Demorraic Watcjuan
Bellefonte, Pa,, Nov. 25, 1882.
THANKSGIVING EVE.
A TRUE INCIDENT.
Hand in hand through the city streets,
As the chilly November twilight fell,
Two childish figures walk ur. and down—
The bootblack Teddie and his sister Neil.
W ith wistful eyes they peer in the shops,
Where dazzling lights from the windows
. shine
On golden products from farm and field
And luscious {ruits from every clime.
“0, Teddie,”ssaid Nell, “let's play for to-mor-
TOW
These things are ours, and let’s suppose
We ean choose whatever we want to eat,
It might come true, perhaps-——who knows ?”
Two pinched little faces press the pane,
And eagerly plan for the morrows feast
Of dainties their lips will never touch,
Forgetting their hunger, awhile at least.
The pavement was cold for shoeless feet,
Ted's jacket was thin ; he shivered and said,
“Let's gn to a place and choose some clothes.”
“Agreed!” said Nell, and away they sped.
To a furrier’s shop, ablaze with light,
In whose fancied warmth they place their
hands,
And played their scanty garments are changed
For softest fur from far-off lands.
“A grand Thanksgiving we'll have!” cried
Ne
“These make-believe things seem almost
true;
I've ‘most. forgot how hungry I was,
And, Teddie, I'm almost warm, aren't you ?”
O happy hearts, that rejoice to-day
In all the bounty the season brings,
Have pity on those who vainly strive
To be warmed and fed with imaginings !
—The Congregationalist.
sn remem ——
MISS JANE'S OFFER.
BY LUCY C LILLIE,
Miss Jane Brewer opened the door
of her white frame cottage with a timid
reluctance, and stepped out upon the
small porch almost as though she had
no right to be there. She glanced up
and down the quiet roadway with far-
tive, sad eyes. She felt glad there was
no one in sight. It seemed as if her
errand was written on her face, and
indeed, to any one who knew the usuai
tranquillity of that face, which had its
-own mature charm, recalling the soft
prettiness of her girlhood, it would
have been easy to see that Miss Jane
was far from happy at this moment.
Bat presently, lifting her head a little
proudly, she hastened on, a pink in
her cheeks, and a look half like a
hunted or wounded creature, half with
the pride which fain would conceal
her distress,
“I shall see them in the window, I
suppose,” she reflected, with a little
quickening of her pulses as she neared
a light yellow and brown cottage with
a milliner’s case rather obtruding on
to the road.
Two heads were visible. Mise Mol-
lon, the milliner whose claim against
the late Captain Brewer’s property had
proved successful, and a rather lank
go of twenty-one, who was Miss
ollon’s pampered nephew and heir.
Miss Brewer hesitated a barely per-
ceptible second, and then bowed to the
enemy. ‘‘After all,” she thought, hur-
rying on down Main Street, “they
have the right to it. But, ob, if dear
father had only told me! But then
he may have tried to do it after that
stroke.”
At the entrance to Judge Downing’s
‘law office a dainty pony carriage was
drawn up, and its occupant, a tall,
~gparkling young girl, exclaimed,
quickly.
“Oh, Miss Brewer, are you going te
«beat home this evening, and it I come
-up, will you show me that stitch ?”
‘Greta Downing, the judge’s daughter
and Miss Brewer were capital friends, |
but tke latter colored now. Her
dome, she was thinking. But then it
was understood that she could remain
there two weeks loager—until after
Thanksgiving, for which Miss Mollon
was making extensive preparations.
“Why, of course, my dear,” said
Miss Brewer, cordially. She hesitated
but added, “Come to tea, won't you?”
Gretna nodded gayly, and drove on.
~Shehad heard, and understood ia the
vague way of a girl unused to any dis-
tresslul need, that Miss Jane was losing
her little property, but it did not occur
to think that it meant sending the poor
woman nearly penniless into the world.
