_-.,.. -- . 'Jn~»-
TRANSPLANTED. ' l
It was the biggest ball of the season,
and the assembly room of the fashion
able watering place was looking its gay-
est and brightest, thanks to lavish dec-
oration and the kaleidoscopic effect pro-
duced by the throngs of brilliantly
dressed dancers as they whirled round
in all the infinite variety and pictur-
esque incongruity of fancy costume.
And yet, despite all the life and color,
there was something fictitious and un-
real in the brilliant gayety of the pic-
turesque scene; just as there Was an
undertone of passionate pain in the
sweet music of the valse which rang‘
through the room, an undertone which
seemed strangely out of harmony with
the superficial enjoyment of the crowd.
Or was it only the look in a. girl’s face ~
that was out of keeping, and seemed at
once to give the lie to all the hollow pre-
tense of pleasure around her? To one
unobserved spectator this idea sudden-
ly occurred with the force of a convic-
tion.
It was a beautiful face, beautiful alike
in regularity of feature and exquisite
delicacy of coloring. But the smile on
the sweet mouth was forced and full of
unnatural gayety, while the great gray
eyes had a- haunting look of weariness
which gave them an indescribable
pathos. The girl was tall and slight,
and the white dress she wore, graceful
though it was, seemed almost too rich
and elaborate for her slender figure.
She was young—scarcely one-and-twen-
ty—and looked even younger than her
years; and the man who was watching
her drew yet further back into the
shadow of the heavily curtained door-
way as a flood of memories rushed over
him—memories held in check till now
by an iron will, but released in a. mo-
ment by the sight of the beautiful, sad
face that was all the world to him,
though for four long years it had passed
out of his life. How he had missed her!
Surely he had never fully realized it till
now.
A chance remark arrested his atten-
tion. Two men near were talking to-
gether, commenting audibly enough on
the scene before them.
“How charming Maud Carruthers is
looking to-night! That girl grows
prettier every time I see her!”
“Is it true that she’s engaged to
young Melbourne?”
“Wants confirmation, I should say.
He’s hard hit, and her people approve of
him naturally; he’s well connected and
fabulously wealthy; but as to the fair
Maud herself—if she is engaged to him
she might look a little more cheerful
over it.”
“Yes, I shouldn’t feel flattered in his
place,” the younger man assented.
“She’s not a bit like the other girls one
meets about; don’t know why, but she
seems out of it some how.”
“Well, her story is rather an odd one,
you know.”
“But I don’t know more. “here does
the oddness come in? Her people are
conventional enough.”
“Yes; but she never saw them till
she was 16 or 17; for her mother mar-
ried beneath her, and was cut in con~
sequence. The marriage .turned out
badly, I believe, and Mrs. Carruthers
died in Australia, where the child was
brought up by the people with whom
she was staying at the time; rather
a rough and ready bringing up, I
fancy.” ‘
“Then how does she come to be here,
and forgiven?”
“Oh, it all came-out somehow; Car—
ruthers died. and then inquiries were
- made as to the child‘s whereabouts,
and she was transplanted over here;
rather' a change froin her experiences
in the bush.”
“An agreeable one, I should think.”
“H’m, that depends on how you look
at it! Now, from her point of view
we may be a little tame and common-
place. I don’t know anything about it.
mind you, but it’s justpossible she
.may prefer primitive nature to our
enervating and overdone nineteenth
century civilization. To my mind the
girl looks bored.”
“Then if she marries Melbourne—”
“It will merely be to escape from
the present position. Since her grand-
father’s death a year acre. 5L:- has found
it more wearisome than ever, or I’m
much mistaken. She was really fond of
when so many younger, richer men
were at her feet. 0h, he knew his
place! And he smiled grimly to hi1n~
self. I-lad not her self-complacentrela-
tio:.s been careful to point it out to-him
--—most considerately, no doubt—four
years ago? Certainly, there was little
likelihood of his forgetting new. No,
there could be no real risk in the meet—
ing should they chance to meet. No
possible risk for her, and for himself——
he would gladly give the ten best years
of his life just to hear her voice again;
just to meet her gray eyes once more
with the old frank smile in them that
he knew so well. No possible risk—no;
he had been a fool and coward ever
to think of it; and his resolution to
keep out of her way—the resolution
that he had thought so wise and so good
—-—was entirely foolish and unnecessary.
