.S' 1» ,his, saying, passionately: ' clear, cool voice, with no trace of emo- nas she was clasped in her lover’s arms. \ tional, tragic beauty has taken the world of fashion by storm, is seated in ' durin our two 1ears’ absence on for- y 5' brilliant alliance—~” 1’ fully.) A. COMMONPLACE TRAGEDY; .__.._._._... I. The sun shone high in the blue heavens; the soft, fragrant air, heavy with the scent of roses and earnatious, stirred the creepers on the low, white house, sighing faintly ‘through the trees at the bottom of the velvety- terraced lawns which sloped down to the edge of the miniature lake, shim- mering in the hot July sunshine. Through the trees walked stifliy a tall, broad- shouldered specimen of the stronger sex, with a long, military stride, whistling carelessly as he skirted the lake and disappeared into the tangled wood path. As he passed out of sight a woman came slowly up the green terraces, pausing as she reached the top to glance back at the retreating figure in the distance; them she turned away, with a little impatie t gesture, gothering the soft folds of her dress together as she mounted the wide, shallow 'steps and sauntered slowly along the shadowy shrubbery path, where the leafy branches met over- gead, forming a natural avenue of cool, elicious shade. She sat down wearily on the rustic seat at the far end of the E ‘ mossy path, resting her head against? the old tree at her back. the dark shad- ; owy background throwing into strong : ' relief the slight, gray figure, with the : small head proudly erect, crowned with : masses of golden-brown hair, curly and soft, forming a dark setting for the pale face, out of which shone those glorious dark gray eyes, with adeep violet tinge in them, just now filled with an over- powering weight of‘ weariness and agony of disappointment. “He never cared,” she said to herself; “are his eyes so blinded that he cannot see the truth for himself?” Her bosom heaved under the soft, silky folds of her' cool gray dress; her hands were tightly clasped before her. Suddenly her whole attitude changed and relaxed, and she resumed her old careless posture; a maid came down the path, with a silver salver in her hand, on which reposed a card. The woman glanced at the name inscribed thereon—“Lord Berrington.” “I will come in,” and the maid re- turned to the house. 'She sat motion- less for an instant, then rose quickly, as if some sudden determination had seized her. 1. A scornful smile curved her red lips, as she walked into the cool, shadowy drawing-room, through the open French window. As she entered a man advanced quickly to meet her; he seized both her hands 1n “Ruth, I have come for my answer. What 1s it to be?” She turned her head for an instant and looked out into the sunlit garden, down to the dark shady wood, with the lake dancing in the hot sunshine; then she looked back into the dark, hand- some face of the man before her. “It is to be— yes” she said, in her tion; but she shuddered involuntarily That was the first act of the tragedy. - II. The curtain rises on the second act. Ruth, Lady Berrington, whose unem01 her flower-scented boudoir; she has not altered much during the last two years; her beauty is still marvelous as ever, unspoiled by all the turmoil of 21 Lon- don season, where the world has bowed down to the new beauty. At first, to her unsophisticated mind, the intoxis eating whirl of ceaseless gayeties was at once pleasant and novel, but now she is heartily tired of it; she is filled with an intense, mad longing to revisit the old home in the quiet, peaceful country-the old-fashioned garden, the tangled wood and the lake, glimmering under a cloudless, dazzling sky—how it all comes back to her, a flood of bitter memories. A warm breeze steals in at the open windows” blowing out the long filmy curtains, and bearing a whiff of mignonette from the flower- filled balcony. The door opens and a man enters. At the sight of him Ruth rises, with a suppressed cry, pale to the very lips. She holds out her hand. “Capt. Tremayne!” she says, “this is indeed a surprise! I had no idea that you had returned.” The visitor holds her hand in his, let- ting his eyes rest on the pale, lovely face for a moment; then they both sit down. He 15 the first to speak. “I only arrived in England a few days ago, and being in town, I seized the- first opportunity to call on you, for the sake of auld lang syne. ’ ” Ruth smiles and slowly unfurls her feather fan; the heat 1s terrific. am more than pleased to see you. Two ears have passed since we last met; ‘)’9 4 “You are very kind,” she says; “and! am I much altered. She looked straight at him inquiringly , and the look sends a hot thrill through his whole being. 