Lititz Record

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JOB P R I N T I NG
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feT .i. NONAS'LB RATB&
An Independent Family Newspaper, Devoted to Literature, Agriculture, Local and General Intelligence.
YOL. Y I I I . LITITZ, PA„ "FRIDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 12, 1884«
THE
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HEADQUARTERS FOR
USE—STIRES
-AT—
Keiper's Great Furniture Warerooms,
45 North QUEEN Street, Lancaster, Pa.
E V E R Y B O D Y
In-need of FURN1TUKE should give us a call. Great bargain« «farad.
Goods sold at lower prices than ever before known. Wa aav« a large
stock from which to make selections, and guarantee to giye gatlsfaetion
to all our patrons, who are cordially invited to «all and see /or them-selves.
No troubla to show goods. «Buying direet from the manufac-turers,
we are enabled to sell at bottom prices.
ja9 9 3. M. EEIPER
Read What a Patient says oí R.
"The Pastilles I purchased from you In August
i>rove to me most conclusively t h a t w h i l e there id
ife there is hope." They did their work far be-yond
my utmost expectations, for I certainly did
not expect that a habit of FOURTEEN YEARS'
DURATION could be completely gotten under con-trol
i n the exceedingly short time of two months
I can assure you that no false modesty will keep me
from doing all that 1 can in adding to the success
Trhich will surely crown so beneficial a remedy.''
Above extract from a letter dated—W.Va. Deo, 26, K81
The Pastilles are prepared and sold only by the
H A M S REMEDY CO. HF'G GHEffliiTS,
306K N. 10th.St. ST. LOU18, MO.
Cat Xsa&l teubust $3, tire sssS&s IS, tows oosHn?
EH0HT8. LITTLE GAT1MTI0 FILLS are the BEST EVER MADE for Costivenass, Indigestion, Headache.
One good dose of three or four Emory's Little Cathartic Pills, followed by one
pill every night for a, week or two, makes the human machinery run as regular
as clock work; they purify f h e blood and put new life in a broken-down body.
Purely Vegetable, Harmless, Pleasant, infallible, the youngest child may take
them. Sold by all Druggists and Medicine Sealers at 15 CIS. a Box. or by mail.
STANDARD OURS CO., Proprietors, 1 9 7 Pearl St., N. Y. ^ p
' Emory's Little Cathartic are more than i s claimed; they prove to be the
best Pill ever used here. Worth twice the money asked.—W. W. £t. GOHER,
Harmony Grove, Oa,.——Emory's Little Cathartio are the most popular of all
ERSOISY5^ " ITTHJ^ the Cathartics.—WM. BISHOP, Mills River, N. C. MY aged mother used ona
C * ! ™ i s i l 8 PILLS b o x w i t h wonderful results.—N. W. BAKER, locustGrove, Ohio. 1 reeommend
are Bpo-Mi^ifi ta them.—JOHN COLLINS, M. D., Athens, Texas. They are excellent.—R. BEHSOH,
tXhky ^'P^Z ^ MMSW&^SM^SF^^^SEXS IIIZISMJMaKcMkNsWonV.V MVINis^sW. 'TMR*T iioy are unexcelled.—Mas. ELIZABETH KEYSEB, Moberly, HO. Mi f s m g Xn all its forms positively cured with
J s J j J s I i l J i , a never-failing remedy; they contain no
Oui line Mercury or poison of any kind. Endorsed by physicians and'sold by druggists everywhere, OS
Cents a W , STANDARD C U E E CO., K e w Xorfc,
ONE SUMMER NIGHT.
There Is no moon, and starless gleams
The misty night so cool and still •
Yet float my reminiscent dreams
Athwart the dimly outlined hill.
The holy spirits of the Past
A white-robed, rose-crowned, youthful
throng,
"With dancing footsteps seaward hi*»
To snatches of familiar son£
A flash across the rayless night.
Their silver-gleaming garments show ;
With Love's high trust the heart is light,
Divested of all mortal woe.
In response to the prayerful search
The gleam of light and sound Is given ;
"With fragrance of the Summer's breath
"Wafted the messages of heaven.
There is no moon, hut radiance beams
As erst upon calm Tropic seas;
And all Life's reminiscent dreams
Linked to the heavenly harmonies
Preach unto me the guiding hand;
Their nearness by the scattered sign
Of palm and odorous mignonette,
I know is now, forever, mine 1
Though I stand here, beneath the night,
And they Beyond, above it all,—
Stray gleams of the celestial light—
Wherein they move, upon me fall.
Midnight and solitude around,
Is peopled by the gracious throng,
That brings me all that heart can crave
Of beauty, fragrance, trust, and song.
LOVE A N D DUTY.
Emory's Standard Cure Pilis,
Ùg h tRu n n i n g
MICHAEL ROTH.
TONSORIAL ARTIST,
Opposite t h e Sturgis House,
MAIN S T R E E T , L I T I T 2,
Keeps constantly on h a n d a good stock ol
FINE POMADES,
HAIR TONIC,
S H A V I N G SOAP,
And e v e r y t h i n g else belonging to t h e tradb.
Hair Cutting done w i t h iieatn«ss and dig.
« t a i l . Children's H a i r Ciittina: a specialty.
n i T I T Z P A.
Fresh, Bread, Bolls,
Buns,Sweet Cakes,
Streislers, Sugar
Cakes, &c.,
Served dail In t o w n a n d country. AUorderg
'or funerals or public gatherings promptly
attended to. A special feature i n t h e businesi
S ! 1 . ^ baking of G E N U I N E RYE and
BRAN BREAD. My a im s h a l l be furnish a
good article a t a l l t i m e s . Give m e a trial and
s a t i s f y yourself.