She need never know the reason of his
brief visit “home.” Why should not he
have business in England as well as
another man; and how should she sus-
pect the mad desire to see her face to
face once more that had brought him
from the other side of the world?
Thus thinking—if, indeed, the rapid
stream of recollections, suggestions
and reassuring convictions that rushed .
through his mind could rightly be dig-
nified with the name of thought—due
strode boldly out into the corridor; a
noticeable figure enough from his com-
manding stature and grand breadth of
shoulder. Many eyes followed him as
he passed between the banks of flowers
with which the wide Corridor was lined
on either side, and many were the spec-
ulaf ions as to who he was, and why he
was at the ball; since he spoke to no
one, and nobody seemed to know him.
But he passed on, unconscious alike of
admiring eyes and fruitless specula-
tion.
Meantime Maud had suffered her
partner to lead her to a wide window
seat at the farther end of the corridor
from that where her old friend ' was
seeking her. The girl's face looked
strangely pale now that the flush
dancing brought to ‘ it had died
away; and there was an expression of
something very like despair in her Wide
gray eyes as she listened to her com-
panion’s eager words.
“You know you promised me my
answer to—night, Maud, and we mayn’t
have such a chance again. No one has
found out this corner yet; but it won’t
escape the observation of the crowd
long. I’ve waited patiently, and haven’t
bothered you a bit, and now—at last—
time’s up. You won’t ask me to wait
any longer?” A look of sudden dis-
may clouded the boyish brightness of
his face as he spoke, but only for a mo-
ment.
“No, I won‘t ask you to wait any
longe.r;”'the girl’s words came slowly,
and with an evident effort; “but—why
do you want me to say yes, when you
know that I don’t care for you? No,
hear me out,” as he would have inter»
rupted her. “I like you, but I don’t
care for you in that way, and I never
shall.”
“But you will, Maud; you must when
you see how awfully fond I—” -
“No, I never shall, I know. If you
insist on marrying me, you shall at
least do it with your eyes open, Mr.
Melbourne.”
“Oh, don’t speak to me like that!”
“But I feel to you like that, and I
must speak as I feel. Feel!” with swift
self-scorn. “What have I to do: with
feeling at all? If I marry you it will
be to escape from my present life; to
get away from myself—from the ever—
lasting, purposeless round of dances
and dinners. I‘ have told you this be-
fore.”
“Yes, and I have told you that I love
you.”
“And yet you don’t hesitate ?”
“For myself, no.” He was silent a
moment, a look of most unusual inde-
cision on. his face.- “But you put things
differently to-night,” he said, ‘at length.
“You say you know you shall never
care for me. I don’t see how you can
know that unless—~" -
“Unless——?” she. faced him bravely,
though a sudden flush showed she al-
ready grasped his meaning.
“You care for some one else ” he said
i a ,
very deliberately. “Do you, Maud?”
For a. moment he thought she was go-
ing to break into indignant denials,
‘ then all at once her face- softened and
poor old Draycourt, but for the rest :
of them—’Pon my soul, I’m sorry for
the girl!” ‘
The music ceased, and the speakers
moved away and the long procession
of dancers began to pace out into the
cooler air of the long, flower-decked
corridor.
1 aBut the man near them still kept his
.place in the deep shadow of the cur~
tains, and watched, with eager eyes,
to see that tall, white-robed figure pass
through the doorway.
But he watched in vain. He. had lost
sight of her just before the dance end-
ed, and she had no doubt left the ball-b
room by some other door. From the
station he had chosen he could com-
mand the whole room, and he soon saw
rthat Maud Carruthers was no longer
there.