1 ‘1 You are more beautiful,” he says, i slowly. '1 This seriously spoken speech causes a lit‘1 le ripple of light laughter to break from Ruth, as she slowly fans herself. “You have grown complimentary eign service,” she says, lightly, but her eyes drop as they meet his. “Is it actually so long since I spent that long, delightful day at Pens Court? Do you remember the lake and the walk in the woods?” “Remember!” her voice thrills with some strong, hidden emotion, “as if I should ever forget the—” She checks herself hurriedly. “And now you are married!” he re- marks, irrelevantly. “I was a coward then.” ' “A coward—why?” his first remark. “Why?” he asks, fiercely, “because I was afraid to speak—because I knew you feared poverty—that you sought a She disregards She stops him with a sudden, im- perious gesture, her eyes blazing with a passionate light. “Silence! You malign me. . I never sought this ‘brilliant alliance. ’ ” (Scorn- “What has it brought me. I E . “WM“ «was: . but-r” She breaks off abruptly, and, with a sudden movement. pulls back her loose—hanging sleeve, revealing an :1 ugly, livid bruise on, the fair white arm; en, with a bitter smile, she lets the sleeve fall again, and turns toward the window. He starts to his feet, his handsome face dark with passion. “Ruth,” he cries, seizing her hands in his, fiercely, “it was all a horrible mistake; my cowardice has brought you to this. My darling, you love me?” She does not move; a shiver runs through her—a shiver of mortal agony. “Ruth, speak! Tell me you love me!” “You hurt me.” she says, faintly, striving to free herself from his firm grasp. She raises her agonized eyes to his, and then she is clasped' in his arms. For one instant she lies passive, then frees herself with a wrench. _ “Leave me,” she says, unsteadily; 1-“1v11y do you come, now that it is too late? You must go. Good-by.” She holds out her hand in dismissal and farewell. His passion completely overmasters him as he looks upon her, pale and sor- row stricken. “I will not go.” he cries, vehement- ly; “Ruth, you do not, you cannot mean it. For your own sake—” He ad- vances quickly, but she repels him. “For my own sake and yours, go—” And then he knows that all is ended. W ith one farewell look he leaves her, and goes out of the room, while she, sinks wearily into her chair, a dull, aching pain tearing at her heart- strings. III. Time slips by insensibly. A new beauty has usurped Lady Berrington’ 5 position in society, from which she has now withdrawn herself. Her husband is dead—killed himself in the hunting field—and she is free to come and go as she will. The great town is shuttered and empty, and she has flown to the restful quietude of Pens court, the home of her childhood, which she has bought back as a home for herself in her lonely widowhood. Then wild hopes fill her heart. N 01v that he knows she 15 really free, Mam we will surely Come to her—he must know. These hopes are strengthened when, at a dinner party, she hears the familiar name mentioned. He' 1s coming to stay with some distant neighbors—ah! it is to be near her he is coming at last. As each day passes she waits feverishly for his coming;and still he comes not. As each long summer day wanes she whis- perzs “To- morrow he will come,” and to-morrow passes, and still he comes not. Then, one evening, as she sits peacefully under the cedar trees on the green lawns, resting in the cool even- ing air, full of sweet, faint perfume from the glowing flower beds on the velvety turf, a maid appears from the house. “A gentleman in the drawing-room, my lady,” she says. “He gave no name.” Ruth, with a wild hope, rises slowly and walks over the lawn, her black dress sweeping over the grass, her pale cheeks tinged with a pink color as she mounts the shallow steps. and enters the cool, shadowy room, full of flowers and delicious perfumes wafted in on the evening air. A man is standing with his back to- ward her, but as her dress sweeps over the soft carpet he turns and faces her. Aquivering smile flashes into her sweet gray eyes, and she holds out both hands with a little glad cry. “Ah, Maurice! At last, at last!” Something in his unresponsive atti- tude strikes a cold chill to her heart; has be forgotten? “I could not pass your ne1ghborhood without looking you up, Lady Berring- ton.” he says, easily. “How lovely this place is! Are you living here alto- gether?” Ruth feels her throat and lips are parched and dry, but she answers him with an effort. “Yes; I could not endure that dreary town house—after—” “Yes, yes,’ he says, hastily; “after your terr ible bereavement; you are for- tunate to have been able to secure the old place 1n time, I am paying a flying visit to the Carews, at Marsh hall; you know them, of course!” “Very slightly—then —you do not stay long?” “Not long. There are many prepara- tions to be made before April (with a smile), before my wedding—you have not heard? Juliet Carew will be my wife in afew months’ time; may I ask for your congratulations for ‘auld lang syne ?” The blood rushes with a wild flood to Ruth 3 heart, leaving her sick and cold— everything