” asked her hostess.
“Why don't I? Who’d want me? I don't
know how to do a thing. I'd have to be learned
like a baby.” - - -
“She'd come here in a minute if I’d offer to
take-her,” thought Mrs. Jefferson. But she did
not offer. She was always slow and prudent in
her movements. - .

Nevertheless, in a month's time Louise was
- - She had :
toiled back from the city on foot, without her:

installed as Mrs. Jefferson's domestic.

basket and bundle, and begged to be takenin.
She would try hard to learn, she said; she would
do just as she was told, and she would expect
no pay but her board. -
“I do s'pose folks would say I was a fool to
stake in anybody this way,” Mrs. Jefferson told

sher: soil; “but I can't help kinder taking a fancy

to the girl, and I'm sorry for her; and I've got
to hev some help haying time, and I don't see
why she can't learn to wash dishes and do the
rough work if she's got common wit.”

As it proved, the little vase woman took very
gracefully to her metamorphosis into a country
domestic.

“You’d better eat the rest of that

I reckon they

“She's going to be real good help,” her mistress told her son at the end of a week, “and I wouldn't ask for a better-behaved girl. She seems perfectly contented to sit down with me after her work's done, and don't want to be running. If it’ll only last!”

It did last. Better servant than this poor little Bohemian never merited a mistress's nod. She seemed to fairly delight in obedience. Mrs. Jefferson grew really fond of her. She took her into the family, when her natural suspicions were quieted, as she always had taken her domestics. She bought her a cambric dress, helped her to make it, and took her to church with her. When the girl was arrayed in that pretty cambric, and a new hat with a little bunch of flowers in it, she eyed her with pleasure. She nodded and smiled behind her back to Wells, who was also eying her. “Don’t she look pretty?” she motioned with her lips; and she had not one misgiving. Neither had she any when now and then her son took her servant-girl to meeting of a week-day night, driving a mile and a half by moonlight in his open buggy. She thought nothing of it when he did not go to see the bluegowned girl in the farm-house down the road. “He’s busy haying,” she said to herself. “Wells ain't the kind to neglect his work for any girl; and I’m glad of it.”

At last, however, her eyes were opened. Wells and Louise came home from meeting one night, and sat down on the door-step. The house was

dark, and they supposed Mrs. Jefferson had gone

to bed. But she had not; she was at the sitting-
room window watching and listening. Something
had aroused her that afternoon. One of the
neighbors had been talking to her, and she had
learned for the first time how injudicious she had
been in admitting such a pretty, doubtful sort of
a girl to her house, and bringing her in such close
contact with her son. She had learned, too, that
Annie Linfield, the girl in blue, was taking Wells's
neglect to heart—pining over it, the neighbor said.
So now she listened. She could see them quite
plainly, too, as she peeped cautiously. -

“Sit down here a minute,” Wells said; “it’s
too pleasant to go in.”

“Do you believe we'd better?” Louise's voice replied, hesitatingly.

“Of course. Why not ?”

Then there was silence for a while. Mrs. Jef

ferson could see her son on a lower step gazing

up into her girl's face with a look which dismay-
ed her.
“It was a mighty lucky day when I happened
to spy you on the road, wasn’t it, Louise?” he
said, presently.
“Mighty lucky for me,” she replied, gratefully.
“It was enough sight luckier for me, did yo
know it, Louise.” -
Mrs. Jefferson saw her son grasp the girl's
hands as they lay in her lap. “I wish you'd kiss
me once, Louise.”
The kiss was barely given and received when
the two sprang apart suddenly and rose. A heavy
tread sounded in the entry behind them, and Mrs.
Jefferson opened the door. -
“Why, you here! When did you get home
from meeting?” asked she. Her voice was harsh
with agitation.
“A few minutes ago. I–thought you'd gone
to bed, mother.” Wells was blushing, but he
looked her in the face like a man. -
“No ; I thought I’d wait till you got home. I'm
a-going now ; I’ve been kinder dozy.”
“She doesn't know,” thought her son.
“You’d better come in and go to bed now,
Louise,” his mother went on. “You’ll want to
get up early in the morning; it's baking day to-
morrow. Did you hew a good meeting 2"
“Yes, ma'am,” said the girl, trembling. Then
she came in obediently, and went up to her room.
For the next few days there was no chance for
any sweet confidences between Wells Jefferson
and his mother's hired girl. He could not eatch
Louise alone for a second, try as he might. Final-
ly he got provoked; he thought she avoided him
on purpose; he did not see that his mother was

managing it all. He thought Louise was at fault

when Mrs. Jefferson went with him to the next
evening meeting in her stead. His mother had
made a skilful show of giving the girl her

choice in the matter, and he thought she might

have gone if she had cared to. He went off, his
mother at his side, savage and hurt: he had a
very jealous disposition. -