And to-night he held every moment
wasted in which she was out of sight.
I? or the last. time—it was for the last
dime—and already the precious mo-.
:ments were slipping rapidly away!
He must find her again, even though
' in order to do so he must risk discovery
and recognition.
Little risk that she would recognize
him after four years, and in such wide-
".ly different surroundings! His dress,
itoo, with its heavy cloak and broad
Bomber hat, would surely be a sufficient
disguise if she should still chance to
:retain slight recollection of her old
friend and would-be brother; the man
under whose roof all her happy child-
:hood had been passed.
And even if she did know him, what
then? ‘
He was surely capable of keeping his
Secret still, as he had kept it in the old
days. She was little likely to guess
it now in all the pride of her trium-
phant
I1 OlV
youth and beauty;
changed, and the light of a wonderful
joy flashed into it as'she sprang to her
feet, exclaiming:
“Denzil! At last!”
Young Melbourne turned in astonish-
ment. Who was this stately-looking
man that Maud should go to meet him
with outstretched hands of welcome
and brilliant, rapturous smile? -
No matter who he was, the boy felt
that his question was answered. He
took his dismissal quietly, and left
them without a. word; nor did anyone
see him again that night.
And Denzil?
At the sight of Maud’s eager eyes,
and sweet, well-remembered smile, he
forgot all his stern resolutions and
carefully-cultivated convictions. He
had never even dreamed of the possi- '
bility of such a meeting as this, and the
glad ‘recognitioa that rang in her voice
fairly swept him off his feet, strong,
self-contained man though he was.
For she loved him; he saw it in her
eyes, heard it in her voice, knew it at
last—astonishing, well-nigh impossible
fact though it was; and this being so,
nothing could come between them; no
proud, disdainful relations could part
them any more, and when Denzil Glax-
ton returned to Australia after his
brief visit was over, his wife accom-
panied him, and great was the wrath
and indignation among theDraycourts,
who had tried so hard to make her in all
respects one. with themselves, only to
fail so signally at the last!
But Maud was happy, and once back
again among Denzil’s people, and all
the congenial associations of the past,
she soon regained the bright serenity
and sunny sweetness of nature which
she had well-nigh lost in that alien
land, to which unkind fate, and Denzd’s
stern sense of duty, had for a‘ time
, transplanted: hen—Household Words.
‘7 n,- , ~. 7‘,‘
.
l
FOUND Oll_'_T_|jETRAGK
M( nday morning, between half past
two and three o’clock, a Hungarian dis-
covered the body of Joe Duncan, a hat-
ter living on Ely avenue, lying on the
tracks of the Wilson Point extension of
the Consolidated road. The point
where the body was found was nearly
opposite the residence of Willliam
Lockwood. . '
When discovered Duncan was uncon—
scious and covered with blood. Thel
Hungarian ran to the house of Dennis
Leahey, a conductor on the Tramway
road, and notified him of Duncan’s con-
dition. Leahey responded and the un-
conscious man was picked up and car-
ried home and Dr. Bonnell summoned.
The doctor examined Duncan and
found him suffering from concussion of
the brain, a. fractured left arm and sev-
eral ribs, 3 bad injury to his hip and
internal injuries. Nothing could be
done for the injured man and he lin-
gered along until 10 o’clock when he
died without having regained conscious-
uesness.
The cause of Duncan’s accident is a.
mystery and no one can be found who
can throw any light upon how he came
to be on the tracks at. that time in the
morning. He was not a. drinking man
which makes the mystery deeper.
The only theory that Medical Ex-
aminer Burke has of the accident, is
that Duncan must have been walking
down the tracks on his way home when
he was struck by an engine that ran
down to Wilson Point about 2:30 o’clock,
as it was only a short time after the en-
gine passed that Duncan’s body was
found.
The deceased was 19 years of age and
lived with his brother-in-law on Ely
avenue.’ He came to South Norwalk
from Newark, N. J., where his remains
were taken, on Wednesday by his
father.
w mun T- no‘awann ,- GAZETTE
KERUSENEWAS USED.
