t
f
. .THE- SILENT islsTERs-‘u
l? V BY 1. ZANowILL.
They had quarreled in girlhood, and
mutually declared their intention
never‘ to speak to each other again,
wetting and drying their forefingers
to the accompaniment of an ancient
childish incantation; and while they
lived on the paternal farm they kept
their foolish oath with the stubborn-
ness of a slow country stock, despite
the alternate coaxing and chastise-
ment of their parents, notwithstand-
ing the perpetual every-day contact of
their lives, through every vicissitude
of season and weather, of sowing and
reaping. of sun and shade, of jby and
sorrow. Death and misfortune did
not reconcile them, and when their
father died, and the old farm was sold
up, they traveled to London in the
same silence, by the same train, in
search of similar situations. Service
separated them for years, although
there was only a stone’s throw be-
tween them. They often stared at
each other in the streets. Honor, the
elder, married a local artisan, and two
and a half years later Mercy, the
younger, married a fellow-workman of
Jane’s husband. The two husbands
were friends. and often visited each
other’s houses, which were on oppo-
site sides of the same sordid street,
and their wives made them welcome.
Neither Honor nor Mercy suffered an
allusion to the breach; it was under-
stood that their silence must be re-
ceived in silence. Each of the sisters-
had a quiverful of children, who played
and quarreledtogetherin the streets
and in one another’s houses, but not
even the street affrays and mutual
grievances of the children could pro-
voke the mother‘s to words. They
stood at their doors in impotent fury,
almost bursting with the torture of
keeping their mouths shut against the
efi'ervescence of angry speech. When
either lost a child, the other watched
. the funeral from her window, dumb as
the mutes.
The years rolled on, and still the
river of silence flowed between their
lives. Their good looks faded; the
burden of life and of child-bearing was
heavy upon them. Gray hairs streaked
their brown tresses, then brown hairs
streaked their gray tresses. The
puckers of age replaced the dimples of
youth. The years rolled on, and death
grew busy among the families. Honor’s
husband died, and Mercy lost a son,
who died a week after his wife. Chol-
era took several of the younger chil-
dren. But the sisters themselves lived
on, bent and shriveled by toil and sor-
row even more than by the slow frost
of the years.
Then bne day Mercy took to her
death-bed. An internal disease, too
long neglected, would carry her off
within a week. .So‘ the doctor told
Jim, Mercy’s husband.
ThrOugh him the news traveled to
Honor’s eldest son, who Still lived with
her. By the eVeni‘ng it reached
Honor.
She went upstairs abruptly when he
told her, leaving him Wondering at her
stony, aspect. When-she "came down
she was bonneted and shawled. Hef
was filled with-joyous amaze to see
her hObbl‘e across the street. and. for
the first time in'her life, pass over her
sister Mercy’s threshbld. .
A's Honor entered the. sick-room,-
with pursed‘ lips, a light leapt’into
the wasted, wrinkled countenance of
the dying creature. She raised her-
self‘ slightly in bed, her lips parted,
then shut tightly, and her face dark-
ened. .
Honor turned angrily to Mercy’s
husband, who hung about impotently.
“Why did you let her run down so
low?” she said. “I didn’t know,” the
old man stammered, taken back by her
presence even more than by her ques-
tion. “She was always a woman to
say nothin’.”
Honor put him impatiently aside and
examined the medicine bottle on the
bedside table.
"Isn’t it time she took her dose?”
“I dessay.”
Honor snorted wrathfully. "What’s
the use of aman?” she inquired as she
carefully measured out the fluid and
put it to her sister’s lips, which opened
to receive it and then closed tightly
again.
“How is you wife feeling now?” Hon-
or asked after apause. ~
“How are you now, Mercy?” asked
the old man, awkwardly. The old
woman shook her head. “I’m a-goin’
fast, Jim,” she grumbled weakly, and
a. tear of self-pity trickled down her
parchment cheek.
“What rubbidge she do talk!" cried
Honor, sharply. “Why d’ye stand
there like a tailor-’5 dumzny? Why
don’t you tell her to cheer up?” . . .
“Cheer up, Mercy!” quavere’d the old
man hoarsely.