But Miss Jaue did, when half an hour
later, alter signing various papers, she
had left the judge's office, and was on
her way to the house—ao longer her
home, but her birthplace, the scene of
all that had been happy, if perhaps
much that bad been lonely or sad, ia
her forty years of life. When she set
out after Thauksgiving, she would
have just one hundred dollars upon
which to-‘“*begin the world” again,
To natures like Jane Brewer's the
thought of.thus facing a life unshelter-
ed by her accustomed surroundings,
tinged with the sordid—at best a strug-
gle for a mere subsistence—was like
the keen pain of a cold blast on one’s
face, heart, nay, very soul. Her life had
been nearlyuseventful, butjit had mach
that she bad felt grateful to God for;
and how many Thanksgivings had she
not blessed him for the content the
peace, which after her one brief girl's
dream of something different had
come to her? She was thoroughly
aware of her own incompetency to
battle long or hard. By no means
one of those woman who like to put
their hand to the plough and furrow
out a fortune, thie recent necessity to
plan a work for her livelihood filled
her with dismay. Sbe scarcely saw
the road ahead of her, but walked on
thinking and wondering, half praying
in her heart, and the sudden remem-
brance that this might be the last time
her favorite Greta would take tea with
ber emote her unexpectedly, and she
fumbled with her door key through a
mist of tears.
When old Captain Brewer died two
months before, people wondered if Jane
meant to live on alone in the’ little
cottage, but she decided that, fot the
present at least, it would be better so ;
and now she was glad her homeless:
ness involved no one else,
“We'll have one nice tea, anyway,”
she thought as, having laid aside her
things, she brightened up the kitchen
fire, and then sat down to think over
what to prepare.
Greta Downing always declared there
never. was such a cozy, cheery kitchen
as this one of Miss Brewer's; every-
thing spotless and shining—the side-
board with its clear china and odd
pieces, inherited from her father’s
mother ; the window looking ‘out on
theroadway, with its deep cushioned
seal, and row of plants well cared for
above—every point was homelike and
worth observing; and Greta, coming
from her father’s solemn dignified man-
sion, used to enjoy thoroughly those
visits to her friend, when they would
spend the “*gloaming’ in the homelike
kitchen, and chat about everything of
interest, first in Greta’s life, then town
“society,” wherein the bright young
girl was a special favorite. Miss Brew-
er seldom talked of herself. There
was hidden away down in a recess of
her heart a story unknown to any one
but herself and her Maker. Once, in
discussing a pessible love-affair of
Greta’s, the girl had unexpectedly
said.
future.” Miss Jane's quiet voice
trembled.
Greta suddenly raised her pretiy
tear-stained young face to the delicate
elderly one above it. “Miss Jane,”
she exclaimed, earnestly, “don’t you
know, you told me once you never had
an offer. Oh, won’t you tell me?
Wasn't there—didn’t you—"
a= Asjthe girl broke off, ;the flicker of
a smile curved her friend's lips, and
she looked down gravely again.
*So you think there must have been
something 27 Miss Jane said, indul-
gently. “Greta, my dear, if I thought
my—well, one experience in my life
would help you, you should hear it.
Now listen. Itisn’t much of astory,
wo great romance, only, as it did come
to me, my life could never somehow
seem to take in any other. 1 must
have been about your age, and was liv-
ing right here of course, when I made
this gentleman’s acquaintance. He
was a young man with good business
prospects, but very poor at the time.
I need not go into particulars; we
seemed very soon to understand each
other ; but my step-aunt Hannah, who
kept house for us, was for some reason
“How did you feel, Miss Jane, when
you had your first offer ?
And, to Greta’s complete surprise,
Miss Jane, with her pretty blush, had
answered, “I can’t tell you, my love ; I
never received an offer in my life.”
But something in her friend’s manner
made the girl forbear to questton
further, puzzled and conscious as this
singularity in the life of any woman
made her feel.
But she thought of it very often;
and on this November evening, when
wrapped in her warm furs, and with a
look of new seriousness on her pretty
young face, Greta knocked at the cot-
tage door, her reflections includes this
peculiarity in Jane Brewer's life.