While at the First Methodist church
at South Norwalk on Saturday, W. C.’
Beers discovered an attempt had been
made to fire the edifice, and that only
the failure to supply suflicient draft to
the flames had prevented what was evi-
dently intended to be a serious conflu-
gration.
While walking in the rear of the
church Mr. Beers was conscious of a
strong smell of burnt wood. Going to
the outbouse he discovered that a hole
had been cut in the door and the lock
unfaslened. In one corner of the build-
ing he found the remnants of a rag
which had been saturated with kero-
sen.
Between the outhouse and church was
a large pile of dry cedar trees, which
had been used at the Ohrismas celebra-
tion. These trees formed a direct con-
nection between the two buildings and
it is believed that the incendiary in-
tended to fire the outhouse and have
the flames communicate through the
cedars with the church, and also allow
him sufficient time to make his escape
before the flames were discovered.
The only reason that the fire bug had
not succeeded in his purpose was be-
cause of his failure to make a larger
hole in the door and thus give the
flames more draft, as they were evident-
ly extinguished by their own smoke
which could not escape from the closed
building.
Died at the Sanitarium.
Samuel S. Sloan,vice-president of the
Delaware and Lackawana railroad, died
Monday in Dr. Smith’s Sanitarium
in South Wilton. Arrangements have
not yet been made for the funeral.
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BY MUTUAL CONSENT.
. Mr. and Mrs. Messinger were simple,
unaffected people, devoted to their
children and to Nancy, Mr. Messinger’s
young stepsister.
One sunny afternoon in early sum-
mer Mrs. Messinger sat at. the open
bay window of the drawing-room read-
ing.‘ The door opened presently and
Nancy came in rather slowly. She
came over to the window and seated
herself in a low basket chair with an
air of constraint.
“1 have a. letter from Jim,” she said.
“Does he say when he is coming?”
“Yes; he came by the same steam-
ship as the letter. He will be here to-
morrow, I suppose.” _
“Nancy! really?" asked Mary, look-
ing almost excited. “Are you not de-
lighted?”
“I—I—have a confession to make,”
said Nancy, nervously, looking out
over the sea. “I thought I loved Jim
when he went out to India.- five years
ago, but 1 was only seventeen then,
and did not realize what love meant.
We had known each other all our lives,
and I mistook our friendship for love.
"I have felt it dimly for a year or
two, but what made it all clear to me
was :Jim’s last letter, saying that he
was coming home. It filled me with
dismay and fear. I felt that I simply
could not meet him as his betrothed
wife, so i wrote last mail and asked
him to release me from my engage-
ment.” . ‘
“And what does he say?” Mary asked,
anxiously.
“He is delighted,” said Nancy,
brightening. “He says that his feel-
ings have changed too.”
“You never hinted at any change be-
fore,” said Mary, a. little reproach-
fully. '
“I only knew it dimly or I might
have done so,” replied Nancy, gently.
"And since I wrote to him I have been
silent to spare you any anxiety. My
letters have never been from the pres—
ent Nancy, but from the Nancy as I
could remember her at seventeen. In
fact, I have been writing down all the
time to the level of his intelligence as
shown in his letters, and that level is
painfully low.”
“He would be much more likely to
object if he once saw you,” said Mary,
frankly, “for these five years have
done wonders with you in every way.”
“Oh, he’s so boyish that he will think
me strong-minded, and therefore dis-
like me,” said Nancy, laughing. “And
I did send him my last photograph, you
know.”
“Did you send that hideous thing?”
asked Mary in surprise.
“Well,” confessed Nancy, rather re-
luctantly, “I believe I had some secret,
unconfessed hope that he would offer
to break on“ the engagement if he once
saw that hideous caricature.”
A day or two later Nancy started for
her usual afternoon walk along the
cliffs. \‘x'alking quickly along, she did
not hear footsteps behind her, and was
surprised at hearing herself suddenly
addreSSed. Looking up with startled
eyes, she found a young man gazing at
her with a. puzzled, intent expression
in his handsome face.