But Mercy groaned instead, and 1,
turned fretfully on her other side with
her face to the wall. -- i
“I’m too old, I’m too old,” she '
moaned. “This is the end 0’ me." '
“Did you ever hear the like?” Hon- '
or asked Jim angrily, as she smoothed >
his wife’s pillow. “She was always
conceited about her age, settin’ her-
self np as the equals of her elders; and
here am 1, her elder sister, as carried
her in my arms when I was five and
she was two, still hale and strong, and
'with no mind for underground for
many a long day. Nigh three times
her age I was once, mind you, andnow
she has the imperence to talk‘of dyin’
before me.”
She took off her bonnet and shawl.
“Send one o’ the kids to tell my boy
I’m stayin’ here,” she said. “And
then just you get ’em all to bed—
there’s too much noise about the
house.”
The children, who were orphaned
grandchildren of the dying woman,
were vsent to bed, and then Jim him-
self was packed off to refresh himself
for the next day’s labors, for the poor
old fellow still dodd'ered about the
workshop. -
The silence of the sick room spread
over the whole house. About ten
o’clock the doctor came again and in-
! the face.
structed Honor how to alleviate the l
s
panning-«ifs; use in - night long".
she sat watching-her dying sister, hand
No word broke the, awful, stillness.
The first thing in!" the merning, Mer-
cy’s married daughter, the only child
of hers living inLondon, arrived to
nurse her mether.‘ But Honor indig-
nantly refused 'to be dispossessed.
“A nice daughter you are,” she said,
“to leave your mother lay a day and a
night without a sight 0’ your ugly
face.” . . . - .
“I had to look after the good man
and the little ’uns,” the daughter
pleaded. ‘ -
“Then what do you, mean by de-
sertin’ them now?” the irate old w0m-
an retorted.
mother, and then your husband: and
children. You just go back to them as
needs your care. I carried your mother-
in my arms before you was born, and
if she wants anybody else now to look'
after her let her 'just tell me so and-
‘I’ll be off in abrace o’-shakes.”
She looked defiantly at the yellow.
dried-up creature in the bed. Mercy’s
withered lips twitched, but no sound
came fromrthem. Jim, strung up by
the situation, took the word. “You
can’t do no good up here,” the doctor~
says. “You might look~after the kids
downstairs a bit when you can spare
an hour; and I’ve got to go to the
shop. I’ll send you a telegraph if
there’s a change,” he whispered to the
daughter; and she, not» wholly discon-
tented to return to her living inter-
ests, kissed her mother, lingered a
[little and then stole quietly avVay.
All that day the old ’women re‘-
mained together in‘ solemn silence,
broken Only by the doctor’s visit. He
reported that Mercy might last a
couple of days more. In the evening
Jim replaced his sister-in-law, who
slept perforce. At midnight she awoke
and sent him to bed. The sufferer
tossed about restlessly. At half-past
two she awoke, and Honor fed her with
some broth as she would have fed a
baby. Mercy, indeed, looked scarcely
bigger than an infant, and Honor had
the advantage of her only by being
puffed out with clothes. A church
clock in the distance struck three.
Then the silence fell deeper. The
watcher drowsed. The lamp flickered,
tossing her shadow about the walls as
if she, too, were turning feverishly
from side to side. Astrange ticking
made itself heard in the wainscoting.
Mercy sat up with a scream of terror.
“J-im!” she shrieked; “Jim!”
Honor started up, opened her mouth
to cry “Hush!” then checked herself,
suddenly frozen.
“Jim,” cried the dying creature,
“listen! Is that'the death spider?”
Honor listened, her blood curdling.
Then she went towards the door and
opened it. “Jim,” she said in low tones,
speaking towards the landing; “tell
her it’s nothin’; it’s only a'mouse. She
,was always a nervous little thing.”
And she closed the doorsoftly, and,
pressing her trembling sister tenderly
back on the pillow, tucked her up
snugly in the blanket.
Next morning, when Jim was really
present, the patient begged pathetic-
ally to have a grandchild with her in
the room, clay and night. “Don’t leave
me alone again,” she quavered; “don’t
leave me alone, with not a soul to talk
to." Honor Winced, but said nothing.
The youngest child, who did not
have to go to school, was brought—a
pretty boy with brown curls,which the ‘
sun, streaming through the panes,
turned to gold. The morning passed
slowly. About noon Mercy took the
child’s hand and smoothed his curls.
