Demorealic’ atc
Bellefonte, Pa., Dec. 15, 1893.
FARE-WELL TO THE WHITE CITY.
IDA A. SMULL.
Fare-well my best, my sweetest heart,
Too soon, too soon, for aye we part,
Still in thy glory looming up,
All unconscious of the bitter eup,
Of the shadow, the midnight and gloom,
Of pall, of destiny, of approaching doom.
An soon thy life has proudly spent,
Then e’en be thou asunder rent,
By hands of greedy, merciless man;
Thine’s been a bright, a glorions span,
Since of minor details, thou knowest ought.
But all that’s great, in thee was wrought.
Lovers hadst thou, score upon score,
But of millions, none loved thee more.
None more sadiy thy loss to feel,
My heart is breaking, my senses reel,
At thoughts of dissolution drawing nigh.
Oh, heart of poetry, must thou die?
My soul, thou’st wholly captive taken,
Now, groaning, from the spell I waken.
Spirit of beauty teed my soul,
Till broken be the golden bowl.
A better fate it could not desire,
A queen, a mistress sweeter, higher.
But ’tis fare-well, thou life victorious,
Surely to thee, finale glorious.
Thou diest ne’er of failure knowing,
Diest, with triumphant victory glowing.
' THE LAST OF THE PEPLO WS.
BY G. B. BURGIG.
Miss Maria Peplow stood on the
stone doorstep in order mournfully to
watch the carpenter's assistant un-
screw the brass plate which had
braved the storm of some flve-and-
twenty winters, and replace it by a
new one bearing a slightly modified
legend. Peplow House was still what
the humorous local gravedigger, when
under the influence of beer, was face-
tiously accustomed to describe as a
“cemetery for young ladies;” but be-
neath that ghoulish statement the
words “The Misses Peplow’ no longer
appeared, Miss Jane Peplow, the eld:
er sister, had basely deserted the flow-
ery paths of scholastic tuition, and
would be shortly known as Mrs. Bar-
ton, the spouse ot a benevolent provision
merchantin the town. Miss Maria griev-
ed that the ancient family of Peplow
should bedisgraced by what, in her old-
fashioned “French of Stratteforde at
Bowe,” she was wont to term g “mis-.
salliance.”” Miss Jane had indeed
made a false step,and, what was worse
had not even evinced a proper shame
in doing it.
When the new doorplate was screwed
on—every twist of the screws hurt
Miss Maria—she entered the passage,
went up to Jane's bedroom, and sternly
opened the door. Jane, a fair-haired,
handsome woman of forty-eight-—DMiss
Maria was dark, three years younger,
and more aristocratic in appearance,
with a not altogether unpleasing sug-
gestion of lavendar like primness—bad
just emerged from the bands of her
bridesmaid and was radiant in black,
silk and orange blossoms. ‘Enter Ma-
ria,” she said pleasantly. “I trust
you have reconsidered your decision,
and will honor my nuptials with your
. presence.” But she quailed visibly.
Miss Maria sat down. She spoke
with an effort. “If dear papa were
alive,” she said frostily, “as an officer
and a gentleman he conld not have ap-
proved of such a match—such an in-
congruous mingling with the plebian
throng ; it would have broken his
heart. We have never before descend:
ed to—to combine with butter. Cor
‘rect me if I err in this statement,
+Janel
Jane dared not. She had often
heard the same remark before, but af-
fected to treat it as wholly novel,
“You must be aware that by sach a
marriage you forfeit all claim to social
recognition. Already, the hateful ef-
fect of such a descent has made itself
felt. Two of the parlor boarders are
about to leave. The—the ostensible
pretext was Australian tinned meat
supplied by Mr. Barton. In reality, it
was the fact of your entering into a
matrimonial alliance with butter, per-
haps oleomargarine. Under the cir-
cumstances, you cannot expect me to—
to extend the hand of cordiality to that
—that doubtless worthy person. The
Peplows were always wholesale, for
the few brief years they dabbled in
commerce.’
“You are very proud, Maria,” said
Jane sadly. “Sometimes, I think
that there are finer things to do in this
world than to devote one’s life to the
exaction of deference based upon mere
family considerations.”
Mies Maria declined to discuss the
question. “Has the hymeneal chariot
arrived ? she asked.
Mies Jane hastened to the window
and peered out. The old flyman from
the Red Lion over the way had just af-
fixed & white ribbon to his whip, and
wag rheamatically climbing up on the
box. hen he flicked his Roman:
nosed rean as it lambered over to Pep-
low House. The flyman had put on
his best coat tor the ceremony, and
had hidden his crooked, unliveried legs
in a chastely striped rug, as a tacit
concession to the sentiment proper to
such an abnermally solema occasion.
“The-—the chariot waits, sister?”
she said. Miss Maria would have
fainted had Miss Jane called the an-
cient vehiele a fig.
“Very well,’ said Miss Maria.
“Do not think I reproach you, Jane.
