x} »._l::v'r,.:-.-r‘“_ri;f, :~—' ‘ THE MAN WHO HADN’T’TIME. He never had time to play, He never had time to rest, But he worked away and thought of a. day \V’iien what he had done would attest The usefulness of his life. His worth as a man among men; Then he would quit the strife-— He would rest on his laurels then. As a bondman chained he slaved, Ever looking ahead; s. As a miser he boarded and saved. l . Grudging his daily bread 1 Beyond was a happy day— _. Nearer and nearer it drew— ’When his work should beput away L. And cares should be banished, too! At last, upon a day. \ When the sun was low in the west. , He put his work away, And sat him down to rest, , ’ But where was the dreamed-of bliss? And why was it now denied? Things seemed to be going amiss— Su he brooded awhile and died. _ —S. E. Kiser in Cleveland Loader. Ii PAIR or SINNERS.’ BY ST. JOHN ADCOCK. ‘ She was the only daughter of a. dra- per who had once been eminent and was now retired; he was a young and rrosperous barrister. 'I-Ier manners and habits of thought were, perhaps, overrefined and affected; she was of a morbidly poetical temperament, and looked at life always through a prism of sentiment. He was unimagiuative and practical. Naturally, then, when they met they loved; and she was too romantic and he too matter-of-fact to believe in a long engagement. . They had been two months married. and but just returned from the honey- moon, were seated cozily by the fire one wild, wintry evening, when Mabel, in a languishing mood of sentimental mel- ancholy, unburdened herself of a tardy confession. It had really never occurred to her during the rapture of their short en- gagement, but once or twice before since their marriage it had risen to. her lips, but, fearing it might makea note of discord in the harmony of their wedded lives, she had left it unspoken. It was a trifle, no doubt; but hers was a disposition that magnified trifles. She found a subtle joy in grief, as do all who are surfeited with happiness, and, under such circumstances, the small- ness of the grief is no disadvantage. “Are you sure, Clarence,” she asked him, sighing, “that you really love -me?” “Absolutely, dearest." “And you have never loved any one but'me?” “Never—never—never! ” “And you will love me always?” “Forever.” He. yawned and looked at his watch. They were half expecting a visitor. “Suppose I had a secret in my life which I had never revealed to ybu?" She regarded him yearniugly. “What sort of secret?" “I always used to say, dear, that I had told you all about myself—every- thing; that I was keeping nothing back from you. I am so sorry!” Her eyes grew misty with tears. “I did not in- tend to deceive you. There is one—on- ly one—event of my life‘l have never mentioned to you. I had forgotten it until lately. “Well—and what is it?” be inter- :] w 14“ ll. 4- ‘ sule as be poured upon me in that re- v'iew! If there is any man I hate— res, hate, ClarenceE—it is he." :noii‘enzirc 2:3;L oi ass,_if we only knew aim." "' ., "I witl. irew the book instantly and ournt the entire edition.” "if all authors accepted their critics' verdict in the same spirit, that man who wrote alJOut the hundred best au- it fifty." . "I iti- 3.; if all the world were laugh- ing at 1319." She thundered at the recollection of it. “By Jove! Of course, the best of :ritics are not angels, but yours must have been a—” “A heartless, heartless man!” “If it had been a man’s bo-ok—" ' “He may not have known I was a woman.” “YCL‘. are too severe. No reviewer criticizes a book till he has read the title page.” ‘ “121:: I did not use my own name. i wanted to see if they would mistake my work for that of a man. I called it ‘Heart Longings, by Harold R-anson; but all my friends knew, So that really made no difference.” “Not a bit.” He had grown suddenly thoughtful, and spoke absently. ‘ “You wil lforg‘ive me, darling—— won't you?-—for deceiving you?” “Deceiving me?” he asked. “Well, for seeming not to confide in you unreservedly?” Taking the childish, pretty face be- tween his hands, he gazed down into her dreamy blue eyes, and laughed softly to himself. “I—don’t—kn-ow,” he said. “But—it was nothing actually wrong, Clarence," she cried indignantly; then, melting again, “I know, dear, I used to say'all along. that I had concealed nothing from you. I had told you ev- erything—” “I used to say the same to you, didn’t I?!’ ‘ “Yes.” ' . “Well, coming .to think of it, I re- member I have a. secret which I have never disclosed to yOu. So, after all, we are each as bad as the other.” She started, and scanned his features eagerly. . . “You? A secret, Clarence?” “Only a little one—like yours." “But mine was no secret. I had forgotten it,” she protested. “Besides, mine was nothing for which you could blame me!” ‘ ' “I wish I could say that of mine.” “Clarence!” she sobbed, “you have been deceiving me!” “No; I had forgotten about it.” “You always said,” she faltered, her lips quivering, “you never loved any girl until you met me." “Now, I want you to make me a promise: If I forgive you, you will for- give me?” She hesitated. “Tell me, first, all about it." “Do you promise?” he insisted. “0h, Clarence, you can never be the same to me again! I do hope it is nothing dreadful. What can it be? I-— 1-}! “Do—you—-" “Yes, yes, dear. I promise!” she said desperately. “Whatever it is, I love rupted, a little irritably. She sank down on the rug besidel him in an attitude of supplication, and clasped her arms about his knees. “Don’t look at me so coldly, Clar- ence," she pleaded. “Don't speak so: harshly. Say you will forgive me, dearest. I know there should be no secrets between us, but it is such a. little, little secret, and I never meant t-o—" ..._ ._ “No—no. Well—let me know what it is." “It overwhelmed me with shame. . Oh, words cannot tell how deeply it humiliated me.” “My dear child, do calm yourself." He laughed, but felt vaguely uneasy. “It can’t have been anything so very awful.” . ‘ “I will tell you, Clarence.” She dried her eyes, and, reaching up, laid a hand upon his shoulder caress: ingly. . “Did you know, dear, that I once used . to write poetry?" “Well, many persons do that. It may be foolish, but it is not wicked.” “I wrote a. great deal of it. My sole ambition then was to be a poetess.. Much of what I wrote was love poetry—1’ . “Addressed, I presume, to the heart- less man you just referred to?” “No, dear. It was addressed to quite imaginary persons.” ‘ . “Well,.well! Yes?” “And about six years ago, dear, I col- lected all my poems into 'a volume and published them.” . . “And the heartless man was the pub- lisher?” “No. The publisher was exceedingly .kind. He thought very highly of my Work—" ‘ “Never mind the publisher. -I am anxious to get to that heartless man." “The book was published, and I saw only one review of it, and that—it was in a paper called The Writer-*‘—Oh, Clar- ence, it was cruel—cruel!” “If that is all—” “All! It humiliates me to think of it even now. I remember every har- rowing word of it,'but I cannot—cannot bring myself to repeat them." “Don’t try to. My dear girl, why on earth should you upset yourself like this over a trivial matter that hap- pened and was forgotten six years ago by everybody but yourself?" “But think 'how I suffered! The publicity—~t‘he disgrace! ‘These poefims,’ he wrotc——oh, do not, ask me what he said!” , " “I assure you, I won't.” “For months after I avoided all who knew me. Such contempt—such ridi- ...... u. \ you and I must forgive you." “You won't hate me?" “I could not.” She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. ‘ “I won’t keep you in suspense," said he. “We have both been sinners, and I was the Worst of the two. ' I must tell you, then. Before I was a success- ful barrister I was a good-formothing young scoundrel with a very good opin- ion of myself and a very bad one of everybody else. I was a wicked young, dog and did several scandalous things that I am ashamed of now." She caught her breath and waited in an agony of expectation. He seemed very serious, and yet a bailing smile was flickering round the corners of his month. “They were all of the same descrip- tion, but I am sorry on account of one in particular.” “And that?" “Well, being hard up, I used to earn old guineas in all manner of odd ways. I was a flippant, self-satisfiedfbrute, and—” he paused, and putting an arm about her, drew her closer to him. “ I have a heart now—you know I have, sweetheart, don’t you? But once upon a. time—you have promised to forgive me, and not to hate mel—in the days when you published your book, I was—” “You—you, were?" , “The heartless man who reviewed it!"—St. Paul’s. Old in the Service. “How are you getting along with your new servant girl?" asked the call- er. “Our new servant girl?” replied the hostess, with some indignation in her voice. “Why, she has been with us for four days!” Exceptions. , “Oratory is a. gift," remarked the admiring constituent. “Well," replied Farmer Corntossell, “mostly it is. But now and then a man gets good enough at it to charge you fur listenin’."