Ske, not half so good or “tender and
true’ as the elderly maiden lady, had
laughed over half a dozen “offers” ;
and to think Miss Jane declared she
never had received one in ail her life!
1f a certain affair of her own had not
made the young girl very thoughtful
just then, she could have seen only
the ludicrous side of it. “For I feel
‘sure,” she said to herself, “somebody
must have asked her, and perhaps she
did not understand it.” With which
conclusion she found herself within
the door, and welcomed by her hostess
as brightly and cordially as though
Miss Jane was not sick at heart think-
ing how soon no guest of hers would
cross her threshold .
“It seems tome, Greta,” said her
friend, as they sat at the pleasant tea
table, which was well supplied from
Miss Jane's best stores, “you haven't
much of an appetite. How do you
know but this is our last meal in the
old house together ?’
“Oh, Miss Jane,” exclaimeed Greta,
“it does seem so hard! But then,” she
added, with the cheerfulness of inex-
perience, of course you'll get another.”
Miss Jane's fair quiet face across
the candle-lit space flushed and paled.
She was remembering the judge’s words
that morning :
“When all's said and done, Miss
Jane, there'll be fully one hundred
dollars to your credit.”
She laughed softly. “I’m not think-
ing of exactly buying just yet,” she
answered.
“But, of course,” observed Greta,
“you'll live somewhere. Do you
know,” she added in a moment,
and with a lively color sweep-
ing ber face, “I've been thinking
lately—if— a person wasn’t alone,
you know, it wouldn’t matter much if
-—they weren’t rich.” The girl's soft
«da k eyes were very beautiful as she
spoke.
“Oh, Greta I” declared Miss Jane.
“Do you mean to say—"’
“Don’t,” pleaded Greta.
But presently, when the best china
and glass and fine old damask were
put away, and Miss Jane suggested
their going into the sitting-room, the
girl suddenly flung her arms.about her
friend’s neck and burst into tears.
Iknow that to many people this
lonely quiet, unobtrusive little woman
would have seemed almost character-
less; but she had a genius of her own,
toorare and too often unappreciated.
She had that fine, delicate innate tact
of sympathy, comprehension, of utterly
putting herself into the joys or sorrows
the needs of others, and if this does
not give human nature a touch of the
divine, then I am sure such as dispute
it have never known sorrow, or Christ's
message to the sorrowful themselves.
It was the root of everthing no-
ble in .Jane Brewer. It was her
strength, her religion, her power of
loving ; and now, after letting the
child cry a little without a word on
her shoulder, she managed to get her
into her accustomed place at the fire-
side, on an ottoman close to her own
kaee, where the pretty curly head rest-
ed as Geta, told her story.
“He” was poor—at least, just trying
his mings in a Western city—of course
very talented. He hadn't “spoken,”
because, when she saw him last, she
had felt annoyed by his reticence, and
bad treated kim coldly. At least, this
is what she supposed.
“And Iloye him,” murmured the
girl ; “and oh, Miss, Jane, it will
break my heart.”
There was a moment’s silence, while
Miss Jane’s small band, where a slim
circlet of gold was the only ornament,
moved softly up and down the girl's
bowed head.
“Greta,” she said, presently, “Ihave
watched you closely the last year, since
you came home, I believe this isa
real feeling with you my child. Tell
me, is it that young Harvey who grad-
uated so honorably at Summerton last
year?”
The dark little head nodded, and
there was a sound like a sob below.
“I have heard a great deal about
him, and I believe—yes, you might
even share his poverty; or, lest you
hamper him too early in his career,
you could easily wait for him ; and,
Greta, don’t let pride stand in the light
of two people’s happiness and whole
strongly averse to. it, and was constant-
telling me that John was only trying
| to make a fool of me. I was, no doubt
very silly, but I indulged, I know, in
various little coquetries, and tried him
by an assumed coldness in my manner.