Better the intellectual refinement of a
solitary crust and eelibacy than the
prevenu plenty of tinued tongue and a
husband beneath one in the social
scale. I am still left to watch over the
family honor.”
Miss Jane hesitated nervously.
“Some day you may te glad ot a hus.
band's sheltering love,” she said gently.
“The struggle has been a hard one,
Maria. John—""
“I am not socially conscious of the
existence of any individual of that
name,” said Miss Maria, primly tying
her bonnet sirings. “Officially I am
compelled to recognize Mr. Barton's
existence zs your husband, bul as
‘John! never!” Gt
“Mr. Barton,” blushed Jane, “Mr,
Barton wishes to know if yoti will hon-
"or him by living with us _and giving
up the sch—the academy 2” © °°
Miss Maria was touched, but called
f
up the family pride to maintain her
faltering resolution. “Jane,” she said
in the tones of a female Casahianca—
“Jane, do not add to your other indis-
cretions by seeking to lure me from the
path of duty. I do not blame you,
Jane. Your confiding nature was no
match for the wiles of one versed in
the sophistries of the retail provision
trade, the questionable morality which
covers with an with an eleemosynary
candlestick the doubttul quality of his
dubious foreign wines ; your innocence
of plebian usages is the best excuse
for what you are about to do; but,
Jane. mueh as it pains me (o tell yon
so, Mrs. Barton cannot be received
within the walls of this academy.
You—you understand ?”’
“I understand,” faltered Jane.
(course, Maria, with your stern sense
of family duty, it could not be other-
wise.”
“No,” said Miss Maria, with Spar.
tan fortitude, “it could not be other-
wise; Jane” But she crossed over to
Jane and kissed her.
“But the—the bills?’ timidly sug-
gested Jane.
“When your name was removed
from the prospectus and the doorplate
of the academy,” said Miss Maria,
“you naturally ceased to have any con-
nection with the business details of
such an establishment. The chariot
waits. I believe it is customary for
the bride to lead the way. As my eld
er sister, you are doubly entitled to
precedence.”
“Oh, sister, I’m so nervous,” faltered
Mies Jane, with tears in her china
blue eyes. “I ought to be so happy,
and yet I’m thoroughly miserable.”
Miss Maria shook her iron gray
locks with grim determination, and
led the way; but Jane drew back.
“This—this is the first quarrel we
have ever had, sister,” she faltered.
“Sister, dear sister, bless me before I
go to my new home; and she flung
ber arms round Miss Maria's neck and
burst into tears.
Miss Maria lost her stony compos-
are for a moment, and blessed the
somewhat mature bride. “I—er—
hope you may be happy, Jane. 1
shall miss you, although you uever
could maintain discipline in the dor-
mitories. Now let us descend. The
populace await us.”
The vicar was waiting to receive the
party at the church, but even at such
an eventful moment his first thoughts
were for Mies Maria. Miss Maria mo-
tioned him aside with, “I commit Miss
Peplow to your care, Mr. Kesterton ; |
aad Mr. Xesterton received Miss Jane
and led her up to the altar, Miss
Maria following behind, and turning
oft at her own pew, sternly unconscious
of the fourteen pupils, who giggled
and wept alternately, or dropped sur-
reptitious bags of rice all over the seats.
Mr. Barton, a middle aged, gentle-
wanly man, hastened to meet the
bride. He was supported by a tall,
grave individual named Farmer Steb-
bins, a mighty producer of mangolds
and manures. Miss Maria had played
with him in the fields and sung with
him in the choir until she learned
from her father that Stebbins was be-
neath her socially. How could she
possibly be on terms of iniimacy with
a man who supplied milk for her
young ladies! Miss Maria recognized
him trigidly and bowed her head in un-
compromising prayer. Ordinarily, she
patronized Farmer Stebbins with a
stately dignity, occasionally so far un-
bending as to drive out to the farm and
pay his account. On these occasions
Farmer Stebbins had exhibited a quiet
pleasure that so majestic a little lady
should honor his poor house by her
presence. Bnt he had never before
met Miss Mariaon such terms of social
though temporary, equality like the
present,
Atter the completion of the ceremo-
ny, Miss Maria went into the Vestry,
signed certain documents, and drove
home alone under the vigilant protec-
tion of her red-nosed charioteer. Noth-
ing but a stern sense of duty enabled
her to bear up under Jane’s departure.
That night, for the first time in her
life, she was unable to sleep. Jane
had shared the same couch with her
for thirty years, and Miss Maria had
always slept with one hand thrown
protectingly over Jane’s head. Pres
ently she bethought her of a soft hair
brush, with the bristles upwards, and
placed it on Jane’s pillow, but care-
fully removed it every morning lest
Dorcas, the housemaid, should discov-
er her weakness.