Annie Linfield was at the meeting. She had
walked all the way alone. His mother remarked
on it delicately.
guess she walked down.” -

“I guess I'll take her home, then, if you don't
mind being crowded.” t- -

“Of course I don't. "Tain't fit for her to walk
So fur.”

Annie Linfield's sweet round face, which had.

looked a little pensive as she sat in church,
lighted up when Wells spoke to her. She ac.
cepted his invitation prettily: she was ready
enough to overlook his defection. So she sat
happily at his side, riding along, with her soft

white shawl drawn closely around her dainty.

shoulders, while her poor little unconscious rival
sat all alone in the dark at her window, crying.

“Gone to bed, Louisa?” called Mrs. Jefferson, | when she entered the house.

“Yes, ma'am.” - -
“She's been crying,” thought her mistress,
with a pain in her heart. -
The next morning Wells went away on business.
His mother had been urging it for some time.
He would stay away two days and one night.
- “You’ve got to see your uncle about that note
some time,” his mother had said, “and you might
as well go to-morrow as to wait. The hay's allin.”
Wells had not demurred this time. His mo-
ther watched zealously lest he should make an
effort to see Louise before he started, but he did
not even try.
That afternoon she spoke to Louise about the

had been written for her to show Wells.

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matter. They were in the sitting-room after
dinner.
“Louise,” said Mrs. Jefferson, with an odd
stiffness and embarrassment in her tone, “I want
to speak to you about something.” -
Louise looked up from her work—she was
learning to sew. .
“It's—about Wells,” her mistress went on.
“I don’t like to speak about it, but I’ve got to,
and you mustn't feel hurt. I never thought of
such a thing till lately. I never thought that—
well, I might as well tell you I never thought
that you and my son would think of each other.” –
Louise never took her eyes off her mistress.
She looked aside uneasily, then went on. “Of
course you know such a thing would make me
very unhappy. It wouldn't be for his best good.
I haven't got a thing against you, you know,
Louise. You've been a real good girl, and I
think a great deal of you; but you know as well
as I do—your common-sense must teach you—that
Wells would need a different kind of a person
for his wife—somebody that's been brought up
more like him.”
“I know I wa'n't brought up anyhow; but—
I 'ain't been—I’ve tried to be good, Mis' Jeffer-
son.”
“I know you have; you've been a real good
girl, Louise. But, don't you know, it's different.
Now there's Annie Linfield. Wells an’ she
wa’n’t engaged, but he used to go and see her
real often. It would be a splendid, thing for
him. Her father's got property, and she's an
only daughter, and a real smart, capable girl.”
“She'd make him a better wife than me,
wouldn’t she 3’” -
Was it said in innocence or sarcasm 2 Mrs.
Jefferson looked at her sharply. -
“Why, of course she would. Louise, your
common-sense must show you that.”
“I won’t make him no trouble—you needn't.
worry.”
“Now you ain't going to feel bad about it,
Louise 2" -
“No, I won't feel bad.”
Mrs. Jefferson looked at Louise uneasily. She
would not have minded so much if she had cried.
She had a strained look on her little face which
troubled her. “Well, I can’t help it. I know I
am acting for the best,” she told herself.
That night, when the stars were all out, and
everything was still, a small, trembling figure
stole down-stairs. It pattered softly into Mrs.
Jefferson's bedroom off the sitting-room, bent
over the sleeping woman and kissed her fore-
head. Then it fled out of the house and down
the shadowy road to Boston. -
The next morning Mrs. Jefferson, after calling
Louise in vain, went up to her room. The bed

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Mrs. Jefferson's first emotions were disgust and disappointment. Then suddenly she understood. This little note had been written with the cunning born of love and unselfish devotion. It It made her way all plain. It would cure him.