“My sister Honor had golden curls
like that,” she whispered.
“They were in the family, Bobby,”
Honor answered; “your granny had
them, too, when she was a girl.”
There was a long pause. Mercy’s
eyes were half-glazed, but her vision
was inward now. ,
“The mignonette will be growin’ in
the meadows, Bobby,” she murmured.
“Yes, and the heart’s-ease,” said
Honor, softly. "we lived in the coun-
try, you know, Bobby.”
“There is flowers in the country,”
Bobby declared, gravely.
“Yes, and trees,” said Honor. “I
wonder if your granny remembers
when we were larrupped for stealin’
apples?”
“Ay, that I do, Bobby, he, he!”
croaked the dying creature, with a
burst of enthusiasm. “We was a pair
0’ tomboys. The varmer he ran after
us, cryin’ “Ye! Ye!’ but we wouldn’t
take no gar. He, he he!”
Honor wept at the laughter. The
native idiom, unheard for half a
century, made her face shine under
the tears. “Don’t let your granny ex-
cite herself, Bobby. Let me give her
her drink.” She moved the boy aside,
and Mcrcy’s lips automatically opened
to the draught.
“Tom was wi’ us, Bobby,” she gur-
glcd, still vibrating with amusement,
“and he tumbled over on the heather,
he, he!”
“Tommy is dead this forty year,
' Bobby,” whimpered Honor.
Mercy’s head fell back and an expres-
sion of supreme exhaustion came over
Half an hour passed. Bobby
was called down to dinner. The doc-
tor had been sent for. Suddenly Mercy
sat up with a jerk.
“It be growin’ dark, Tom,” she said,
hoarsely; “hain’t it time to call the
cattle home from the ma’shes?”
“She’s takin’ rubbidge again,” said
Honor, chokingly. “Tell her she’s in
London, Bobby.”
A wave of intelligence traversed the
sallow face. Still sitting up, Mercy
bent towards the side of the bed. “Ah!
is Honor still there? Kiss me—Bobby.”
Her hands groped blindly. Honor
bent down, and the old women’s with-
ered lips met.
And in that kiss Mercy passed away
into the greater Silence. —0utlook.
A Classical Instance.
“I hear,” said Diana the huntress, as
she rested her toe for an instant on the
pedestal, “that Pygmalion is in love
- with Galatea. ”
“Indeed!” ejaculated the Bust of
Minerva; “,well, it‘s a cinch that he*
gets the marble heart. ”—-—Puck.
“First, you‘ deserts your.
- asd-wenlestW anticipate ‘every‘wish‘
I
i I
.s ,
w
cut cemeteries ‘in",town,’and those in
the cemeteriesst West N‘orv‘v‘a’lk,‘ Brook-r
side‘snd Cranbury‘sre yet‘ to be heard!
from. If any one has a knowledge, of.
such grayes and which“ are not men-
tioned‘below they are rrqliested to com-
municate with ' Col. Samuel Dusksm.
Theseus and Daughters have made at-
rangements to decorate the graves with
flags on Memorial day.
Many of the graves were fo'und'to be
in a deplorable condition of neglect
when located by the joint committee of
the Sons and Daughters. In some in-
stances the moss had to be scraped from
the stones before the lettering could be
deciphered. V
The committe'desires to express the
hope ‘ that the descendants of these
patriots who risked their lives to estab-
lish the independence which we' to-dn'y
enjoy, will do» something to improve
the-condition of these graves.
The list of graves are us-follOWS:
_ sr. PAUL‘S CH-UBCHYARD.
Richard Camp, Aaron Keeler, 'l‘hos‘.
Keeler, Sum Fsirchild, John Archer,
Isaac Archer, John LockWood, Jesse
Curtis; Ass Hoyt, John Plan, Nathan
Smith, John Banks, Nathaniel Hays,
John Street, Nathan Nash, Issac Jen-
nings, Hezekiah Whitlook, Stephen
Hoyt, John3~Saunders, William—Reed,
David“ Burr! TheOphilus Hanford,
Hezekiah Whitneysnd Jenn Keeler'.
, PINE ISLAND.