At last came a day when he decided to
seek his fortune in the South. How
often I have thought of all that time
this very week! The last time we
we went out together was toa Thanks-
giving party. How well I remember
our talk on the way home! It was.
chiefly about what he was to do, so
that he might come back soon. He
said that he wanted to return well
enough off to ack a girl whom he knew
to marry him. We both laughed, but
I turned it off as quickly as I could ;
although when, at parting, he said he
would surely see me the next day, I
could not but feel thatin our good-by
he would at least bid me wait for him ;
and oh, Greta, I was a happy, sleep-
less girl tha: night. I was up early
the next morning you may be sure, and
fairly flew down the stairs, my heart
was so light, in spite of the fact that
this important meeting would mean a
parting as well. It was nine o'clock
when a little note from John came to
say he was suddenly summoned to his
uncle’s death-bed, and had to take the
early stage ; but he added these words,
‘I will come again, though all the seas
gang dry.” You know the dear old
song ? Only the night before he had
sung it, and I easily supplied the
words which, I felt, John had not
dared to put in.”
“What were they ?”’ whispered Greta
who was listening with almost painful
intentness.
Miss Jane for once seemed to have
forgotten all but herself. In the lamp-
light Greta saw a look in her face
which made it almost girlish, certainly
lovely, in expression.
“And I will come again, my love,
Though all the seas gang dry.” .
“And did he ?” queried the .girl, gen-
tly. “My dear.” said Miss Jane, “I
blame myself often. I don’t doubt I
had done something I should not have
done. He came again.”
“Yet,” cried Greta, indignantly,
“you trusted him ?”’
“You will think me very weak, per-
haps ; but, yes—yes, I did. I can’t
tell you why, but I feel perhaps he re-
membered my various little coquetries,
and a foolish fashion I had of laughing
at sentiment,”
“But, Miss Jane,” insisted Greta,
“now—why—is he—"" Her voice fell
a trifle.
“No, no, dear, heis not dead, I be-
lieve, If that is what you mean; but,
you see, he married some one else, and
of course I have no right to think of
him in that way now ; but what I did
feel I had every right to do was to live
my life alone.”
If it seemed to Greta a tragic story,
it also seemed more than she conid
bear to have Miss Jane take her
“John’s” perfidy so calmly, for perfidy
she felt sure it was ; and yet, at the
same time, this brief heart-history in-
clined her to more generous treatment
of one Paul Harvey, now in Ashtabu-
la; but she wondered how Miss Jane
telt “afterwards.”
“Were you very miserable, dearest
Miss Jane ?”' she asked, fondly.
“Yes, my love; for a long time I
cannot deny that I was, and my aunt's
peculiar way of treating me did not
help matters. I was really ill for a
few weeks, but at last I grew more
contented. So you see,” she added,
with a faint laugh and change of voice,
“I was quite right when I say I never
had an offer.”
Long after Greta had gone away,
cheered and encouraged by Miss Jane's
sympathy, as usual, Jane Brewer sat
by her lonely fireside, thinking over
many things that telling her story, ev-
en in brief outline, brought to mind.
She had said she was courageous.
yes, but even now a sharp keen pang
smote her heart as one scene after an-
other in those days twenty years ago
rose to efface the lifeless present,
to thrill every ‘vein as if the brief
joys of her girlhood were again enact
ing. It was easily remembered, from
every outline of the thin dark face,
with its nervous energy and yet sensi
tive reserve, to every word he had ut-
tered, to every scene in which she had
“lived” for that, it seemed to her, was
the only personal living. Since then
it had all been external—all for others.
She recalled the pompous wooing of a
certain Dr, Hazleton, whom she had
peremptorily forbidden to speak’; of
the various “attentions” which well
she kuew might be more if she had
willed it; of her step aunt's indigna
tion over what she termed her “folly”
In putting off these fine gentlemen;
then of the day when she was thirty
years of age, how she had put on that
slim old wedding ring of her grand
mother’s, saying to herself she surely
had the right to feel now that girlish
ness was at an end, and pledged her
self with the old ring to maidenhood.
And now—it was all gone! The brie
dream, the girlishness, the gayety of
those * happy days—%even, thank
God !” thought Jane, “thie suflering.”
For she had known it was right to
put him, ip one way irom her mind.