Have a l s o added all'necessary t o o l s for or-n
a m e n t i n g cakes, a n d am n o w prepared t«
ornament cakes for w e d d i n g s and parties In
any s t y l e desired.
HORACE L. 5SCHBACH.
3 0 U N I O N o i l U A R E . N E W YQRK
C h i c a g o , r u . / 1
y
ORANGE, MASS.
«AND ATLANTA. GA.-
^IIPlBIililll
C. FATE,
Agent for Lancaster, Pa.
S. EWING-, General Agent,
112? Chestnut S ' , Philadelphia, Pa.
ìsJ Automatic Engines & Saw-Mill
OUR LEADEK.
We offer an 8 to 10 H. P. Automatic, Spark-Arrest-ing,
Mounted Portable Engine, with Mill, 16 f{,
carriage, 32 f t . t r a c k and ways, 2 simultaneous
fever set head-blocks, 2%-ineh arbor, 3 changes'
peed: sawyer controls feed-lever and head-blocks
f r om one position. 50-inch solid
saw, 50 f t . 8-inch 4-ply belting,
feed-belts, cant-hooks, swage,
tightener, etc. Big complete for
operation, «1100 on cars. En-giue
on skids, $100 less. Engine
will b u r n slabs f r om t h e saw TWO
to eight feet long and keep up
steam. Send for catalogue,12.,
I B. W . PAYNE & SONS, •
'Manufacturers all styles Auto-matic
Engines from 2 to 300 H . P.
Shafting, pulleys, and hangers.
Klmira, N. Y „ B o x 1 4 2 7 ,
Ii. L. T R O I IT,
KBINDER
SPECTACLES!
Hundreds of persons In Lancaster, Chester,
and York counties, Pa., a n d Cecil county, Md.,
and elsewhere, are wearing my Spectacles
w i t h a s a t i s f a c t i on a n d comfort t h e y never
received f r om glasses before.
THE BEST 8PECTACLE3 AND
EYE GLASSES ON HAND.
Do n o t run the risk of i n j u r i n g y o u r eyes
by u n s u i t a b l e glasses, but call on Dr. BHOWN
and get glasses t h a t will s u i t your eyes and
do t h em good The o n l y place t o be properly
suited w i t h glasses.
ALL DISEASES OP E Y E A N D EAR
TREATED.
If your sigh t i s f a l l i n g , or If y o u need glasses
It w i l l be t o your interest t o address or c a l l oa
DR. C. H . B R O W N ,
EYE AND EAE SURGEON,
NO. 20 WEST ORANGE STREET.
LANCASTER, Pa.
A N D
ir
No. 2 8 P e n n S q u a r e,
LANCASTER, PA. • n22
Ì
i \
i J r ' '
0 N L Y _ $ 2 0 .
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S I N G E R
fis the BEST BUILT,
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EASIEST RUNNING
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The above cut represents the most popular style for
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of $20. Remember, we do not ask you to pay until you
have seen the machine. After having, examined it,
if it is not all we represent, return it to us at our
expense. Consult your interests and order at once, or
genu for circulars and testimonials. Address
CHARLES A. WOOD & CO.,
No. -J7 N Tenth St.. Philadelphia, Pa.
BLATCHLEY
PUMP!
BUY THESEST.
BLATCHLEY'S
TRIPLE ENAMEL
PORCELAIN-LINED
OB
SEAMLESS TUBE
COPPER-LINED P U W I P
Do not be argued into
buying inferior Goods.
For sale by the best
houses in the Trade.
C. c r t J L A T C H L . E Y i M a n u f ' r ,
3 0 8 M A R K E T S T . , P h i l a d ' a.
> Write to me for namo ol nearest Agent.
VIGOROUS HEALTHroR MEN
P R O F ,
HABEIS'
A Badical Curs
roa
SPERMATORRHEA
A I T D
IMPOTENGY.
J63PTested for over 5
years by use in thou-sands
of eases.
& TRIAL, m PACKAGE.
tem.
NERVOUS DEBILITY
organic weakness and de>
cay, ¿ad numerous ob-scure
diseases, baffling
skillful physicians, result
from youthful indiscre-tions,
too free indulgence,
and over brain work. Do
s e t temporize 'while sueb
enemies lurk in your ays-
. Avoid being imposed
on by pretentious claims ol
ether remedies for thesa
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lar and trial package and
learn important facta before
taking treatment elsewhere.
Take a remedy that has cured
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with attention to basi-licas
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Direct application to tha
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The patient becomes
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SEND ADDRESS _
H A R R I S R E M ED
306% North 10th St., St. l o n l s , Mo.
ONE MONTH'S TREATMENT, $8; 2 MONTHS,$518 UOKTI»W
CO., M'fg Chemist»
"She is not even pretty," soliloquized
Edmund Darby, as he turned out of
the Rectory atarden into the steep nar-row
lane which led to Croft, the home
of many generations of Daroys, tenant-farmers
arid substantial yeomen. "She
is not even pretty, I suppose ; and I 'm
not a boy either, to be taken captive by
the first woman who crosses my path!"
he added, with some bitterness and a
short contemptuous laugh, as he lighted
his pipe and strolled slowly onward in a
meditative mood.