— Washington Star. In the Winter Months. “Mrs. Lowdiet," meekiy muttered the hitherto patient boarder, “I can stand hash every day without a murmur: but when you put raisins in ‘it and call it mince pie, I draw the line." Teacher (in geography class)—“Jonn nic, bow is the earth divided?” John- nie (who reads the foreign news)—- “Don't know; I haven't read the pn- pcts this morning.”—Cbicago News. ‘ » «fin-u an... K L y; “And yet he may be quite a harmless, :hors vet. id have had to fix his total, JUSTIFIABLE DECEIT' “Yes. mother,- he will come. Of course he will come!” and the girl turned her drawn and anxious young face toward the cottage door, just as if her blind mother could see the action. It IS probable that the old woman di-‘ vined the longing glance from the change in the girl’s tone, for she, too, half turned toward the door. It was a. a habit these two women had acquired. They constantly looked toward the door for the arrival of one who never came through the long summer days, through the quiet winter evenings; moreover, they rarely spoke of other things; this arrival was the topic of their lives. And now the old woman’s life was drawing to a close, as some lives do, without, its object. She her- self felt it and her daughter knew it. He had left them eighteen years be- fore in afit of passionate resentment against his father, whose only fault had been too great indulgence for the son of his old age. Nothing had been too good for dear Stephen—hardly any- thing had been good enough. Educated at a-charity school himself, the simple old clergyman held the mistaken view that no man can be educated above his station. Stephen Leach left England, and be- fore he landed in America his father had departed on a longer journey. The never-do-well had the good grace to send back the little sums of money saved by his mother in her widowhood, and gradually his letters ceased. It was known that he was in Chili, and there was war going on there, and yet the good old lady’s faith never wav- ered. . “He will come, Joyce. He will sure- ly come.” And the girl would go to the window and draw aside the curtains, lookng down the quiet country road toward the village. “Yes, mother, he will come,” was her usual answer; and one day she gave a little exclamation of surprise and al- most of fear. “Mother," she exclaimed, “there is some one coming along the road.” The old lady was already sitting up in bed, staring with her sightless orbs toward the window. Thus they waited. The man stopped opposite the cottage, and the two wom‘ en heard the latch of the gate. Then Joyce, turning, saw that her mother had fainted. But it was only momen- tary. By the time she reached the bed her mother had recovered conscious ness. , “Go," said the old lady, breathless- ly, “go and let him in‘ yourself.” Down stairs on the doorstep the girl found a tall man of thirty or there- abouts with a browner face than Eng- lish suns could account for. He looked down into her eager eyes with a strange, questioning wonder. “Am I too late?” he asked, in! a voice which almost seemed to indicate a hope that it might lie so. “No, Stephen," she answered- “But mother cannot live much longer; You are just in time.” The young man made a hesi‘tating little movement-with his right hand and shuffled uneasily on the clean stone stop. He was like an actor called suddenly upon the stage, having no knowledge of his part. When he followed the girl across the threshold of. their mother’s bedroom the old lady was sitting up in' bed. holding out trembling hands toward the door. Here Stephen Leach seemed to know better what to do. He held his mother ~ in his arms while she sobbed and mur- mured out her joy. He had no words, ‘ but his arms meant more than his lips could ever have told. It would seem that the best part of happiness is sharing it with some one else. “ “Joyce,” continued the old lady, for erishly, “I am not afraid to die now, for Stephen is here. Your brother will take care of you, dear, when It am gone.” It was strange that Stephen had‘ not spoken yet, and it was perhaps just . as well. because there are occasions in life when men do wisely to keep si- lent. ‘ - “He is strong,” the proud mother went on, “I can feel it. His hands are large and steady and quiet, and his arms are big and very hard." \ The young man knelt upright and, submitted gravely to this maternal in- _ ventory. “Yes,” she said, “I knew he would grow to be a big man. His little fin- gers were so strong—he hurt me some times. What a great mustache. I knew you woiild become a soldier. And the skin of your face is brown and a little rough. What is this? What is this, Stephen. dear? Is this a wound?" “Yes.” answered the prodigal. speak- ing for the first time. “This is a sword cut. I got that in the, last war.