She had often wondered about him —
whether he was happy with the wife
of bis choice—had often prayed to
God to bless him, and never a Thanks-
giving day but che had thought of
that one radiant one, and laid the
memory tenderly in God’s keeping.
And now, thought Miss Jane, ag, lamp
in hand, she moved about her little
dwelling, shutting doors and setting
things to right— now not even a home
was left her, After Thanksgiving day
all but the memory of a happier past
must vonish,
It was, perhaps, a blessing for Miss
Jane that in the days which interven:
ed between this evening and Thauks.
giving day she had all her time filled
with preparations to depart, and decid-
ing on where to make a new home.
There was melancholy enough, no
doubt, in the packing up— a protanity
it almost seemed, in moving from their
long accustomed places certain house-
hold gods—yet it was a necessary oc-
cupatiou, fatigning enough to make
her sleep at night.
“That old piano was mother’s when
she was a girl,” she said to Greta one
day. The judges daughter flitted in
and out constantly during those tiring
days. They were standing in the par-.
lor, where at present the least confn-
sion reigned. Some way its memories
were £0 sacred to Miss Jane that she
wanted to “spare it’ as long as possi-
ble. “I’ve heard father say she wasa
a fine performer,” she added with a
regretful look at the narrow, slim-leg-
ged little instrument.
. She seated herself, in her shabby,
dusty garment assumed for the work
in hand, and, in a quaint manner of
her own, began a little waltz, one of
the few few “pieces” she had learned
in her school days. Greta was by no
means very susceptible to ‘“impres-
sions,” nor was she in the least imagin-
ative, yet, some way, as she stood by
listening to Miss Jane, who played, I
must admit, in a very “thrum-thrum”
fashion, a sense of the picturesqueness
of the scene came over her, and she
never could forget it. Miss Jane at
the old tinkling piano, her hands mov-
ing sedately over the yellowish keys,
her delicately faded profile above the
black frill of her gown carved against
the sunshine, which, in wintry rays,
just lighted here and there the old-
tashioned, darkly furnished room as if,
as Miss Jane played, the spirit of her
girlhood was evoked, and Greta
thought she at the moment just what
her old friend had been twenty years
before—more ardent than she dared
express, more timid about opposing
the will of her elders, and yet, as now,
“faithful and true.” Why, thought
the girl, indignantly— why had that
stupid “John” never come back?
“There,” exclaimed the Miss Jane
of to-day. rising suddenly and closing
the lid of the “instrument.” “Itwon’t
do, Greta, my love, for me to be idllng
here.” She stood a moment irresolute
her sweet brown eyes a trifle misty.
“I suppose I'll have a place to put it in
‘if do go to live with Semantha Dob-
bins,” she continued. “I shouldn’t
like to tuck it away as if I'd forgotten
it in a garret.”” And with an evident
effort she returned to the practical af-
fairs ot the moment.
Greta Downing wenthome still un-
der the spell of what was to her an un-
usual experience. She was thrilled,
distressed. annoyed, and to relieve her
mind despatched a long letter to Mr.
Paul Harvey, in answer to his last;
and although it was definitely accept-
ing the offer he had at last shown
courage enough to make her, she was
so full of Miss .Jane that she wrote
three pagesall about her; how dear
she was, what good counsel she had
always given her, and dwelt in terms
full of indignation upon the cruelty of
her best friend's present position, and
at last she added: Isn’t it queer?
She told me she never in all her life
had received an offer of marriage, and
she’s perfectly lovely. There was
someone once whom she waited for,
but she never heard from him, and he
never came back, although he promis:
ed faithfully to do eo, and she never
heard a word from him. If you ever
dare to be like that, sir, etc., etc.”
Little Greta went about her own
household duties, which, I must say,
in the large, quiet, and well-regulated
mansion were not very onerous, very
contentedly after that; but at dinner
time she stole up to her father, put her
arms around his thin neck. and laid
ber soft young check against his bony
one.
“Father,” she said demurely, “I’ve
been and gone and done it.