Captain Seth! Seymour; Sergeant Nu-
theniel Benedicl, Sergeant Nathaniel
Raymond. sergeant William Bouton',
Corporal- William-Bowen, Lieut. Sam-
uel Keeler. John 44H0yt Jr. Nathaniel
Raymond Jr.- Stephen ‘Wo'od, Nathan
Keeler Jr._Natheniel Raymond, Daniel
Hoyt, James Hoyt, Nathan Benedict,
Stephen Hyatt, Aurdn Kellogg, J amcs
Hoyt; W'slt'ér Hoyt, William SeymOur,
Samuel Brooks, Daniel Lockwood,-J oh n?
Seymour, Gapt. Simeon Rsymond,0apt
Uriah Raymond, 11ch Crosby, James
Quintard, John Seymour,
Quintard. ,
TOWN HOUSE BILL
Capt. Jubez Gregory, William Meltby
Betls,Eben Lockwood,Eleasiph Kecler,
Nathan St. John, James Selleck, Jarvis
Kellogg, Ebenezer Gregory, Joseph
Lockwood, Enoch Scribner, Samuel
St. John, Jonathan Burrsll, Uriah
Rogers, HeZekiuh Lockwood, Capt.
Edphulet LockWood, Eliphsplet
Lockwood, Josiah Smith, Nathan Scrib-
ner, John Betas, Thomas Thatcher,
James Burnett, Daniel. LockWood,
David Comatock, HBZoklall Lockwood,
William Benedict, Issac Bette, Joseph
Meeker, Nathan Odell,. William C.
Betta, Stephen St. John.
- EASI‘ NOBWALK.
John Eversley, Dan Eversley, James
Fitch. Dull Hanford, Hezekiah Hun-
ford, Stephen Lockwood, Josiah Ray-
mond. Col. Stephen St. John, James
Smith, Sum Marvin, jr., UaVId Com-
stock, Josiah Thatcher, William. St.
John, David Seymour.
UNION columnar.
Hiakiah Bet-ts, Jonathan K‘uighz,
sin. Bezts, Samuel Gray, Jededish
Brown, ,Gershom Lockwood, 'l‘homus
Aiken.
BO-WAYION.
Capt. Eli Reed, Ensign Nathan Reed,
Jesse Reed, John Reed, Samuel 'B.
Warren, Edward Warren, CaptSimuel'
Richards, Samuel Richards, John Rich-
srds. John Mathew, Moses Webb.-
wssrronr.
[Old Cemetery on King streen]
Capt. Aziss Marvin, Jarvis Hurlbutt,
Cspt. Samuel Burrell, Capt. Judah,
Phineas Hsnford, Peter Adams, David
Adams, Aaron Adams.
' GREENS FARMS.
Major Willis Clift, William Bennett,
Joseph Bennett, Gideon Hurlbutt,
Leiut. Samuel Elmer.
' Severe But lust.
Bridgeport is not proud of being
widely advertised as the only town in
the United States, and probably in the
World', which numbers among its clergy
a man who has been compelled through
fear of the consequences, to convict
himself of the base crime of slandering
the reputation of a woman of whose
morals he knew nothing. It would
prefer his room to his company, and it
has the right to insist that \wbether his
stay here be long or short. he shall
confine his ministrations to those who
care to attend them, and that he shall
leave public reforms severely alone.
He must know, or if he doesn't he
should be taught, that no good cause
can profit by his aid—Farmer.
STUDEBAKER
265 & 267 Canal St.. N. Y.
'200 feet East of Broadway.
FAMILY GARHIABES
Buggies, Phaetons. Runabouts,
Depot Wagons, Wagonettes,
Rockaways, Traps, &c., &c.
New Styles, ‘ Great Variety,
Low Prices. Low Prices.
Farm Wagons
& Carts,
Street Sprinkler-s,
Lawn Sprinklers, Trucks,
Business Wagons, &c., &c.
Harness. Harness, Harness,
obes, hips, c.,-&c., &c.
Appended is s‘ list ”‘of'identified gigvas:
ofRevelationsry‘soldi‘ers at the differ- .
Everet v
“I don’t understand ' you at all,”
said Pierce Trevor to his friend Ralph
Dewey!