‘ 1 am a colonel in the Chilian army, or was, before I resigned." Such was the home-coming of the prodigal. After all he arrived at the right moment in the afternoon, when the house was ready. It sometimes does happen so in real life, and net only in books. There is a‘ great deal ihai might be altered in this world, but sometimes by a mere chance thingsfi-ome- about rightly. And yei there was something wrong, something subtle. which the dying woman’s dull cr senses failed to detect. Her son. he! Stephen. was quiet and had. not much to say for himself. He apparently had the habit of taking things as they came. There was no. enthusiasm. bui ruriwr :l restraint. in his manner. more esgim-izilly toward Joyce. Atn-r the first excitement of the re ll'!'ii was over it became glaringly up pill"~!ll that Stephen had just arrived in time. sleep before sunset. and when the ac ‘ ~~dier’s hair should be. ' her that! His mother fell into a happy ' l five young doctor came a little later in 1 the evening he shook his head. ' “Yes,” he said. “I see that she is asleep and quiet—too quiet. Some olc people have it." Presently the doctor took his leave. He was a young man engaged in get- ting together a good practice; and in his own interest he had been forced to give up waiting for his patients to fin ish dying. “I am glad you are here.” he said to Stephen, who accompaniccl him to the door. “It would .not do for your sis- ter to be alone; this may go on for a couple of days.” It did not go on for a couple of days, but Mrs. Leach ,lived through that night in the same semi-comatose state.’ The two watchers sat in her room un- til supper time, when they left their mother in charge of a hired nurse, whose services Joyce had been forced to seek. , After supper Leach seemed at last to find his tongue, and he talked in his quiet, almost gentle voice, such as some men possess, not about himself or the past, but about Joyce and the future. In a deliberate, business-like way he proceeded to investigate the af- fairs of the dying Woman and the pros- pects of her daughter; in a word. he asserted his authority as a brothrr. and Joyce was relieved and happy to 'obey him. It is not in times of gayety that friendships are formed, but in sorrow or suspense. During thatlast evening this brother and sister suddenly he- came intimate, more so than months of prosperous intercourse could have made them. At ten o‘clock Stephen quietly insisted that Joyce should go to bed, while he lay down, all dressed. on the sofa in the dining-room. “I shall sleep perfectly; it is not the first time I have slept in my clothes,” he saidsimply. The next morning Mrs. Leach was fully conscious and appeared to be stronger; nevertheless she knew that the end was near. She called her two children to her bedside, and turning her blind eyes toward them, spoke in broken sentences: “I am ready now—I am ready,” she said. “Dear" I am going to your father —and . . . thank God I can tell him that I left you together. I always knew Stephen would come back. I found it written everywhere in the Bi— ble—kiss me, dear!” The man leaned over the bed and kissed her. “Ah, she sighed, “how I wish I could see you—just once before I die; J oyce!" she added,'suddenly turning to her daughter, who. sto‘od at the other side- of the bed, “tell me what he is. like- : But I knew" . . . I know—I feel it- Listen! He is tall and spare, like his father. His hair is black, like his father’s~it was black before he went away. His eyes, I know, were dark— almost black. He is pale—like a Spun- lard!” Joyce looked, across the bed with slow horror dawning in her face, look- ed into a pair of blue eyes he neath tawny hair, cut short. as a sol- She looked upon a man big, broad, fair—English. from crown to toe—and the quiet command, of his lips and eyes made her say: “Yes, mother, yes." For some moments there was silence. Joyce stood pale and breathless, won- dering what