When she understood, she sat down and cried with pity and remorse. “I couldn’t help it,” she

moaned extenuatingly to herself. “I couldn't

have my son marry a china woman.”
She was glad when Annie Linfield came over
that afternoon. She had on a pretty muslin, and
she flushed very pink when Mrs. Jefferson greet-
ed her. “I just came on an errand for mother,”
said she. -- - --- -
“Well, you must come in and rest a minute,
now you are here,” replied the other, with an
inward resolve to keep her till Wells returned.
She did so without much difficulty. When the
young man returned, he found the pretty, smiling
girl with his mother. He looked around for Lou-
ise, but said nothing, supposing she would appear
every moment, till they took their seats at the tea-
table. - -
“Where's Louise?” he asked then, trying to
look unconcerned. -
His mother made a motion for him to be still.

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in thought and clever in execution.

shortly. She was always aghast at those women now. The woman stepped in. ferson, lady ?” said she. “Yes, that's my name.” “You had a girl named Louise Durfee livin' with you once, didn’t you, lady?” . “Yes. Do—you know anything about her?” “I’m her mother, lady.” “I hope Louise is—getting along well.” “She died last week.” Mrs. Jefferson turned white, and sank into a chair. “Dead l’” said she. “Yes, lady. She had the consumption. She went out on the road agin after she got back, and she got cold. She wa'n't very stout to carry the basket anyway.” The woman looked at Mrs. Jefferson's shocked face curiously. There was no softness in her glittering black eyes and her brown face. She had gypsy blood in her. “I’ve got something for you, lady,” said she. She took a parcel carefully from her basket and handed it to Mrs. Jefferson. This erratic, sly-natured woman had not much regard for her word; but one is scarcely human for whom there is no truth inviolable. She had still one sanctuary left for her promise to an innocent departed soul. “She kep' it hid in the bed till the day she died. Then she give it to me. ful this way. She saved up and bought 'em unbeknownst to me.” Mrs. Jefferson with trembling fingers unrolled rag after rag. At last came a clean white one. Then she saw a pair of little vases and a slip of paper. On this was written, “Fur Mis' Jeffson to set on her parler shelf.” cloth, wrapped separately in tissue-paper, was something else. Mrs. Jefferson could hardly see that for the tears. It was a delicate little Parian flower girl. On its slip of paper was written, “Fur Him.”

“Is your name Jef

OUTRIDING CARE. , By MARIAN DOUGLAS.

HAT work has now the sorest need ? Which task shall I do next? They crowd so close, they press so hard— This? that? I turn perplexed. Nay, stay; for once I will be free! My silver-dappled mare, Quick, John, and saddle her for me, And I will outride care.

Turn, Fairy, leave the dusty road;
A wilder path we'll take,
Across the yellow stubble-fields,
And through the pasture brake.
Sure-footed as the mountain goat,
*. as the fern-hid hare,
Fly, Fairy, fly, and set me free, o
And let me laugh at care.

On, on ; the babbling brook we leap,
Still fringed with asters blue;
On, down this woodland path, as if
Through sunset clouds we flew;
And up the rocky hill we press,
It matters little where;
It is enough of happiness
To leave behind me care, ---
But look | a cloud creeps up the skies
But now so sweet and warm,
The wavering wind has changed; it sighs,
And, whispers of a storm. " .
The night will soon be gathering fast;
Turn back, my dappled mare:
I feel the old chain round my heart,
I cannot outride care.

AN EVENING'S ENTERTAINMENT.

O you know the loveliest spot in all the Catskills 2 Far up on a plateau, as level, when you climbed to it by the lumbering, creaking old stage and patient horses, ās the plains below, but full even to running over of riotous aster, golden-rod, and great nodding heads of grasses, lush in their wanton growth; mulleins shading from pink to red in tints so lovely and exquisite that each, raising its delicate head, seemed fairer than the other. An artist friend first grew enthusiastic over it and the quaint little farm-house right on its borders. Scarcely a mile away were a cluster of inns and modest little houses that seemed almost afraid to lift their eyes to the many-gabled roof and towers of the larger hostelry gleaming from the peaks above, not far away. It was Madge who ventured it—Madge, quick “A Gypsy Camp” we named it, and so honored the affair in our cards of invitation to those outside. Fifty cents was the price of admission, and you may gauge the measure of our success by the nearly two hundred dollars we had with which to replenish the coffers of a most worthy charity. Right within our own borders was the spot for the camp. Here the grass grew close and soft, while groups of splendid forest trees, grand and stately, added to the attractiveness. Around the two sides of this triangular bit of turf was a thick underbrush where mountain trees and mountain vines were struggling for mastery. Here we pitched our tent, made our fires, and swung our kettles in true gypsy fashion, for had we not with us one who both knew and loved Romany Rye helping us in costume and speech that we might appear after the most orthodox manner? We had grown wise in our experience of past seasons, and found that plenty of Japanese lanterns can be flattened away in the layers of our trunks. Long strips of tin and odd shapes of