“You talk as if I were a conun-
drum.” '
“So: you are! Now, look here,
Dewey, let’s have a clear comprehen-
sion of the matter. Do you love Fanny.
White?"
“Well-yes—I rather think, on the
Whole, that I am alittle taken with the
sparkling brunette. ”
. “ ‘A- little taken!’ How very enthu-
siastic you are! And she, poor child,’
is more than ‘a little taken’ with you.”
“I flatter myself that you are righ t.’
“Well, then, why don't you ask her
to marry you?”
“There it is,” groaned Dewey; “you
are all in such a hurry. Can’t a ' man
admire a girl without being brought to
book forvit the very next day? I won’t
be hurried. When I get ready I’ll
ask Fanny to marry me. Are you sat-
isfied?”
“Very far from it.”
‘ “.As Miss White is only your wife’s
cousin, I really don’t'recognize your
right to catechise me!"
“Does that mean that I am to mind
my own business?”
_ Ralph laughed. “Construe it as you
please—only pray don’t‘bother me any
more.” V
He threw himself lazily on the grass,
flinging his cigar into the very heart
of a cluster of wild flowers and mak-
ing an impromptu pillow of his arms,
crossed underneath his head.
“Sleep. then,” said Trevor, a. little
contemptuOusly. “I .can’t afford to
lose the brightest heurs of a- golden
day like this.”
Our hero had not lain there many
minutes, however, before ' the soft
chimelof girl voices sounded through
the tiny bugles of summer insects and
the monotonous murmur of green
boughs overhead.
“Girls!" muttered Dewey: ' ‘7can’t a
fellow be clear of fem anyw ‘ere? But
they’re on the other side- of the copse,
that’s one blessing, and if I-keep quiet
they’ll never beat up. my ambush!”
They were on the ‘otherside-of the
copse—three bright-faced girls in flut~
teriug .raimentu
“It’s so- delightfully cool here,” said
Hildegarde Aymer, a fair-blonde,’ as
Saxon.- as her name.
“And one can talk here, too,” said
Ma'ryiBello “At the hot’el'one is never
certain of not being overheard.”
Dewey gave a silent chuckle at this.
Fanny White, leaning against the
twisted Stem of the veteran wild grape—
vine, devoted her whole attention to
her parasol handle. —
She was the prettiest of the three,
with deep liquid brown eyes and hair
black as the blackest jet, while her
skin, just touched with the creamy
tint _ that' characterizes the creole,
glowed carmine on her cheek.
“Fanny, do let me try!” said Hilde-
garde. "It will be such a splendid
joke,‘ and your English adorer is so
long-pin making up his mind.”
“But—but what will Capt. Aymer
think?”
“He’ll be delighted; men always
glory in a bit of mischief, and Kent is
such a splendid actor.”
“Do, Fanny!” urged Mary Bell. “It
will be just for all the world like the
theater. Hildegarde’s brother is to
pretend to be desperately in love with
you and you are to encourage his at-
tentions until that slow-moving Dewey
is brought to the point. How I shall
enjoy the progress of the situatiOn.”
"But your brother must fully under-
stand the scheme," said Fanny, hesi-
tatingly. dim-W“ * .
, “Of .course; sha’n’t I explain it to him
myself? There’s not a bit of harm in
it, and Mr. Dewey certainly needs
some stimulus. Now, do consent! Kate
will be here this very evening.”
“She don’t ferbid it, Hildegarde,”
eagerly cried Miss Bell, “and all the
world knows that silence gives con-
sent; Come, see how long the shadows
are getting?”
V [And the three graces fluttered down
the hillside.
Dewey rose to his feet and walked
away also.
“My dear little girls,” said he, by
way of soliloquy, “it’s a very cleverly
concocted little plan, but it won’t
work, and 'I’ve no doubt I shall enjoy
it as much as Miss Bell' proposes to
do.”
And he laughed aloud to think how
completely he should outgeneral his
feminine adversaries.
“I’ll keep Fan in suspense for an-
other month, just to pay her for that!”
he added, within himself. “I like the
‘. .. . -“~f€6‘§-’-”’I
girl well enough, but for all thatI
won’t be hurried into matrimony.”