“You are Nancy, are you not?” he
said, doubtfully, holding out his hand.
“Why, Jim, is it really you?” asked
Nancy, regarding him with surprise.
“How you have grown! When did you
come? and how did you find me?”
' “I came two days ago,” he said, red-
dening slightly in irritation at her first
words, “but I called at the Ness this
afternoon and Mrs. Messinger told me
Where I should find you.”
“Let us go home now, and then you
can see them all," she said, turning
back. “You will hardly know the
children; they were such mites when
you left.”
“I certainly shall not, if they have
altered as much as you have done. I
scarcely knew you,” he said. looking
down at her with intent gray eyes,
and inwardly comparing this beauti-
ful, graceful girl with the gauche
schoolgirl of five years since.
“I am older,” she said, her heart
sinking strangely. “He might disguise
the fact that he finds me a disappoint-
ing failure,” she thought, rather bit-
terly.
girl,” he said. “But I hope we shall
always be friends, Nancy! We have
been that all our lives, haven’t we?”
“Yes, let us be friends,” she said.
And, thinking that he was eager to im-
press upon her that they were to be
nothing more, she added: “And it was
very wise to break off that childish
engagement before you came home,
wasn’t it?”
“Y—yes,” he said, doubtfully.
“Those boy and girl engagements never
answer, do they? People develop so
differently from what one would ex-
pect. Judging from your letters, I
should have thought you utterly differ-
ent from what I find you.”
“You are equally different from what
I should have expected you to be,” she
answered. “But let us put up with
each other as we are; we need not see
much of one another, you know.”
They had just reached the gate lead-
ihg into the garden of the Ness as she
said this, and unconsciously she paused
outside.
Jim took this, coupled with her last
words, as a hint that he should go, and
was more hurt than he cared to own.
_ "Good afternoon.” he said, stiffly,
raising his hat. “Your suggestion is a
brilliant one, and you need not fear
ence more often than is necessary.”
“Good-by,” she said, turning in at
the open gate in order that he should
not see the rising tears.
“Good-by,” he said, freezingly, think-
ing her absolutely cruel in not shaking
hands. ‘
If Mrs. Messinger had been' given to
abstruse reflections she might have
asked herself how Jim and Nancy
could possibly avoid each other, ac-
cording to the compact, when he was
always coming to the Ness?
For he came every day and at all
hours of the day, as he had been wont
to do five years ago.
Nancy lost all her gentle-brightness
when speaking to Jim, and was coldly,
distantly polite to him. Inwardly she
“Of course we are no longer boy and
that I shall trouble you with my pres-’
knew that her love for- .him was
' strengthening day by day, and that no
power of hers could prevent it.
His position in regard to Nancy was
much worse than that of any mere ac-
quaintance. Every other man could
tell her of {his love, while it seemed to
Jim .that he had lost right by gladly
agreeing to cancel their engagement.
One afternoon he found her alone, a
very rare occurrence indeed, for she
was careful to avoid a. tete-a.~tete with.
him. .
“Shall we go into the garden?” she
asked, thinking that anything was
preferable to sitting stiflly 1n the
drawing-room.
“I should like it immensely,” he an-
swered, rising and opening the door
with alacrity. “Will you take me to
your old favorite seat? I have so often
thought of those days when I was
feeling homesick, Nancy.” .
“I thought you were very happy m_
India?” she said, unresponsively.
“So I was, but I was homesick some-
times, especially when I first went
out.”
“Mr. Penstone and I always quarrel.
over this view,” said Nancy, anxioufi
to prevent any embarrassing pause. *3
“Who is Mr. Penstone?” asked Jim,
knitting his brows.
“He is our curate,” she answered. “I
always say that this is the finest view
in town, but Mr. Penstone maintains
that the view from—”
“He must be an idiot, then,”burst in
Jim, hotly; “the views are M melee
compared!” ‘ ‘ ' .