“Eh? what? what's that?” demand-
ed the judge. He was always afraid
of some out of the way proceedings on
Greta’s part.
“Well, you see,” the girl continued,
“I wrote Paul Harvey—Oh, father,
don’t scold me! What'sa girl to do
that’s in love with the man that's ask-
ed her?”
But (in spite of her effort at fun,
Greta's voice trembled, and when she
crept around into her father's arms
there were tears on the dark lashes.
The judge held her closely. She was
his all—his motherless little daughter.
In his busy professional life, his one
real ray of sunshine. And now——
“Greta,” he said, gravely, “this is a
very foolish piece of business. My
child, I will write to young Harvey
that it must not go on.”
Greta thought again of Miss Jane's
faded hopes, clung closer to her father.
“Oh, father, darling, wait a little, any-
way | He's comirg on Thanksgiving
day.”
Legal tact decided the judge to ac-
cept this compromise, but in the days
that followed he plainly showed his
disapproval. Greta wrote her lover
how matters stood ; naturally confided
her troubles to Miss Jane who had re-
luctantly consented to make a fourth
at the Thanksgiving dinner, which
Greta would not enlarge because of her
lover’s indefinite position. !
A cruel element during these final
\
days in Miss Jane’s old home was
more than one visit from Miss Mollon, |
who walked about and acted with an |
exasperating air of proprietorship, ber |
lank nephew in her wake, while, often |
ignoring Miss Jane, he wouid plan |
various alterations in the house. To
escape them Thanksgiving eve, Miss
Jane fairly fled to the attic, where, in- |
deed, she had intended to search in an
old trunk of her aunt's for a bit ot lace
she wanted to give Greta. It was al- |
most dusk, but drawing the box into’
the window , and turning its contents |
over with nervous finger, litted up a |
skirt of broad plaids which gave her a
little shiver. How well she remem- |
bered the dreadful days when Aunt
Hannah wore it! It was turned in-
side out, and as she shook it there
seemed to be something like paper in|
the long pocket. Miss Jane drew it |
out, gazed at it, and then sank down
fairly paralyzed. It was a letter ad-:
dressed in a dearly familiar handwrit- |
ing to herself——opened hastily by other |
fingers—never seen by her eyes until |
this moment.
She heard fhe retreating footstep of |
ber unbidden guests. Then the door |
closed.
but still she sat there, the faded paper
Brewor never knew. But at last she
strairs. Nosleep came to her eyes
that night, although blinding tears
fell from them, and the morning broke
gray and chill, snow flakes flying all
about the lonely little cottage, to find
her a changed woman. But if this se-
cond vigil for the one cause which
Jane had kept had its depth of misery,
there was cause for joytul pride as
well, She had not misjudged him!
He %ad been true, and yet he had
thought her false!
The morning drifted on. Miss Jane
moved mechanically about the houce,
and deciding that the blinding snow-
storm would be excuse enough to ad-
mit of her staying at home, set out,
about ten o'clock, some bread and tea,
which would be her Thanksgiving
breakfast and dinner in one.
She was trying to swallow it when
there came the jingle of slzigh-bell, a
heavy tread up the little path, and a
loud rat-tat on the door.
Miss Jane, as she sprang up instinc-
tively, smoothed her always tidy, pret-
ty bair, and went to admit her impa-
tient visitor.
A tall, stout, elderly gentleman of
very imposing “presence” stood there
a moment irresolute, gazing down upon
the slender black robed figure, the
tranquil if careworn face before him.
Then he held out a strong hand
from which he had drawn his hand-
some fur lined glove.
“May I come in Jane?” he inquired,
with a queer twinkle and yet a suspi-
cion of moisture in his eyes. “You
see I promised to come again, only
you wouldn’t let me.”
The tall, familiar, yet unfamiliar,
figure before her, the whirl of snow-
flakes, the white country road, all
swam in a mist before Jane Brewer's
eyes. It was twenty years but she
had trusted him all the time, and this
was her Thanksgiving day at last.