this might mean. Then the dying woman spoke again: “Kiss me," she said, “I--—am going. Stephen first; my first born! And now. Joyce . . . and now kiss each other -—across'the~bed! I want to bear it I want . . . to tell . . . your . . . father.” With a last' effort she raised her hands, seeking their heads. At first Joyce hesitated, then she leaned for- ward, aud the old woman's chilled fin- fiers pressed their lips together. That was the‘end. Half an hour afterward Joyce and this man stood facing each other in the little dining-room. He began his ex- planation at once. “Stephen,” he said, “was shot—out there—as a traitor. I could not tell I did not mean to do this. but what else could I do?" ' He paused, moved toward the door with that strange hesitation which she had noticed on his arrival. At the door he turned to justify himself. “I still think,” he said gravely. “that it was the best thing to do.” “Joyce made no answer. The tours stood in her eyes. There was some thing very pathetic in the distress of this strong man, facing, at it were. an emergency of which he felt the deli- cacy to be beyond his cleverness to handle. , “Last night,” he went on, “I made all the necessary arrangements for your future—just as Stephen Would have made them—as a brother might have done. I' . . . He and I were brother officers in a very wild army. Your brother was not a. good man. None of us were.” His hand was on the door. . “He asked he to come and tell you,”- he added. “I shall go back now." They stood thus, he watching her face with his honest, soft blue/eyes, she falling to meet his glance. "May I come back again '2" he asked suddenly. She gave a little gasp,.but made no answer. “I will come back in six months," he announced quietly, and then closed the door behind him-Anon, in the Corn. hill Magazine. Her First Impression. “Oh. do look at that dear little lamb?" said Frances. on seem.r a young lamb for the first time in 1m life. - “Isn’t it pretty?” asked momma. tea 2 E T “Yes; and it is so natural. too. I: 'sque'aks just like 'a top lamb.-and Im the same sort of wool on its back." TRIMMI'NG ON onessv Gowns. Uording Used in Every «feasible Way on * - Blouse “mists. The Pacquin skirt, with the circular flounce from the knee and the apron emect with flounce below, seems to lead in the organdie gowns, and nar- row ruflles, ruches, and insertions of lace are the prevailing modes of trim.- ming. Narrow satin ribbon, both gathered and plain, is also .very much in evidence. -~ “a...“ Lira-1.. All the indications of coming fash- ions tend to show that dressy gowns of every sort will have trimmed skirts, but,many of the tailor gowns are made with plain skirts. Of course there are exceptions, where tours of stitching, cloth bands, or braid are used, but the skirt which is nearly if not quite plain is‘ recommended by the most fashionable tailors as the only means of giving a. distinctive, ladylike ele- gance to your gown, since the shops are so filled with tucked, corded, and lavishly braided models. Skirts with all. their diversity and various modes of decoration cannot claim the palm, for the blouse waist, certainly takes the lead as a. means of- producing variety of every sorthord— ing is employed in every possible way on the latest blouse waist, and iséov- cred with velvet in some contrasting color, and sewn in curved or straight lines across or 11p and down the bodice. The material is not always gathered over thecords, as it is one of the new fancies to cover them plain. Tacks are still and will‘continue to be a. conspicuous feature of the silk blouse waists, heingmade by the thou- sand for spring and summer wear, but the latest fancy is the fine tucks, no wider than the tiny lines in an infant's gown. It is evidently the quality of the handiwork which is to distinguish the elegance of our gowns this sea- Ion, and it cannot be too Well done for the approval of fashion. The tucks can be arranged in horizontal or per- pendicular groups, in squares or diag— onal clusters, but they must be daintily fine. Rumor says that one of the fads in dress for the coming summer will be the silk'waist of some dainty plain color, worn with a white pique skirt or me of white mohair prettlly tucked or stitched 'in tiny cords. 