“You might have waited until I had
mentioned the other,” said Nancy,
raising her eyebrows.
“I—I beg your pardon,” he said, in
utter confusion. “I thought you must
mean—in fact, I understood you to say
——tha.t—that the view from Beacon was
finer than this.”
“Yes, that is what Mr. Penstone de-
clares,” she said.
“What a hideous name the man has!”
said Jim, irritably. “Of course you are
devoted to him, Nancy?”
“Yes, he is so very good and clever
and pleasant,” she said, surprised at
his vehemence.
“You are going to marry him, 1 sup-
pose?” he said, with ill-concealed an-
ger.
“You forget yourself, I think,” she
answered, with gentle dignity. “And
whom I may marry can be no possible
concern of yours.”
“0, none, of course,” he said, furi-
ously. “Only you might have told me
the truth when you broke off our en-
gagement. It would have been just as
easy to say that you were engaged to
some one else at once.”
“You are entirely mistaken in think-
ing that I am engaged to anyone,”
said Nancy, calmly. “Mr. Penstone is
married and old enough to be my
father. Shall we go in now, or have
you any other interesting accusations
to make?”
“Forgive me, Nancy, I was a. fool!"
pleaded Jim, earnestly. “I forget
sometimes that I have not still the
right to speak to you on such matters.
For five years I have thought of you
as my promised wife, and now that I
am with you I cannot always realize
that you are mine no longer. Say, that
you forgive me, Nancy, for my rough-
ness and presumption.”
After this quarrel Jim found it im-
possible to be on the same footing of
friendship with Nancy. She was
colder and more constrained than ever
in her manner toward him, and he
was too proud and too manly to force
his love on her, believing that she dis-
liked him; and'at last, after a bitter
struggle with himself, he determined
to return to India at once.
He had never been to the Ness lately
without some valid reason, and this
new decision was so good an excuse for
calling that he was not slow in taking
advantage of it. He found Nancy in
the garden, arrayed in a large white
sun bonnet, busy gathering straw-
berries for tea. _
“I am going back to India; I have
had enough of England.”
“To India? At once? 0, why?” she
asked piteously, growing very white
and looking at him with frightened
eyes.
“Do you care, Nancy?” he asked
eagerly. “Would you rather I stayed?”
“My wishes have nothing to do with
the matter,” she said, rather bitterly.
“Indeed, they have,” he said, very
earnestly. “Nancy, tell me, would
you rather I stayed?” -
“If I say yes, would you stay?” she
asked, quietly. -
“Only if you loved me,” he said. “I
cannot stay on and see you day after
day, and feel that you will never care
for me. May I stay, Nancy?”
_, “If you like,” she answered shyly.
“There is one thing I want to know,”
he said, presently, looking down into
her eyes; “when did you begin to love
me, dear?”
“When did you begin to love me?”
she replied, blushing under his gaze.
“I don’t know; I have loved you all
my life,” he answered.
“I don’t know, either,” she said;
“when I was about four or five, I
think.”
“But, my darling, you broke off our
engagement,” he said, wonderingly.
“Yes, from your letters I thought I
did not love you. They were so stupid
—I——I mean—”
‘ “Yes; they were stupid, but yours .
were silly, too, and I thought that was
the kind of things you liked,” he said,
intelligence dawning in his eyes.
“I thought you were terribly boyish,
so wrote very ‘young’ letters, thinking
they would interest you,” she said. be-
ginning to' laugh.
“We both fell into the same mistake,
then,” he said, laughing, too. —Wav-
erly Magazine.
" ——The first law that ever God gave
to man was a law of obedience; it was
a commandment pure and simple,
wherein man had nothing to inquire
after or to dispute, for as much as to
obey is the proper office of a. rational
soul acknowledging a. heavenly su-
perior and benefactor.——Montaigne.
—A stray hair, by its continued irri-
tation, may give more annoyance than
a. smart blow.--Lovvell.
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Norwalk Chronicler