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extremely effective when placed in the impromptu candlesticks and candelabra these wastes of tin can be shaped into. Deep twisted sockets kept the melting wax off the dresses of the company. Long strips of tin woven in and out, twisted here and there in spiral shapes, surrounded bits of broken mirrors irregular in the accident that had befallen them. These, with the hand-glasses and old-fashioned looking-glasses the house afforded, served not only as reflectors, but protected the candles from possible draughts. Long poles of hemlock, spicy and odorous, were firmly driven into the ground and shaped into tent-like pavilions, more fanciful in the smaller ones—gay in their covering of brilliant shawl, blanket, and afghan—but keeping more strictly to both the letter and spirit of the law in the large one, where the lines of one's hand were to be studied and the mystery of one's future revealed. So for this one tent we reserved our neutral shawls, the modest gray and sober brown, lavishing the color upon the others, that served for the tea, coffee, and other light refreshments that were dispensed at a moderate price. There were fifteen who for the nonce were to assume the dress and manner of gypsies. So well did they succeed that you would never credit me, if it were only my telling you depended upon, that the boldest gypsy of them all, carrying out the character as if born and bred among the Romany Rye, was the very one who led the german the week before. Madge, with her great flashing eyes and vivid coloring, was the queen of the gypsies: in her early girlhood, imaginative as she was, a veritable old gypsy regularly appeared with the leafage of the maples and wild flowers; her basket carried pins and cheap laces, which many a country lass tossed carelessly aside, hardly daring to show her palm to the old crone who was waiting to read it. Something in Madge struck a chord in the old woman, and she taught her the art of palmistry: the seed was not cast into stony ground, but grew and flourished, as her impulses led her to study not only the hands of her friends, but those of strangers, until she found that there was more of truth than poetry in lines and cross lines. Little wonder her gypsy face and skill should make her their queen. How pretty it all was when the huge wagons, filled in with clean, sweet-smelling hay and straw, drew up in front, packed as they were with bright, expectant faces, eager for the novelty of a gypsy camp ! It was a perfect evening: no moonlight until time for the return ride (for we had been careful to plan against counter shadows in our arrangements), the air was deliciously cool, and the band of gypsies were fascinating with their gay dresses and jaunty air. And now in the early autumn we will have it repeated, using a vacant store, immense and bare, instead

of our real bit of country. Young trees symmet- |

rical in shape will suggest the woods, with huge branches put here and there to heighten the effect. One can do so much with apparently so little; and trees can be braced in boxes, with low seats in front to hide the underpinning; stout wire, almost invisible, will serve to strengthen the support, and can be fastened to nails in the wall; green chintz makes an admirable background, effectually concealing light walls and wood-work that should not show behind the trees. And now I will tell you, as the queen of this gypsy camp told me, somé of the lessons the old crone taught her. Reaching almost, if not quite, from the base of the finièrs to the wrist are lines that form the letter M, distinct and clear, in most cases placed diagónally across the palm. The first line in the letter, forming its long sweep, conmences between the forefinger and thumb, is called the line of life, and is considered the most important of all. Hength of days and “good di.

gestion wait” upon it, if long, well-defined, and a

warm clear red in color. One can guess—it is not necessary to be too explicit—at events which have happened by the horizontal lines proceeding

from this main one toward the ball, or mount, of

the thumb. In early life they appear near its beginning, while those further down indicate later events; the best of fortune may be safely predicted to the patron when little branches shoot upward toward the fingers from the life line, but woe betide the man in which they point downward |

From the base of the forefinger to the mount of the little one reaches the line of the heart; in warm, affectionate natures its course is bold and clear, while coquettish ones betray themselves by the net-work of finer ones that compose it. Good luck surely comes to those with the line of the heart forked at its beginning, one branch passing straight over the mount of the first finger.

Commencing near the line of life, but coming across the palm to a point nearly opposite the thumb, is the line of the head, and it should be an uninterrupted one its whole length. If uneven and fringy, it shows a treacherous memory; if pronged, and one inclines upward, there will be a sad ending to some affair of the heart, while a branch passing to the forefinger always brings good luck.