Knowing what he knew, therefore,
Mr. Dewey was not at all surprised
that evening when he walked into the
hotel drawing-room to see a stylish
young man in the uniform of a captain
sitting on the sofa and being very de-
voted to Miss White.
“Let ’em work,” said Mr. Dewey, and
he sat down to play backgammon with
a pretty little widow. Fannie watched
him from beneath her eyelashes. ,
“It doesn’t produce any effect at all
upon him—thebrute!” said Hildegarde,
who had expected to see the recreant
lover brought to capitulating terms at
once.
“That’s because we don’t put it on
strong enough,” said the captain.
“Fanny—I may call you Fanny, mayn’t
I?”
“Oh, certainly," said the little bru-
nette; “it’s all in the play.”
“Well, then, Fanny, I think we
ought to promenade through the halls
arm in arm a little while, and if we
were to whisper instead of speaking
aloud—”
Fanny laughed and consented, and
the whole evening long she and the
captain exchanged very commonplace
remarks in very confidential whispers,
while Mr. Dewey and the widow played
backgammon serenely.
“I like this,” said Capt. Kent to his
sister, when Miss White had gone to
her room. “She’s the prettiest girl I
ever saw.” p
‘ “Oh, but Kent, you mustn’t fall in
love with her. ’j
modifier Tommi. .
“1 shall not fall in’love w-ithfiher-éi'
there’s ‘no’danger,1” said‘ 'Aymer,‘ .r- “but
it’ssueh‘ fun! ' I’-m' soumuch obligedfit
you'=forisugges'ting:'.ih” ‘ '
..-' Fanny cried herSelf 'to sleep that
night.- Dewey'didn’t seem to care-fa
pin whether 1 she' flirted: with- Capt.
Aymer or-not. ' ' '
The next day she went out horse-’
back riding with the captain. Kent
sat on"his'~horse- like aicentaur and
Fanny came back rosy as a whole béd~
of cartr‘atiOns- ~
“Are you goingwith us to the Cedar
Falls to-‘morrOw, Fanny?” asked Mr.
Dewey thatevening.’ “We said some-
thing about going together a week- or
so ago, didn’t we?”
Fanny was ready with her lesson.
“Did we? 'I had-fergotten; besides, I
promised to go with Capt. Aymer.”
“With Capt. Aymer? Oh', well, all
right, I’ll- take Julia Symington'.”
Fanny‘s lips qui-vered, but Hilde-
garde shook her head at 'her, and' she
did not call- back the young English-
man,» as had 1been' her impulser
Capt. Aymer proved a most devoted
cavalier T“ and - Fanny half " reproached
herself that she had enjoyed ‘ the day
so much; ~ - ‘
“It’s-very Wrongs-of me; sighed Fanny .
to Hildegarde, her faithful confidante.
“No, it isn’t; it’s exactly right,” re-
sponded Hildegarde.
“I—I begin to be afraid he don’t care
for me." .
“He’s a brute,” asserted her ' friend;
“and it will~serve him right if you‘
never look at him again. '
So the glowing midsummer swept by
and Mr. DeWey held aloof, hugging
himself to think how he was outwitting
the conspirators, though an occasional
twinge of jealousy now ‘ and then
passed through his mind.
Presently there was a sore outcry
among the allied forces. An order had
come from the inexorable war depart-
ment and the captain must go some-
where on the frontier straightway.
“Thematter was beginning to get a
little-serious,” he. thought. “and just
as soon as that confounded puppy gets
away I’ll make little Fanny a happy
woman. Maybe, though, it would be
well to punish her for a few days
longer.”
“Oh, Fanny, Fanny, aren’t you
sorry?” sobbed Hildegarde, clinging
around her tall brother, whose face
was unwontedl y grave. .
“Yes, Hildogarde,” said Fanny, “I
am very sorry.”
Capt. Aymer looked penetfatingly
into her face. There were real tears
quivering and sparkling on her eye-
lashes and the roses had all paled from
her cheeks. .
“Fanny!” he said, impetuously. “is it
from your heart?” _
Fanny—silly little creature that she
was—began to cry, and Hildegarde
rushed forward.
“Oh, Kent! You promised that—”
“A man isn’t responsible for his fate,
and I have fallen in love with her,” ex-
claimed the young officer. “Fanny,
am I to love you in vain?"