Once more in the family "keeping-room"
at Croft, Edmund Darby threw
himself listlessly into the cushioned
and capacious depths of an old oak
chair, once his great-grendfather's, and
fell to gazing moodily at a big wood fire
which glowed on the hearth.
While thus engaged, his mother, a
stately handsome woman of nearly
seventy winters, regarded him from her
corner with covert disapprpbation.
He was obviously ill at ease as he
lounged in the high-backed old oaken
ehair, for he turned restlessly and
smothered a sigh as he lighted a fresh
pipe and took a book in haphazard fash-ion
from the table at his elbow, as a
gentle hin.t to his womarkind that si-lence
just then would be more accepta-ble
to him than conversation.
Aunt Jane, a placid little woman knit-ting
quietly in the chimney-corner, at
once accepted the hint, and checked the
innocent inquiry which had risen to her
lips. She was a Darby born and bred ;
and the female Darbys had always been
as meek and submissive as the men of
that name had been resolute and master-ful.
In Aunt Jane's eyes the good
pleasure of the head of her house was
law as unalterable as that of the Medes
and Persians.
I t was not so with his mother, a wo-man
of a,' different race, from whom
Edmund tad derived, much of the
Stfengtli^ tncl originality of his cuura„-
ter, F Mrs. Darby felt curious and
inclined to converse, neither gods nor
men could command silence.
"You've come from the Rectory, Ed-mund
?" she began abruptly.
"Yes, mother," was the brief an-swer,
given without raising his eyes
from his book, of which however he
had not turned a single page since he
opened it.
"And what is doing up there ? " asked
Mrs. Darby, as determined to engage
her son in conversation as he wasquietly
determined to prevent her so doing.
•'They are much the same as usual.
I 'm no gossip, as you know, mother ;
the Rector and myself seldom exchange
a word on the subject of our neighbors
To-night he wanted to show me some
drawings made in London from those
fossils I found in the new railway-cut-ting
last spring," he ended briefly,
An inarticulate sound greeted his
reply, and, after a minute, she contin-ued—
"Folk think, if you and the Rector
minded your books less and your bust
ness more, it would be better for bolh
of you."
"We are not the men to mind what
folk say 1" was the quick response.
"And no one can charge the Rector
with neglect of his parish. His personal
influence, his hearty sympathy and real
kindness are felt and known throughout
the length and breadth of it. As for
myself," he went on nore quietly, smil-ing
a little, "if you can prove that my
knowledge of chemistry and my reading
make me a worse farmer than my
grandfather, we'll say, for example, or
that I ' v e ever neglected my work for
my books, there will be some justice in
your complaint."
Mrs. Darby was silenced for a min-ute,
as Edmund's skill in farming had
almost passed into a proverb in the
country-side since the management had
fallen into his hands ; and she was se-cretly
proud of her sou, though, with
strange feminine inconsistency, loath to
show it.
"Well," she retorted, in a hard tone,
" i t may be very fine, as you say ; but
there were no such ways in your grand-father's
time, nor in your father's
either."
"Mother," he answered, with a short
impatient laugh, "how often have I
tried to show you that the times don't
stand still any more than the earth does,
and t h a t a man must move with them
if be wants to be abreast of the men of
his day—unless indeed he ia content to
fall out of the ranks and sink into the
social condition of an agricultural la-borer
? If my ways don't content you,
I am sorry for i t ; but I cannot change
or retrograde, even to please you,
mother." He smiled again and went
on—"But I can't be discussing this sub-ject
eternally. You might as -well ask
me to dress myself in skins and adorn
my body with woad, or use a bow and
arrow instead of a breechloader, as ask
me to return to the habits of my grand-father
and his times."
So saying, Edmund rose, and, light-ing
a candle, included mother and aunt
in a hasty "good night," and retreated
to his own apartment, a small room,half
library, half office, where alone, it
seemed, he could possess his soul in
peace for a time.
Poor gentle Aunt Jane said—
"Poor dear boy! If we don't under-stand
him, Susannah, we have much
reason to be proud of him. As to set-tling
down, I've no doubt lie's remem-bering
to-night what you seem to forget
—that to-morrow it will be two years
since we lost poor darling Easie."
With these words the gentle little
woman's eyes filled with tears; and,
emy in fall possession of the field, but
a doubtful victor.
Alas for the inconstancy of men—
even the best of them ! If his relatives
could have penetrated into the secret
thoughts of Edmund Darby's soul that
night, they would have learned that
"poor darling Essie's" image held but
a secondary place in his memory.
Some seven years previously Esther
Beaulands had come to Croft as the
girlish bride ot her staid cousin Edmund
Darby, who was her senior by nearly
ten years. With her the widowed
mother had also returned by common
consent to take up her abode in the
house where she was born and had
spent a peaceful girlhood ; and there,
after Essie's death, she still remained,
almost as quiet and unobtrusive as the
grave old tabby cat who dozed by the
parlor fira. . 1
When Edmund darby married his
gentle little cousin. Essie, it could
scarcely have been called a love.match
on either side, the afEair had been tacitly
arranged so long before between the
two families. Esther was the very girl
for Edmund's wife—so said his mother;
and Aunt Jane, as docile and easily led
as shy little Essie herself, agreed to the
dictum of her more energetic sister-in-law.
The pair were wedded; and Edmund
Darby brought his bride and her modest
dower home to Croft, where henceforth
she was merely "Edmund's wife, "never
the head of the household or the ruler
of domestic affairs, for the elder Mrs.