swims before her tired eyes —she must speak. * * *_ She makes an effort. “I hope—I sincerely trust—you may be happy,” she says, a little unsteadily; “I must call on Miss Carew.” “You are very kind,” he says, with his happy smile. “IIow familiar this place seems. Our days of flirtation are at an end, Lady Berrington; ah, one does foolish things in the heyday of youth, but you showed yourself to be a. wise woman.” Ruth smiles. Has he forgotten all—‘2 “Ye 1," she says with bitterness; “we look back with contemptuous pity on such follies in maturer years.” When he is gone she stands on the terrace in the deepening twilight, the cool, soft air fanning her hot, flushed , checks; the fern owl in the distance, with its curious whir-r-r, alone breaks the Stillness; a bat flaps heavily over- head; a belated‘ bee boomspast, hurry- ing homeward. Then she goes slowly, wearily into the old familiar room; a sharp. sudden pain clutches her heart, she Catches blindly at the mantelpiece, an ashen grayness overspreading the lovely face. With a little gasping cry she falls prone to the grqund; blood rushes to her lips and stains the deli- cate lace on her bosom. * * * A chill moaning wind sweeps around the house, dying away in the distance with a wild sobbing wail, as of a soul' in mortal agony passing through the fiery furnace of affliction. The doctor says: 1“Failure of the heart’s action and hemorrhage,” but does science always fathom such myste- ries? Does it take into account broken hearts? , Perhaps not—St. Paul’s. EARLY HISTORY OF'CAST STEEL.- How the Secret of Its Manufacture Was Revealed to the \Vorld. The history of cast steel presents a curious instance of a manufacturing secret stealthily obtained under the cloak of an appeal to philanthropy. The main distinction between iron and steel, as most people know, is that the latter contains carbon. The one is converted into the other by being heated for a considerable time in contact with pow- dered charcoal in an iron box. New steel thus made is unequal. The middle of a bar is more carbonized than the ends, and the surface more than the center. It is, therefore, unreliable. Neverthe- less, before the invention of cast steel there was nothing better. In 1730 there lived in Attercliife, near Sheffield, 3 watehmaker named Huntsman. He became dissatisfied with the watch- springs in use, and; set himself to the task of making them homogeneous. “If," thought he, “I can melt a piece of steel and cast it into an ingot its com— position shouldbe the same through- out.” He succeeded. His steel soon be- came famous. Huntsman’s ingots for fine work were in universal demand. He did not call them cast steel. That 'was his secret. About 1770 a large manufactory of this peculiar steel was established at Attercliffe. The process was wrapped in secrecy by everyone within reach. True and faith- ful men were hired, the work divided and subdivided, large wages paid, and stringent oaths administered. It did not avail. One midwinter’s night, as the tall chimneys of the Attercliife steel works sbelclied forth, a traveler knocked at the gate. It was bitter cold, the snow fell fast and the wind howled across the meat. The stranger, ap— parenily a plo11 man 01 agricultural label er seeking shelter from the SIG] 111, awakened no suspicion. Scanning the wayfa rer closely, and moved by motives of humanity, the foreman granted his request and let him in. Feigning to be worn out with cold-and fatigue, the poor fellow sank upon the floor and soon appeared to be asleep. That, however, was far from his inten- lions. He closed his eyes apparently only. 1113 saw workmen cut bars of steel into bits and place them in crucibles in a furnace. The fire was urged to its ex- treme power until the steel was melted. Clothed in wet rags to protect them- selves from the heat, the workmen drew out the glowing mold. Mr. Huntsman’s factory had nothing more to be dis- closed. The making of cast steehhad been discovered—Inventive Age. I. MEN WORSE THAN APES. Revoltlng Customs of Some of the African Tribes. The cannibalism of the black secret society known nas the Human Leopards, in the country hear Sierra Leone, dis~ closed by the recent trial, brings forci- bly before us the difference between the East African and the “Test African hab- its of eating human flesh. The Sherbro cannibals waylaid and killed their vic- tims and afterward feasted on their flesh. The cannibalism of the east coast is of a very different kind. The flesh of the old people—the grandfather and grandmother of a family—is dried and mixed with condiments and a por- tion of this is offered, with a dim sort of sacramental meaning, to travelers who become guests of the family. To re- fuse it would be a deadly insult. To ac- cept it is a passport to the pri1ileged position of a friend of the house. Many of our travelers in East Africa ha1e eat-en thus sacramentally of the an- cestors of some