Up and down the whole length of the hand runs the line of one's fortune; have it start from the wrist, by all means, as that brings the best in the train of the fickle goddess. Should it be crossed near the upper part by fine lines, it is perfectly safe to hint at slight misfortunes coming later in life. Good fortune through another, not by any act of ours, comes when this line commences near the outside of the hand and opposite the middle of the thumb pad, and it is always from the opposite sex. Some hands show a square, others spots, while another may contain a star. The first gives a promise of protection; the second beware of, for it hints at trouble or illness; while the third is a sure indication of events over which we have no power at all.

THE BALLAID OF THE COLORS, BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

GENTLEMAN of courtly air, Of old Virginia he; A damsel from New Jersey State, Of matchless beauty she ; They met as fierce antagonists— The reason why, they say, Her eyes were of the Federal blue, And his, Confederate gray.

They entered on a fierce campaign,
And when the fight began,
It seemed as though the strategy
Had no determinate plan. -
Each watched the other's movements well
While standing there at bay—
One struggling for the Federal blue,
One for Confederate gray.

We all looked on with anxious eyes
To see their forces move,
And none could tell which combatant
At last would victor prove.
They marched and countermarched with skill,
Avoiding well the fray;
Here, lines were seen of Federal blue,
And there, Confederate gray.

At last he moved his force in mass,
And sent her summons there
That she should straight capitulate
Upon conditions fair.
“As you march forth the flags may fly,
The drums and bugles play;
But yield those eyes of Federal blue
To the Confederate gray.”

“You are the foe,” she answer sent,
“To maidens such as I;
I'll face you with a dauntless heart,
And conquer you, or die.
A token of the sure result
The vaulted skies display;
For there above is Federal blue,
Below, Confederate gray.”

Sharp-shooting on each flank began,
And 'mid manoeuvres free
The rattle of the small-talk with
Big guns of repartee,
Mixed with the deadly glance of eyes
Amid the proud array, -
There met in arms the Federal blue
And the Confederate gray.

Exhausted by the fight at length
They called a truce to rest;
When lo! another force appeared
Upon a mountain's crest.
And as it came the mountain down
Amid the trumpet's bray,
Uncertain stood the Federal blue
And the Confederate gray.

A corps of stout free lances these
Who poured upon the field,
Field-Marshal Cupid in command,
Who swore they both must yield;
That both should conquer; both divide
The honors of the day;
And proudly with the Federal blue
March the Confederate gray.

His troops were fresh, and theirs were worn;
What could they but agree
That both should be the conquerors,
And both should captives be?
So they presented arms, because
Dan Cupid held the sway,
And joined in peace the Federal blue
With the Confederate gray.

Twelve years have fled. I passed to-day
The fort they built, and saw -
A sight to strike a bachelor
With spirit-thrilling awe.
Deployed a corps of infantry,
But less for drill than play;
And some had eyes of Federal blue,
And some Confederate gray.

THE NEWSIPAPER AT HOME. N many families the newspaper has become a forbidden object to the hands and eyes of the younger members. Their parents have become unwilling that they should familiarize themselves with the records of crimes to be found there, with the fact of the frequency of such crimes, or with the frequently light and flippant ways of mentioning them, while in many cases the advertisements have become sources of apprehension. It is a pity, however, to deprive the growing children of all knowledge of what is going on in the world in different regions from those of crime; and households have always their safeguard in the provision of a weekly paper which, while keeping its readers abreast with the current of the world, is not bound as a matter of news to the daily consideration of the last theft or murder.

TWASHINGTON GOSSIP. [F Rom O U R O w N Co R REs Po ND ENT.]

THE next marriage between a member of the diplomatic corps at Washington and an American lady will be that of Señor José de Pedroso, attaché of the Spanish legation, and Miss Camille Berghmanns, the daughter of Mrs. Lily Macalester Laughton, the Regent of Mount Vernon, whose father, the late Charles Macalester, was a prominent citizen of Philadelphia and an intimate friend of the late Mr. Peabody. Miss Berghmanns's father, Mrs. Laughton's first husband, was the secretary of the legation of Belgium at Washington at the time he married Miss Macalester, who had been a bridemaid when Miss Lane (President, Buchanan's, niece) married Mr. Johnson, of Baltimore, and had visited Miss Lane previously while she was presiding for her uncle in the White House.