Dai by was not the woman to abdicate
so long as she could contrive by hook
or by crook to hold the reins of govern-ment
; and Essie was far too timid and
characterless to strive to oust her from
her post; so she submitted, with a little
sigh of relief that so much responsibil-ity
was taken from her.
Thus it was that no storms came to
ruffle the matrimonial calm of Esther
Darby's life ; and when, in the course
of five years, she had born Edmund two
baby-girls, tiny replicas of herself that
faded out of existence from sheer lack
of vitality within a few months of their
becoming acquainted with a troublesome
world. Essie began to fade too—so
quietly and uncomplainingly that no
one ever suspected how strong the in-stinct
of maternal love was m the other-wise
characterless woman, or what a
bitter crushing grief the loss of the two
children had been to her. Very surely,
if slowly, she faded ; and almost before
any one about her had begun to realize
that things were looking serious with
Edmund Darby's wife she had passed
from their midst and had rejoined her
children.
Her death was a great shock to Ed-mund,
and he grieved for her in his
own quiet undemonstrative way,though
he had long since been fain to admit,
in silent communing with his own
heart, that, so far as he was concerned,
his matrimonial venture had been a to-tal
failure.
Two peaceful years, with changing
seasons of sun and snow, had gone by
sinqe Edmund Darby became a widow-er,
and no tempration had come to him
to change his solitary condition. Indeed
he thought little of contracting a sec-ond
marriage.; despite his niother's
->>, « J..1 c ,, 'V.KH ; R.ni j!( or aunt
Jane was stcieUy rejoiced because lie
had not sought, a wile to fill hei daugiv
ter's vacant place, and she fondly im-agined
that he cherished Essie's image
even as she did, and that such unsub
stantial visions could fill and satisfy the
eager soul and warm heart of a man in
the very prime of life.
The simple explanation of his appar-ent
contentment lay in the fact that, as
yet, Edmund Darby had not found a
woman capable of meeting his matured
requirements. The woman he could
love, as he told himself, must be his
equal in heart and brain, to complete
and make perfect the full summer and
gathering up her knitting, she also beat
a hasty retreat, leaving uie common en-to
wait a while, or perchance finally to
seek his fate farther afield than Erls-mere.
But dreams of wedded bliss had only
a small share in Edmund Darby's act-ive
life. His daily work and the long
evenings spent with his scientific friend
the Rector had a much stronger and
more substantial hold upon his affec-tions,
until, in an evil hour for him—as
his mother thought—he began to find
his ideal realized in Dorothea Wynde.
His straying fancy was first arrested
by her utter unlikeness to any woman
he had ever met before—a piquant orig-inality
which rendered her totally dis-similar
and distinct; and by slow de-grees
he began to recognize her rare
charm of manner and a perfection of
culture combined with intellectual
powers considerably above the feminine
average. She usually talked little; but,
when she could, through her own keen
interest in the subject under discussion,
or by a direct appeal to her, be drawn
into conversation, Edmund experienced
a new delight in listening to her words,
and often found himself at idle times
dwelling upon such reminiscences. The
mere tones of her voice lingered in his
memory like the echo of a song, and
the nameless little graces which made
her so specially delightful in Edmund
Darby's eyes frequently recurred to
him; again and again he pictured the
girl's lithe slender shape with the cling-ing
folds of some soft material which
formed her dainty gown—Dorothea's
dresses, he thought, always fltted her
so exquisitely—and her small well-shaped
head, with just a hint of pride
in it's carriage, set so gracefully on the
faultless shoulders.
I n this way Edmund Darby caressed
the secret idol he had enshrined for
himself, and yet from day to day de-layed
to cross the Rubicon. Vanity
had no.place in Edmund's moral nature,
and his irresolution arose from two
causes, the chief of which was, as he
now acknowledged to himself, that, lov-ing
Dorothea Wynde with all the passion
and intensity of a strong nature which
had hitherto suffered from lifelong re-pression
and the failu re to find its spirit-ual
counterpart, he dreaded the issue.
Pate decided for Edmund Darby that
which he had been so slow to decide for
himself.
Oa paying one of his usual visits to
the Rectory, he learne l quite casually,
in the course of conversation with
Mrs. Pane, in which she alluded
to her own extreme regret at parting
with Mi3s Wynde, that Dorothea was
going away in a couple of weeks.
Going away in a fortnight!
The news momentarily took away his
breath. He had been dreaming on m
peaceful security, looking upon Dor-othea
as almost as much a fixture in
Ei lsmere as himself.
That illusion was shattered in an in-stant,
and he knew that he must speak
now or lose her for ever. There was
no more time to waste in idle delay and
irresolution.
Edmund Darby bade his host adieu
that night at a much earlier hour than
he Was wont to do usually. He longed
to get away from them all, to be alone,
and try to realize that Dorothea was
realiy going to leave Erlsmere, and to
think over what he must do and how
to make an opportunity for seeing her
by herself. They had been so little to-gether,
after all, he reflected, that it
might be the height of presumption to
dream even that she cared for him. But-it
was too late to think of that now,
too lace to do anything save go forward
to meet his doom.
The next thought was how to gain
access to her. Her mornings were not
free, and tor the rest of the day she was
seldom or never alone. His first idea,
that he should go up to the Rectory and
boldly demand to see her, was after a
moment's consideration, abandoned as
totally impracticable. Then he thought
of writing to her. A dozen letters
were penned and torn up in quick sue
cession. None of them suited his fas-tidiws
taste, and therefore could not
possibfy suit hers. He had said too
much or too little; his letter was cold,
absurdly formal and constrained. Could
such words reveal anything of what he
really felt and was breaking his heart
to say ? Would she guess at all how he
loved her from such a poor, inadequate
expression of his passion ?