“You see, Jane,” Mr. John Knowl
ton was saying, as five minutes] later
he and his old sweet heart were stand-
ing with clasped hands in tbe quaint
old parlor, Jane trembling still in
every nerve with joyous yet bewildered
sensations, it was like this; I wrote
to youasking you to marry, and saying
I would come on at once if you'd say
the word. I got no answer I thought
I would look into the matter for my-
self; so on I posted, and found you,
poor little womano,.ill. I saw that annt
of yours, who told me that you had
begged of her to ask me not to torment
you further, that you were as good as
engaged to Hazleton.”
Jane's head drooped. “I never got
the letter, and I never said or thought
anything of the kind,” ehe murmured ;
and added, lifting her face, with the
blush of a girl on her cheeks, “John,
there was a time when I thought you'd
broken my heart.”
“Yes,” he was saying a little later,
when they were driving to the judge's
house, “it was all that little Greta's
doing. It seems she wrote to my
nephew, who was staying with me—as
he has done most of the time since my
wife's death, poor soul! —all about
your troubles, and” (he laughed merri- |
ly (“told him you said you had never
had an offer. Now I knew better than
that ; but said I to myself, I'll go and
see just what's the matter. I had two
birds to kill, for I wanted to show the
old judge that Paul was worth his
girl's having. By-the-way, Jane,” he
continued, with a glance at the quiet,
happy face lifted to his own, ‘do you
remember my saying I'd come back
rich enough to ask some girl to marry
me? Well, I've done it; but will you
mind spending part of the year out
West? Of course I'll fixed it with
that millinery woman, and we won't
let the old house go. Heavens and
earth! how queer it seems to be driv-
ing over the old road on Thanksgiving
day with yon! But, Jane, .what's
queerer still, it seems as though time
had stood still with you. You look as
fresh as a girl, I declare, and do you
realize my gray hairs ?”
He lifted his fur cap, baring to her
wistful gaze his close cropped dark
hair tinged with gray, while about the
eyes, which had haunted her so many
times waking or sleeping, were lines
which care as well as time had
wrought. There were many indefina
ble changes. His brisk business like
manner, his lack of the old reticence,
seemed to shake the memory of the
The wintry evening closed in, |
in ber hands, for how long atime Jane |
rose, and almost tottered down the |
The World of Women.
Shaded velvet in green for sleeves in
brown gowns.
Plain close-fitting jackets of fine cloth
for nice wear.
Large plaids for street suits to be
trimmed with dark velvet.
Black and red widely-striped satins
made up with red velvet.
Cream cloth vests for brown, purple
ard dark green cloth suits,
Large, conspicuous buttons, accom-
pany directory styles,
Mme. Bonheur will receive $60,000
for her “Horses Threshing Corn’ from
an American dealer.
Tailor-made gowns of tweed have
short circular cloaks of the same mate-
rial, with silk-lined hoods. Very rough
goods are the most popular for walking
costumes just now.
The resident medical officer of the
fine Woman's Hospital in Melbourne: is
| Dr. Margaret White, a lady graduate,
| who was unanimously selected for the
position by the Board of Managers.
Clean your mirrors with soft poper
l instead of cloth. We have seen this ad-
vice repeated numberless times, and yet
| we see cloth constantly used, with its
| usual accompaniment of lint and trou-
| ble.
| Some of the new silk petticoats have
! tiny flounces on the wrong side as well
: as on the right ; and the newest tailor-
| made gowns are lined with silk and
have little trills of the same material un-
derneath the edge of the skirt.
+ Evening capes of fine ladies’ cloths,
in delicate, wsthetic hues like terra-cotta
Nile green, old pink or vieux blue, are
being made up in, Henri Deux shape,
and lined with striped flowered brocade
in delicate patterns and faint “fade’”
i colors,
A crimson serge, with a short bodice
edged with mink, had a deep tinted
cream lace collar round the shoulder,
and was open to display a frilled shirt
front of purple velvet, and it was
drawn into the waist with a purple vel-
vet sash tied into a bow at one side.