Quite a number of the diplomatic representatives of Spain in this country have married American ladies—as many as if not more than of the members of any other one foreign legation. And in the early history of our government Philadelphia (in one of whose suburbs, Torrisdale, Miss Berghmanns's marriage is to occur) gave a wife to a Spanish minister, the Marquis Carlos M. de Irujo. “Philadelphia,” says Griswold, during Washington's administration, “furnished wives for the envoys of France, England, and Spain.” The seat of government, it will be remembered, was then in Philadelphia and New York alternately. Genet, the French minister during Washington's first term, married a daughter of Governor Clinton, of New York. The Marquis de Irujo, mentioned above, took for his wife Miss Sally McKean, who had a great reputation for beauty, and was the daughter of one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, Chief-Justice Thomas McKean, of Pennsylvania. Señor de Irujo was minister to the United States from August, 1796, to 1806, during which time his son, afterward the Duke of Sotomayer, who became Prime-Minister of Spain, was born. Among the other gentlemen of the Spanish legation in the United States who have married American ladies have been Angel Calderon de la Barca, who was minister at Washington from 1835 to 1839, and again from 1844 to 1853, and who during his first term married Miss English, a native of Georgetown, D. C., whose mother, Mrs. English, at one time had a noted seminary for young ladies at New Brighton, Staten Island; Señor Mauricio Roberts, who served as minister

from Spain to the United States from 1869 to

1872, and who within that period married Miss Terry, of New York, whose relative, also Miss Terry, in 1878 married Baron Blanc, then Italian minister at Washington; Señor Don Luis de Podestad, who was secretary of the Spanish legation at Washington in 1872 and earlier, and has since been arbitrator, on the part of Spain, of the Spanish-American Claims Commission, whose wife was Miss Chapman, of Philadelphia; and his nephew, Señor de Podestad, a member of the Spanish legation, who about a week before his death in Washington, in October, 1886, married Mrs. Wright, who took her maiden name when divorced from an Englishman named Bratton. Mr. De Podestad was dying of consumption when he married this lady. This marriage had many elements of tragedy about it. Owing to the fact that the lady had been divorced, she could not be married by a Catholic priest, and as her husband and his family are Catholics, his relatives, it is alleged, have not yet recognized her as his wife. The couple were married by a Baptist clergyman, and the laws of this country make the marriage valid here. Mr. De Podestad's malady was the result of a cold taken when strolling with his affianced bride in the forests about Washington. A few weeks ago it was reported that his widow had also contracted the fatal disease, and was dying in Europe. The handsome and spacious building erected

by the Mexican government for the use of its le

gation in Washington will soon be completed, and will,then be occupied by the present minister, Señor Romero, and his wife, who is an American lady. The chandeliers for the new building, which were ordered in Paris, will arrive this autumn. The remainder of the furniture and fixtures of the mansion will be purchased in this country. Mexico, our sister republic and next neighbor, is the fourth foreign government which has given a permanent character to its friendly intercourse with ours by owning a building in Washington to be used as the official residence and business office of its accredited representative here. Of these Germany was the first, Great Britain the second, and Japan the third. No other foreign power or individual can after this time, it is alleged, purchase property in the District of Columbia without a special act of Congress giving permission, since the law passed by that body forbidding aliens to hold lands in the Territories, which was enacted with a special view to prevent-other than American citizens, natives or naturalized, from occupying the public domain, applies likewise to the entire District of Columbia, over awhich Congress has exclusive jurisdiction by provision of the United States Constitution. But as this law was not intended to prevent foreign governments from owning buildings in Washington for the use of their legations, it is assumed that whenever any government desires so to do, the right will readily be granted by Congress. The Mexican minister and his wife, who returned from their three months' tour in Europe on October 3d, speak with enthusiasm of the pleasure they experienced in visiting England, France, Austria, Germany, and Italy, and being able to see as much as they did in the brief time they could be absent from Mr. Romero's post in the United States. He had previously been in Europe, but owing to ill health was then unable to visit any of the noted cities except Paris and London. When in Austria the guides showed him many things connected with Maximilian, including that unfortunate gentleman's grave, which probably would not have been pointed out to the official representative of Mexico had the guide known Mr. Romero in that capacity. At the time Maximilian was shot Mr. Romero was, as now, minister from Mexico to the United States, but he has not held that position continuously since that date. He was here first as chargé d'affaires, then as minister from 1860 to

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