He ended by telling himself that he
must see her—there was no alternative.
Ic would be difficult at first to speak,
but it would be easier than writing,
after all, and he would know his fate so
much the sooner.
The result of this conclusion was that
for some days after Edmund heard of
Miss Wynde's impending departure his
business was sadly neglected. His
work-people seldom saw him after the
early morning, and he had suddenly ac-quired
a deep interest in the natural
history of the partridge, a branch of
science hitherto somewhat slighted by
him, for, though he was a n excellent
shot, he had been an indifferent and
careless sportsman, and did not as a
rule shoot over his extensive acres more
than a dozen times in the whole season.
But now, with his favorite pointer at
his heels, as the ostensible excuse for
his unusual indolence and this strange
departure from his ordinary habits, he
sallied forth each day, and seldom re-turned
until dusk, when the contents of
his game-bag considerably surprised the
astute Mrs. Darby, who was not slow
to divine that the partridges had receiv-ed
but a scanty share of Edmund's at-tention.
Her suspicions would have
been still further aroused had she been
able to witness her son's peculiar and
decidedly unsportsmanlike conduct m
pursuit- of the game.
But at length the blind god had pity
on this forlorn lover, and brought about
the meeting he so ardently desired and
yec found so difficult to procure.
Towards sundown on the fourth after-noon
ot this novel kind of sport, after
consulting his watch, he decided to re-trace
his steps to Croft, and observed to
himself—
"She Will not come to-day ; but I'll
take the Rectory lane on my way home,
at any r a t e ."
He turned listlessly, his dog following
slowly, almost as dispirited as himself,
when an unexpected vision caused his
i:"tlc".3ne:« to disappear as if by magiq,
a~d Ids hc>art beat furiously as he quick-ened
his steps and W3iit iorward jit a
swinging pace to meet a tall slender fig-ure
which had just emerged from a lit-tle
gate opening into the lane and was
advancing slowly towards him. And
-unlooked-for bliss—Dorothea was
alone I
After the first greeting, he turned
and strolled at her side, walking now
at a nace which surely indicated extreme
languor and fatigue; wherefore Miss
Wynde was in a measure compelled to
slacken her steps or to appear rude, as
the alternative.
" I began to be afraid I should not
see you at all before your departure,
Miss Wynde," was his first remark, of-fered
in a tone of abject depression.
"Indeed I" she said, smiling, though,
in some occult mysterious way, his
nervousness and agitation now painfully
apparent,had communicated themselves
to her. "Well, I hoped you would be
able to spare a few minutes from the
partridges—some day before the end of
next week—just to say good-bye."
"Of course," he answered hastily.
" I shall be a t the Rectory more than
once—lots of times, I hope—before
then. But—but—I want you to un-derstand,
Miss Wynde^it wasn't merely
to say 'good-bye' that I wished to see
you—that's a word I never want to say
thea, m.y own !"—and in an instant his
arms were round her, enfolding her in
an embrace so firm that she found it
impossible to free herself at once.
Yielding to the passionate impulse of
the instant, she lay passive in his arms,
trembling in their shelter, and her heart
throbbed wildly with a guilty rapturous
joy while he raised her white face to his
and impressed long, fervent, passionate
kisses on her unresisting lips, muimur-iug
the while b>oken words of love, an-guish,
and triumph.
For he knew in that brief burning
moment that she loved him ; but he also
knew too well t h a t her noble heart could
suffer anything save dishonor and dis-loyalty
; and, recognizing this, he felt
with an unspeakable despair that Doro-thea
Wynde would be henceforth as far
beyond his reach as the very stars then
glimmering coldly above him in the
September twilight.
"Unclasp your arms ; let me go I"
she entreated at List. ' Let me go—
before this kills me 1" she Implored,
again hiding her face against the blessed
shelter she longed to call her own for
ever. "Help me, Edmund! Don't
make my duty any harder, this barren
honor more bitter to bear I" she contin-ued,
still pleading. "I can't explain
a l l ; but you will understand. The en-gagement
was made before my mother's
death. We were both poor; but Philip
—he's my cousin, you know—was wil-ling
to wait, to do anything, as long as
he had my promise; so he went to In-dia
with the hope of—of returning some
day for his promised wife."
Her listener set his teeth hard, and
almost crushed the soft hand he held in
a convulsive grasp.
" I can bear the rest—go o n ! " he
muttered.
Then Dorothea continued, gathering
courage for his sake as well as for her
own while she spoke.
"He has worked and waited these
five weary years with this one hope ever
before him, his faith in me strong and.
changeless as the years went on."
"And you—forgive me, Dorothea—
you did not share those hopes ?"
" I looked to the end with a tranquil
pleasure ; I fancied—cruel folly 1—that
I . cared for my cousin as much as I was
capable of caring for any man ; it had
been so long a settled thing between us,
and "
" I know, I understand too well," he
interposed, with a groan.
"Three months back," she went on,
" I received a letter telling me that he
could return even sooner than he ex-pected,
that he had succeeded beyond
his wildest hopes, and was coming to
claim his own—the poor prize for which
he has worked so earnestly and waited
in such single-hearted f a i t h ."
A sudden heart-breaking sob burst
from her hearer, strong, man as he was,
and her own heart answered his.