Fanny tried to laugh hysterically.
“Of—of course; all this is only a part
of the programme,” she faltered.
“By J ove, but it’s not!” cried Aymer.
“What was jest has become earnest.
I love you, Fanny; I cannot leave you
here to become the bride of that
self~conceited puppy. Tell-me that I
may hope!”
Hildegarde seized both her friend’s
hands.
“She loves you, Kent—she loves you.
I can see it in her eyes!” she cried ex-
ultantly.
“Stand aside, Hildegarde,” said
Aymer. "I have the first right here.
She is mine now." And he took her
tenderly to his breast.
Yes—it was true that the little mor-
sel of acting had become strong, life-
long reality. Kent and Fanny had
played at “lovers” until love, the shy
rogue, crept into both their hearts
with almost unperceived footsteps.
“Are you happy, Fanny?” demanded
the exigent army ofiicer when all was
settled and Ilildcgarde had gone to
tell Mary Bell as a “great secret” how
the little stratagem had ended.
“Oh, Kent,” ‘whispered Fanny, "I
never knew what true happiness was
before.”
And Capt. Aymer must have been
unreasonable indeed not to' be satisfied
with the answer.
He departed; carrying in his keeping
the loving little heart of Fanny White.
Ralph Dewey contemplated the de-
parture of Hildegarde’s brother with
no small degree of satisfaction.
“Now’s my chance,” he thought.
guess, on the whole, I’ll not keep her
in suspense any longer, poor child. I
only wanted to let' ’em see that I
wasn’t to be coerced.”
Mr. Dewey proposed accordingly in
due form that very day.
“1 am very sorry, Mr. Dewey,” said
.Fanny, looking provokingly lovely,
“but—but I’m engaged.”
“Engaged?”
“Yes—to Capt. Aymer.”
“Now, Fanny,” said Ralph, argu-'
mentatively, “where’s the use of carry-
ing on this pretense any longer? Of
course I know it’s all a stratagem.”
“But it isn’t a stratagem,” said Fan-
ny, indignantly; “I love him and he
loves me—and there’s my ring.”
She held up a pretty finger as she
spoke, whereon glittered a solitaire
diamond.
So Mr. Dewey found himself outma-
neuvered after all, and accordingly re-
treated in as good order as possible,
while Pierce Trevor, Miss Bell, Hilde-
garde and all the rest returned a unan-
imous verdict of “Just exactly what
he deserved.”—N. Y. News.
Killed and Wounded in Battle.
Twenty-five years ago the great bat-
tles of the Franco-German war were
fought. That war of only 180 days cost
Germany, in dead and maimed, 6,055 of-
ficers and 110,701 men. It appears al-
most incredible now that within a few
months 21,508 French officers and 702,-
048 French soldiers were made prison-
ers or compelled to disarm.
—The lottery of honest labor, drawn
by time, is the Only one whose prizes
are Worth taking up and carrying
home—Theodore Parker.
‘ of France—red,
“I ’
l
I
A. Great Deal Necessary for an
Up-‘tmD‘ate ceremony.
. _—_
Icons“ ‘lee the 'Mischlef ‘to ~Belo‘ng-‘to’
the Swell Set and Keep Upfwith
the Fashions—Some of the
Requirements.
To‘ get married nowadays consistent-
ly with the regulatiOns of fashion is
very expensive, even fer ordinary folks
who desire to keep up appearances. If
you do not believe it, just do the sum
in! arithmetic for yourself, writes a New
York cerrespondent of the St. Louis
Globe-Democrat;
There is the church to; begin with.
The fee for opening the sacred edifice
,isone-huudrcd dollars. If you want
the choir to sing you must pay one
hundred dollars in ‘ addition. The
clergyman’s " honorarium is extra.
What it - shall be you are at liberty to
determine, but it is hardly censidered
proper‘ to give less than twenty-five
dollars, whereas one hundred dollars is
by h‘oAmeans excessiVe. At th‘e‘church,
as well-as at the house, you must have
atvnings, and the price for these will
be forty dollars. - V ,
Flewers are a very important item.
The altar has to be decorated, and you
cannot make any‘ kind of show for less
than two hundred and fifty dollars.