dark-skinned potentate The cannibalism of the west coast is, as has just been seen, of a more horrible kind. The Sherbro ease seems to be connected wit-h fetichism, the worst de- velopments of which are peculiar to that country; but there is a hideously genuine appetite for fresh human flesh still existing among the negrocs of \Vest Africa. This cannibalism mani- fests itself in a refinement of gluttony which has its mild analogy in the tastes of Europeans. Young boys are brought from the dark interior, kept in pens, fat-relied upon bananas and finally killed and baked. To these Thyestean feasts come not only the savage chiefs of the interior, but also, it. is whispered, black merchants from the coast. Men who appear at their places of business in English territory in broadcloth and tall hats, who ape the manners of their white masters, are said to disappear an- nually into the interior, where, we are told, they might be seen, in naked sav— agery, taking part in the banquets on plump boys, in which they delight. Be this as it may, somehow the native of the west coast and its Hinterland is unlike the East 011 South African native in the deep-lying savagery and the ex- traordinary facility for returning to it which are his leading and 1e1 v uni:- leas~ ant characteristics. ta’l‘he subject claims the attention of the anthropologist, and certainly suggests a curious reason for questioning the relationship of the black man and the ape or the gorilla, seeing that the race of monkeys seems to be singularly free from anything like cannibalism.—London Saturday Re- View. Angling by Electric Light. One evening recently two anglers, one a resident of New Haven, tried the in- teresting-experiment of fishing in Sea- ford1bay by electric light. , A fisherman of New Haven rowed the anglers from the railway pier soon after six o’clock, when it was completely dark. A port- able battery with a five-candle-power incandescent lamp was taken, and this lamp was lowered until a weight below it touched the bottom at 25 feet. Both battery and lamp were specially made for the trial, and the lamp was protect— ed by a galvanized crinoline and was made watertight. When it reached the bottom of the sea, there was, it is stated, a circular area, 20 yards in diam: eter, brightly illuminated right up to the surface. Fishing was carried on with an ordinary line 011 the port side, the lamp having been lowered on the starboard side of the boat. ——Scientific American. or nevy YORK. RICHARD A. MCCURDY President. 66 on for 6 Yea Assets. Liabilities . . ' . . ’ Surplus ._ 1 . . ing 60.31.1895. . $221,213,721 33 194,347,157 .58 Total Income . . Total Paid Policyholders in 1895. Insurance and Annuities in force, Not gain in 18.95 actually issued and paid for in cash ls Included. I have carefully examined the foregoing Statement and find the same to be correct. From the Surplus a dividend will be apportion Report. of the Examining finite II he Mutual Lilo Insuianoe Company At a meeting of the Board of Trustees of this Company, held on the 18th day of December last, the underSigned were appointed a Committee to examine the annual Statement for the year ending December 31st, 1895, and to verify the same by com- parison with the assets of the Company. The Committee have eaiefully performed the duty assigned to them, and hereby certify that the Statement is in all particulars correct and that the. assets specified therein are in possession of the Company. In making this certificate the Committee bear testimony to thehigh character Cf the investments of the Company and express their approval. of the system, order and accuracy with which the accounts and vouchers have been kept, and the business in general transacted. H. o. v... Post, . Charles R. Henderson, James C. Holden, CHARLESA PRELLER, Auditor. ed as usual. Committee. of New York, February 11,1896. Robert Clyphant, 'Wm. P. Dixon, J. H“. Herrick. ' ROBERT A. GRANNIS', Vice-President. WALTER R. GILLETTE, General Manager. ISAAC F. LLOYD, Second Vice-President, 'WILLIAM J. EASTON, Secretary, FREDERIC CROMWELL, Treasur ICHN A. FCNDA,'Assistant Treasurer. WILLIAM P. SANDS, Cashier EMORY MCCLINTOCK LL’.D., F. I. A., “I .k‘ JOHN TATLOCK, .13., Asst. Actuary. CHARLES A. PRELLER, Auditor, HENRY E. DUNCAN. Jr., Cor. Secy. ALBERT KLAMROTH, Asst. Secy. er. JAMES TIMPSON, 2d Asst. Tress EDWARD P. HOLDEN, Asst. Cashier. Actuary. WM. W. RICHARDS, Comptroller. HENRY S. BROWN, Asst. Comp. JOHN C. ELLIOTT, Superintendent of Domestic Agencies, MEDICAL DIRECTORS WINSTON, M. D. ELIAS J. MARSH, M. D. EDWARD LYMAN sneer, Gen. solicitor. , GRANVILLE M. WHITE, M. D. EDEN W. NICEIDLS, NeWhHaven, General Agt. for State of Connecticut. $26,366,563 75: "$48,597,430 51 . $23,126,728 45 $899. 074,453 78 $6], 647, 645.386 NOTE—Insurance merely 1m men, Is_ discarded from this Statement as wholly mlsleadlng, and only insurance Committee “.4; .. fig».
Norwalk Chronicler