" I f it kills me, I'll go on now and tell
you all. When that fatal letter came,
everything I had striven for months to
blind myself to was made hideously
clear in an instant. But I thought to
bear my suffering alone. Some kinds
of pain are worse to bear if others have
to share them," she added.
'And now to-night's chance has
made it impossible for either of us to
deceive theother or our .own. hearts. '1
" f | u t , Edmund"—and'her voice was
sharp with exceeding pain—"what
should I be worth to you ? What should
I be in my own eyes, if I could betray
my cousin at the last hour—even for
our love's sake ? It would be all too
-dearly bought—a price, I am bound to
think, neither of us would be willing to
•to you," he added; and then, not
waiting for an answer, he went on, and,
trying to look into the sweet pale face
now so persistently turned from his.
poured forth, in a few hurried, impas-sioned,
almost incoherent words, all the
burning love and desire whieh had
grown in him day by day during many
months.
He did not say a tenth part of what
he meant to say, of what he yearned to
even now; but it was enough-more
than enough.
They were no longer walking side by
side : unconsciously they had stopped
together close by a stile with broken
moss-grown steps. They were standing
by it, and Dorothea, still keeping her
face turned from him, leaned against
it an instant to steady herself before she
spoke.
" I am grieved," she began, In a low
pleading voice—"more grieved for you
than I can say. For myself I should
feel something worse than grief—the
bitterest scorn and contempt—if I could
believe I had led you by any fault of
mine to feel as you do and to say what
you have said to-night. Tell me it was
not my fault I " she cried suddenly and
passionately, raising her eyes to his—
eyes in which love and anguish were
unmistakably mingled.
" I t is not your fault that I have been
a fool," he answered hoarsely. "You
haven't tempted me by a word or a look
—unless indeed to be yourself is a
temptation to a man. But I have not
been answered—at least, I have a right
to that I" He paused a moment, then
went on, "No—I have no r i g h t ; but
for pity's sake you will speak."
With pleading hands outstretched to
him and pleading lips and eyes she an-swered
brokenly—
"You did not know—no one here
oould know—but I—I have been en-gaged
to my cousin Philip almost five
years, and he is coming home from In-dia
for me now, Have pity," she con-tinued—"
you shall hear everything; it
is your right, as you said just now.
Forgive me—help me to bear it all I"
she entreated, with a strange pathetic
break in her voice.
A sudden ray of light flashed upon
him.
"Dorothea I " he cried; and his tones
of love and bitter pain rang in her ears.
I t was the first time he had ever spoken
her dear name, and she felt an exquisite
joy ia hearing his lips utter it. "Dcro-
"Heaven knows how bitterly true
your words are 1" he answered gloom-ily.
She put her hand in his, and said—
" I knew I did not misjudge your no-ble
nature ; it makes the parting easier
—and yet—more hard to bear I At this
bitter last moment I can say, with no
touch of shame, how proud I am of the
man 1 may not love."
He had not moved while she was
speaking, and her hand still lay in his;
and now big silent tears from the gray
eyes he loved so well were falling , fast
on the strong shapely hand whi ch clasped
her own.
"This is the last time we shall ever
see each other,''he said brokenly; "and
this parting is like, but worse than,
death. He—the other man—will have
you for his whole life. Dear, being
merely a man and no saint—I can't
speak of that now—but you will spare
me these last moments—only these; the
rest are all his. Think of me alone
just now—love me, live for me, one brief
minute. You have never kissed me
yet, Dorothea," he whispered, after a
moment's pause.
For answer she raised her tear-stained
face and looked straight into his eyes.
" I love you better than my life—bet-ter
than anything on earth—save honor;
and your own noble soul gives me
strength and courage for this bitter
duty. This farewell is, as you have
said, the very last—for life and for
death; and I have no comfort to give
other than t h i s ,"
He took her silently in his arms for a
last embrace. Their love and agony
were all too deep for words.
"Heaven help you, Dorothea—all my
life's hope ends to-night. Thebestyou
can do for me is to pray that 1 may
never hear your name again.
Turning away to hide the fresh tears
that rose unbidden, threatening to shake
her resolution, she went swiftly down
the lane, her light footfalls growing
ever fainter on the fallen leaves as she
went onward, and was lost to him in
the gathering gloom of the dark Sep-:
tember evening.
Edmund Darby remained by the
stile, standing as she had left him, his
eyes still fixed on the dusky shadows in
which Dorothea had disappeared,
And thus the remorseless hand of
cruel Fato crushed out the brief ro-mance
of Edmund Darby's life.
* * * #
Amid the tropical scenery of her new
home the queenly wife of the celebrated
Indian judge is a distinguished and
brilliant addition to the Anglo-Indian
society in which she moves. But, of
all the men who admire and the women
who envy and criticize her, not one will
ever know auglit of Dorothea's real
nature, or guess dimly at the desperate
conflict between "love and duty" fought
out in a far-off English lane, one deso-late
September evening, when the still
air was heavy with the scent of fallen
leaves. Still less does any of them im-agine
how passionate and loving is the
heart which beats beneath the proud
calm exterior.
I t is a proud heart, but a noble one,
from which she has resolutely crushed
out ail, even a thought, that could stain
or cloud her husband's honor. But
Dorothea Gordon is sometimes glad
there are no such September nights In
India, with chill autumnal breath laden
with the scent of fallen leaves, to re-mind
her of that English lane and the
sweet slain love she tells herself she has
forgotten.
- ' J T l l m - F i am "
I think you ought to warn the public
against the swindle."
"Oh, that game is more than half a
dozen years old," replied the reporter.