For fifty dollars you. can only get a
few palms. ‘Palms come high because
of the risk. ' If 'the weather turns cold
and they are chilled, they will die, and
it takes fifteen or twenty years to grow
a palm of decent size. Obviously, the
bridesmaids require bouquets, and for
each of these- you can hardly get off
for less than twenty-five dollars. The
posies are more apt'to come to fifty
dollars each at a season when fine roses
cost two and three dollars each;
Then there are the bridesmaids’
gowns. It is expected that they shall
be furnished, and they will cost at
least one hundred dollars each. Of
course, they are not made so much to
pleasethe wearer as to satisfy the re-
quirements of the occasion and the
taste of the bride. It can hardly be ex-
pected that a bridesmaid shall go to
such expense for a frock to be worn
perhaps only once, and which is for the
benefit of somebody else. Thus, as a
mere matter of common sense, it has
come to be regarded as the proper
thing that these toilets shall be sup-
plied. Necessarily, thcy are all alike.
If there is a maid of honor she must
havea dress, too.
A‘ bride may be married in a travel-
ing dress, but for a really swell wed-
ding she must have a special gown,
Which will hardly cost less than two
hundred and fifty dollars. Dressmakers
charge extra prices for articles of cos-
tume furnished for weddings, by the
way. 0f incidental expenses there is
no end. In New York there is only
one woman who knows how to arrange
a bride’s veil properly. It is her special-
ty, and she charges accordingly. In
fact, she does very little else beside go-
ing from oneI‘house to another and‘pin- '
ning brides’ veils. It is a business that
requires a high degree of skill. Unless
tulle is handled by skillful fingers, it is
very unbecoming. To adjust the
wreath of orange blossoms—always
artificial, because real orange blossoms
quickly fade and have too strong an
odoréis an art in itself. It must be
put on just so, else it is ugly.
Fashion requires that the bridegroom
shall give to each bridesmaid a pin or
bracelet, and to each usher a scarf-pin
or some such remembrance. It goes
without saying that the best man and
the maid of honor are not left out.
These must be handsome, and fifty dol-
lars each is not too much to pay for
them. When he was married to Miss
Gould, Count Castellanc gave to each
of the ushers and bridesmaids a pin the
design of which was a C and G tied’
together in a true lover’s knot. The G
was in rubies, the knot was of dia-
monds and the C was in sapphires.
Thus were united the national colors
white and blue. In
the above account no mention has been
made of the cost of the reception at the.
housc of the bride. t is expected that
the drawing-rooms and dining-room
shall be profusely decorated with flow-
ers, and in this way five hundred dol-
lars does not go very far. Then there
" is the “spread,” which may run up to
almost any price. Among the inci-
dentals are invitations, which are not
cheap when one thousand or so of them-
have to be sent out. On the whole, it
is a costly business to get married in
these days
Curious Custom in Holland. {
When young Queen Wilhelmina
visited the other day the marvelous
vaults at Maestriche, which are one of
the sights of the place, she was re-
quested by the authorities to inscribe
her name upon a marble slab in the
wall, which bears the signatures of
many other sovereigns, Bitch and for-'
cign, prominent among them being the
autograph of the first Napoleon. Just
at the very moment when she was
about to comply with the request three
tiny gnomes sprang out from behind a
pillar and exclaimed in accordance with
the time-honored custom: “Who are
you that dares add your name to that
of lVilliam the Silent and of the many
illustrious rulers of the Netherlands?”
Queen Wilhelmina, who had been pre-
pared for this little piece of pantomine,
replied: “I am the daughter of this
King William III. whose signature you
see here, and his successor to the throne
of Holland,” whereupon the gnomes——
three small boys dressed up for the oc-.
casion—bowed low, received some coin,
and retired.
A Volcano in .Maine.
Much interesting and conclusive evi-
dence that Knox county, Me., was once
the seat of an immense volcano has
been discovered by Prof. Bayley, of
Colby university. Some of the evidence
is inthe presence to-day of greatsheets
MONEY minimum, ‘
of lava stretching over the northern part '
of Vinalhaven. How long ago the
Maine volcano was active has not- yet
been determined. The subject is being '
investigated by many geologists from
universities outside the state.
’Jlik'v‘
Norwalk Chronicler