Miss Kate Field, though a busy busi-
ness women, does not like to work at a
desk. Much of her writing she does
on a tablet in an easy chair. It is said
that she even ‘curls up” while thus en-
gaged, and that she acquired that habit
unconsciously from Elizabeth Barrett
Browning.
The new feather boas, of the softest
plumes of the owl and in tawny ratur-
al colors, cost $50, and measure two
yards. Boas of curled ostrich feathers
in the same length cost $35. Little
round collars of marabout feathers in
gray and white cost $7.50; in clipped
ostrich plumes, $6.50.
An odd conceit in pockets is the pock-
et-book flap. A coat of heavy covert
cloth has square pockets set on the out-
side with double stitching. The flap of
each pocket is extended in a fancifully
cut tab that runs through a strap on the
pocks, closing the pocket like a pocket-
ook or pocket diary. The effect is a
trifle funny, but the contents of the
pocket are kept in safety.
Considerable use is being made of
chamois this autumn. Blue and green
wool dresses have chamois vests, collars,
and cuffs. There are chamois bonnets,
and the chamois gloves are in greater
variety and better made than usual. A
derby glove made of bright yellow
chamois bas trimmings and large but.
tons of black. White chamois gloves
are made now with cable seams, like
the finest kid gloves.
There are some absolutely new de-
signs in gowns. One very charming
design was mads with a plain skirt, and
a short zouave reaching to the waist of
black astrachan—-that kind of astrachan
which has a wide curl in it and i com-
mercially known as “Caracule.” This
had a short bodice, with double frills
down the front, and huge sleeves of
shaded heliotrope velvet, shading from
the palest mauve to the deepest purple.
It was lovely, not expensive, I grant,
but unigue—a superior advantage to
mere cheapness.
Another was made of a violet faced
cloth, with a hem ornamented with
seven folds of black satin ; the bodice
of this was a blouse of black satin with
a stiff front, like a man’s shirt, fastening
with little gold buttons, and over it was
to be worn three shoulder capes of the
the violet cloth, edged with the satin
folds, and pleated into a yoke piece of
Caracule.
Cloth jackets with shoulder capes,
double or triple, says Harper's Bazar,
are in great favor with large girls and
small alike. They come in soft warm
cloths, gray-blue, tan, brown or red,
and are partly fitted to the figure and
warmly lined. Long cloaks for smaller
girls cover their dresses entirely, and
are made full or with a Watteau pleat
in the back, belted in or else with the
belt or cord passing under the pleat.
Tabbed capes edged with cord or else
gathered on the shoulders. Wlsters for
school girls to wear in rain or shine are
of striped or plaid wool, made double
breasted, with a military cape that is
detachable. fleecy cloths in light Rus-
sian blue or old-rose make dressy Di-
rectoire coats for girls of 8 to 12 years
when trimmed with black or brown fur.
Girls’ felt hats match the cloak in
color, sometimes being of a lighter
shade, They have wide, soft brims
without lining and often without wire,
while others are slightly undulating, re-
quiring wire to keep them in graceful
shape. Full soft crowns of velvet are
added, with the left side much higher
than the right, and a twist of satin rib-
bun around the base. A chic trimming
past, and displace the “John’’ she had
carried in her heart so long, but as.
she stole one of her hands into hisand
met che fearless, honest, whole-souled
gaze he bent upon her, Jane knew that
her loyalty was not in vain, Her lover
had come back to her—on Thankgiv-
ing day.-—Harper's Bazar.
——Tea is gathered from the plant
four times a year.
—— Icebergs sometimes last 200 years,
is a long looped bow of satin a trifle
more than an inch wide coming for.
ward on the left side, and holding a
thick rosette, through which two dark
quils are thrust. A blonde haired girl
looks lovely in a soft brimmed hat of
tan color, with darker brown velvet
crown quite low and full, the back of
brim caught up with pink ostrich tips,
while in front of the crown two brown
quils are crossed like the letter X. Gilt
and silver galloon in a bow of many
loops with sharp end trims brown felt
hats, and holds the quills that are so
popular this season,