&I have good reason to know that,
for i was one of its first victims. But
I don't believe one person in ten knows
anything about it, and you would be
doing them a favor to tell them about
it. It'll catch most anybody."
" I t caught you, you say?"
" J u s t as easy as the angle-worm
catches a trout. One day, about six or
seven years ago, a well-dressed and
quite pretty young lady came and
bought three or four article I a
small basket, the whole cosu.;,, less
than a dellar. I asked her if I should
send them around to her house, to
which she replied in the negative, say-ing
that she had just moved into the
neighborhood and wanted some of them
right away. I asked her where she was
living, and she named a cottage over
on S street, a cottage that« I knew
had been vacant for two or three weeks.
"During this conversation I had been
putting her packages into the basket,
and she had taken from a well-filled
portemonnaie a bill and laid it upon the
counter in front of me. Just as I was
opening the money drawer, or about to
open it, she pointed to the shelf behind
me and said she would take a can of to-matoes.
I turned around, took down a
can, placed it in her basket and pro-ceeded
to make change.
"To my astonishment the bill was
not lying upon the counter. I glanced
down at the floor, thinking it might
have been blown off by a puff of air,but
it was not there. I glanced at the lady.
Her attitude, expression and all indica-ted
that she was waiting for her change.
'Can it be possible that I put it in the
drawer?' thought I. I opened the
drawer, and there, right on top, lay a
$5 bill. I hesitated no longer, but gave
her $3 95 change and she went away.
Nevertheless,I was not wholly satisfied,
and as soon as I had an opportunity I
asked my clerk if he had taken in a f 5
bill that morning.
" Y e s , " said he, " I changed one for
Mrs. Kelly about half an hour ago."
" I put on my hat and went around
to S street. That vacant house was
vacant still. I had been flim-flammed."
"And that was the last you ever saw
of the sweet damsel, I suppose?"
"Oh, no, it wasn't. That evening a
detective whom I know happened to
drop in here and I told him about it.
He grinned about six inches wide, jotted
down a long list of the articles she
bought, looked at a basket like the one
she had purchased, asked me a lot of
questions as to her dress, features, voice
and actions, and went away laughing.
The next day he sent for me to wme
down to the police headquarters, and
there I found her and my basket of gro-ceries.
He wanted me to go to the
Poliee Court and prosecute her, but I
would'nt have gone up there and been
laughed at for ten times the money."
'•So you were $5 out?"
"No, I wasn't. Out of six of us whom
She sWili^eU-^^t-dagpf^^made-a-ooi^'
Kousn Gallantry. •
I n the early days of California the
men who gathered in the mining camps
in the gulches or among the moun-tains
seldom saw a woman's face. They
grew careless of their own appearance,
left hair as well as beard to grow—
hair which never saw a brush or comb
—till they came to look like wild meu
of the woods; yet beneath the unkempt
locks, and under the shaggy breast and
tattered garments, there lay in the"
heart of every man a memory of some
farm-house far away, and of a mother
or sister for whose dear sake he rever-enced
the very form of woman as sacred
Her approach commanded every token
of respect. Said one who . had liyed
much among the miners: "If they were
driving a team on a dusty road, and
met a woman riding the other way,
they would* turn to the right or left to
give her the side of the road whgre the
dust would not blow upon h e r . " And
if, perchance, at long nifervals there
appeared in the camp the face of a
woman, every mother's son of them
stood one side on the mountain trail to
let her pass, and pulled off his miner's
cap, and not seldom the tears stole into
his eyes a t thought of the old folks at
home; of the mother who sat m the
chimney-corner, and who, as the winds
blew and the rams fell, peered out into
the darkness, and sighed as she asked,
"Where is my wandering boy te-night?'
I t would not have been safe for any
one to whisper a disrespectful word as
that face passed by. if some vulgar
fellow ventured a coarse remark, the
eyes of others flashed, but they bit
their lips and were silent till the woman
was out of sight, and then, said our in-formant,
"that fellow had got to take
a licking!" I t seemed as if every miner
felt that his own mother or sister was
insulted by a sneer at one of her sex,
and they answered the insult with
heavy blows till the coward was kicked
and cuffed out of camp.
When I hear such stories as this, my
heart relents towards a class of which
I had judged hastily and unjustly. And
for t h e same reason I would stand up
for the miners, I would say a good
word for the cowboys, We need not
be frightened by a name. They are
not worse than other men. ; Why
should they be? They pursue an
ancient and honorable occupation, one
held in esteem among every rural and
pastoral people since the time of Abra- -
ham. The sons of Jacob themselves,
as well as the men who attended their
father's flocks and herds, were cow-boys.
I n our new states and territories the
increasing influences of civilization will
work great changes in the character of
the population. Time will soften their
roughness and give them more polished
manners; but it is to be hoped that it
will not abate their courage or their
chivalry; for these are elements of a
noble manhood, and may in t h e future
contribute to form the mighty people
that are to constitute and govern our
western and southern commonwealths.
Three Meals a Day.
AnEnglish writer gives some much-needed
advice as to the times and fre-quency
of meals. In his opinion the
pila-ini t agains„(t. ht. er. br, ut„ bv efj!o re tj.h, e case rpres»5nt-a3uai--&racuce^ of^"threeTnoaJs t t j d a y h a s g o o d ^ a3 w e l l a s t *
came to trial a man who claimed to be l n i t s £ a v V When work of anv kind
her father went around and settled up j i s b e l n g d o n e , whether mental or bodi-with
the whole of us, and she was let j l y the intervals between taking food
"To go to some other city and flim-flam
somebody else?"