'years of his life and won honor a GEN. FITZHUGH LE l OUR EBRING BROTHER WHOV PROV- HIMSZLF‘THE MAN OF THE HOUB- Educated at West Point He Left th Army When Virginia Scccdcd. an Joined the Confederacy—Gen. Lee ha Been an Invaluable Government Office Thackeray says somewhere th whenever you find a. man whose frien all call him by his first name that ma is very apt to be a good fellow. If th were ever signally illustrated by a one, it has been in the car..- of Fitzhu- Lee. Every man who knows’him is friend, and all call him “Fitz.” Sidney Smith Lee, the father Fitzhugh, was the fleet captain of Con modore Perry’s squadron when i opened Japan to the world and weste‘r‘ civilization. When the war began Cap. Lee, of the United States Navy, I'- signed about the same time his brothe Robert E., his junior in age by to years, quitted the United Stat Army. It was a terrible blow to Gal: Smith Lee, as it was to his,bro_thel .to leave the service of the Ufnit ‘ States, in which he had passed ,ifor' rank. But there was no other coursu' from his point of view. Capt. Smit Lee’s first son was in the United State Navy when the war began. He w. afterward a. lieutenant on the famou confederate cruiser Shenandoah, Cap Waddell, the finest and swiftest figh ing ship the confederacy ever owned. GEN. FITZHUGH LEE. But “Fitz,” the second of the famou sons of Capt. Smith Lee, would go int: the army. He had inherited the cavalr spirit of his grandsire, and when 11 was fourteen could ride like a Co manche. So, in 1852, the lad, then sev enteen, was sent to our military scho on the Hudson, which his grandfathe “Light' Horse Harry,” had helpe Washington to found. You cannot al ways tell what a. man’s future will b from his standing at school. Rober E. Lee was second in the class of 182’. at West Point, 3 class whose member in after years were among the mos brilliant men of their time in our milit ary service. “Fitz" Lee graduate third, “if you begin counting the clas from the bottom," as he always say The truth was—and still is—Lee was . man of action rather than a student. It was to the Second United State Cavalry that Lieut. Fitzhugh Lee wen- after his graduating leave in 1856. Hi active service commenced at once. Th Indians were much excited at th crossing by emigrants or their land and hunting grounds. With his usua energy Lieut. Lee distinguished him self in every fight with the Comanche in which he took part. He had som close calls. In one Indian fight a warrior, dash ing up close to him, shot Lee with a arrow. It would have killed him ha not the point turned on a. rib. As i was it penetrated several inches, an- Lee had to ride about and comman his men with the feather end of t.. arrow sticking out of his breast. I began to be painful, and lying down 0 his side, Lee called a. friend and said “Jack, pull this devilish thing out)- The friend gave a tug. The arrow dil not move. "Put your foot against in side andltry it again." The other di’ 80. The pain must have been horribl for Lee’s face turned very whit. Finally, out came the shaft of the mi sile, leaving the steel head four or flv inches deep in the young lieutenant? breast. It was a severe wound, for :1; heavy steel head could not be reachei by the surgeon. But the wound heale over, and the steel happened to be neg and clean, and therefore did not indu'c blood-poisoning. For some years l troubled Lieut. Lee, but was finall absorbed and passed into the blood. Ther were five of the Lees of 'Vi ginia Wearing the United States un‘ form when South Carolina fired 0 Sumter. They all waited and watche the trend and course of events. Til Lees would follow Virginia. alone, . they waiterlfor her word. When. came, first Sidney Smith, then Rob- G. W. Custis, SidneySmith, Jr., of t navy, finaiiy and last Fitzhugh, a quitted the service of the count whose foundations their fathers an; grandfathers had\helped to lay. the awful pain and regret all felt (e pecialiy the seniors) at the dissoluqio of the Union as’ they deemed it, t e is ample evidence extant. But go i; e must. Virginia had at last spoken. .h was their cherishing mother. word must be obeyed, and it was, As a soldier, Fitzhugh Lee was a. g; n the very first of! that gallant lo . young "general officers who helpe make “Stuart’s Cavali‘Y” the fa corps it became, under its brilli voung Virginia Chieftain and head. l a. leader Fitzhugh Lee was, perh ! the most popular‘ofiicer in the c after Stuart himself. Stuart is in '- . deuce in oft-repeated words, show . his appreciation of» his young “out: ‘ ant. It is, indeed, high praise wl‘v Stuart commends an officer as he d Fitzhugh Dec.
Norwalk Chronicler