" I suppose so."
Home Gymnastics.
I n our country round shoulders, a
stooped gait and a fiat chest are the
rule instead of the exception. They
can be cured in a very short time by fif-teen
minutes exercise night and morn-ing
in the open air of a well-ventilated
room. The morning exercise had bet-ter
be taken immediately after rising,
before dressing for the day, as tight
clothing will interfere with the free
movements required. The first thing
to be done is to stand erect, with the
heels together, the head ttirown back,
the chest out and the hands hanging
loosely at the side. Then the lungs
should be thoroughly filled with air and
slowly exhausted, perhaps half a dozen
times. The arms should now be
brought forward at full length in front,
on a level with the shoulders,
the palms of the hands held in contact.
Keeping the arms extended the hands
shouid be forcibly thrown backward
until the backs of the hands touch be-hind
the shoulders, while the palms
come together before the chest. Let
this motion be gone through with rap-idly
some thirty times.
I n the next move hold the arms
ssraight above the head, with the palms
of the hands forward ; now, bending
the hips, bring the arms down m front,
keeping them straight all the time,
until the fingers touch the toes; then
return the arms to their original posi-tion
above the head. This motion
should be performed very slowly twenty
times. At first it will be almost im-possible
to touch the floor with the fin<
ger tips without moving the knees, but
in the course of time It will be perform-ed
readily.
I n the third movement the lady
should hold her hands close to her
sides, with the thumbs still forward;
then return them to their first position.
The arms must not be bent at the
elbows. If persisted in, this move-ment
will straighten out stooping shol-ders.
Are these directions perfectly
plain?"
'Perfectly so.'
'Any lady who will vigorously prac-tice
these movements twice a day for
fifteen minutes will presently have a
full chest, straight shoulders and sound
lungs. Take the biceps muscle of the
arm, one of the most noticeable features
of a woman in full dress. How much,
in your judgment, will a few minutes'
exercise each day for a year increase
the girth of this muscle?'
'Give it up.'
'Two inches, Enough to make all
the difference between a thin arm and
a plump one. And the same amount
of exercise given to the chest will in-crease
it how much? You have no
idea? From four to six inches or more.
I n addition to the beauty given the
figure by the full chest, the increase in
lung power will serve to vitalize every
organ in the body, and will bring with
it a clear eye, good blood and its
attendant, a fair complexion, a springy
step, high spirits, and a capacity for en-joyment
unknown before.'
—An Ontario village is lighted with
excellent gas made from sawdust.
should not be so long as to entail de-mands
on the system when its store of
material for the generation of force is
exhausted. An ordinary full meal, in
the ease of a healthy man, is generally
considered to have been completely di-gested
and to have passed out of the
stomach in four hours. A period of
rest should then be granted to the
stomach. Assuming that two hours
are allowed for this, the interval be-tween
one meal and another would be
six hours; and this accords with the ex-perience
of most men. During rest
and sleep there is less waste going on,
and especially during sleep there is a
greatly diminished activity of all the
functions of the body. The interval,
therefore, between the last meal of one
day and the first of the next may be
longer, as it generally is, than between
the several day meals. Assuming that
breakfast be taken about 8 or 9 o'clock,
there should be a mid-day meal about
1 or 2. The character of this must de-pend
on the nature of the day's OGL a
pation aud the convenience of the indi-vidual.
With women and children this
is generally their hungry time, and the
mid day repast, whether called lunch-eon
or dinner, is the chief meal. So is
it with the middle and laboring classes,
for the most part. - But for merchants,
professional men and others, whose oc-cupations
take them from home all the
day, this is inconvenient, and, more-over,
it is not found conducive to
health or comfort to take a full meal in
the midst of the day's work. There,
can, however, be no doubt that much
evil arises from attempting to * go
through the day without food, and then
with exhausted powers sitting down to
a hearty meal. Something of a light,
easily digestible, but sustaining charac-ter
should be taken toward 1 or 2
o'clock.
D i c k e n s In 184».
Charles Dickens, when he first visi-ted
Washington in 1842, was just en-tering
his 30th year. • He was a middle-sized,
somewhat fleshy person, and ho
wore a brown frock coat, a red-figured
vest and a fancy scarf cravat, that con-cealed
the collar and was fastened to
the bosom m rather voluminous folds
by a double pin and chain. His hair,
which was long and dark, grew low
upon the brow, had a wavy kink where
it started from the head, and was cork-screwed
as it fell on either side of his
face. His forehead retreated gradual-ly
from the eyes, without any marked
protuberance, save at the outer angle,
the upper portion of which formed a
prominent ridge a little within the as-signed
position of the organ of ideality.
The eyeballs completely filled their
sockets. The aperture of the lids was
not, large, nor the eye uncommonly
clear or bright, but quick, moist and
expressive. The nose was slightly
aquiline, the mouth of moderate dimen-sions,
making no great display of the
teeth, the facial muscles occasionally
drawing the upper lip most strongly on
the left side as the mouth opened in
speaking, His features, taken togeth-er,
were well proportioned,- of a glow-ing
and cordial aspect, with more ani-mation
than grace, and more intelli-gence
than beauty.
- B y actual count, Dr. Wilson, of
England, has found the hairs on a
n nrA«« square inch of a fairly covered head to
—IS early 25,000 worn» are engaged ! number 1,066, from which he estimates
in glove-making ic En*frnd aJon*- that Mm wholf have ^7.920,