And Jane and her husband waxed
happier every day, although the school
grew smaller and smaller, until even
the romaatic yet elderly assistant gov-
erness was dismissed and Miss Maria
reigned alone—reigned alone, with a
haggard carewora look which nearly
moved Jane to tears as she sat oppo-
site to her sister in church every San-
day. And then one day the crash
came. Perkins, the butcher, obtained
judgment by default, put a greasy-look-
ing Sherift’s officer “in possession,”
and Miss Maria gave up the struggle
as she sat, with folded hards and
slightly twitching lips, watching her
household gods—her dearest relics—
being labelled and ticketed and cata-
logued, and announced for public sale
“without reserve.” :
. . . .
Miss Maria sternly refused all as-
sistance from “trade,” and sat waiting
among the ruins of her home. A few
small worldly possessions still re-
mained to her, bot they were of little
value, On the last afternoon which
remained to the last of the Peplows in
‘
her old home she wandered about the
desolate house, and took a final fare-
well of all the precions posessions
which were henceforth to be scattered
among the inhabitants of High Dray.
ton. ‘Then she came back to her own
sitting room, and was rather startled
when some one knocked at the door
and the vicar entered.
Miss Maria, with a stately courtesy,
motioned to him to be seated.
The vicar seated himself on a cane:
bottomed chair as if it had been a
throne, and proceeded to acquit him.
TRIE
self of a somewhat delicate mission,
. “You will pardon me for intruding up-
on you at such a time, Miss Peplow,”
he said, deferentially, ‘but the tact is
. I have come to ask of you a favor,”
{Miss Maria smiled. It was the one
ray of sunshine in the crash which
had shattered her fortunes. She
| bowed to the vicar and motioned to |
+ him to proceed.
“The truth is,” said the viear, “we
are in a difficulty, Miss Maria. The
! matron in charge of Hollibone’s Trust
| has somewhat suddenly gone away,
"and there is no oue to fill her place. It
, has been pointed out to me that yon
rare accustomed to command, and I
| have lost not a moment, as I was un-
| aware of your plans, in hastening to |
“Of |
place the post at your disposal.”
| Miss Maria almost wept, but she
was not going to sacrifice the family
pride so easily. “Of course, you must
consider my position,” she said gra-
cionsly., “Asa Peplow I should lose
I caste by accepting such a post.”
“I have thought of that,” said the
vicar, “but perhaps you will recall the
fact that the matron before the last
was Lady Castlemaine’s niece.”
“A precedent of that sort enables me
to accept the post you are good enough
to bring to my notice,” said Miss
Maria amiably, and feeling that she
must break down if the vicar staid
much longer. Here was the way out
of her difficulties without relying on
the loathsome succor of trade. She
was not aware that trade in the person
of Mr Barton had bought out the mat-
ron and hastily disposed of her in or-
der that Miss Maria might be spared
the pain of becoming homeless. But
then trade is seldom credited with re-
finement of this kind, and so Miss Ma-
ria neyer knew who it was that stepped
in to shelter her; which was just as
well, or she would have gone out into
the rain and have refused to be shel.
tered.
Trade had pointed out to the vicar
that the post was vacant, whereupon
that worthy gentleman had at once
suggested Miss Maria, ifshe could be
persuaded to stoop to such an appoint-
ment, Then trade had used plain
language. “It's all her wicked pride,”
Mr. Barton said. “She's breaking
Jane's heart, vicar. I think a lite
misfortune would do her good; but
she’s lived a blameless, honorable,
hard working life, and I don’t see how
she’s to strike root elsewhere. If
you'll coax her into it, Jane will come
and thank yon, but we daren’t be seen
with you, or she’d suspect eomething.”
The late lamented Hollibone had
erected six beautiful little Queen Anne
red brick cottages, and an arched
dwelling in the centre with a spire on
the top. The central dwelling was al-
lotted to the Lady Matron, the six cot-
tages to divers elderly widows and
gpinsters ot the town whom misfortune
had overtaken. In return for a small
weekly dole, they were expected to at-
tend church twice on Sundays and
once on Saints’ days, to pray for Holli-
bone as well as their own souls.
When they had performed this daty,
they were allowed to do as they pleased
but they were required to be back in
i their cottages by 8 o'clock every night.
The Lady Matron, of course could
stav out as long as she liked,
That particalarly handy man, Far-
mer Stebbins, happened to be passing
at the time in a very roomy vehicle,
and was pleased to place it at Miss
Maria's disposal. While Miss Maria's
scanty goods and chattels were being
removed to the Lady Matron’s lodge,
the vicar took her back tosee his wite,
and kept her there until it was dark.
Miss Maria, as the vicar handed her
into a cozy brougham and told his
coachman to drive to the lodge, felt
that she wanted to ery. She had up-
held the family honor under exception-
ally trying circumstances. Providence
had come to her assistance, or she
would have had nowhere to lay her
head. Shedrew the black fur carriage
rug round her and shivered, for the an-
tumn night was chill.
When the carriage stopped Miss
Maria got out. “This way, it you
please, Ma'am,” said a well known
voice.
“Dorcas I" cried Miss Maria, in sur-
priced tones. * “You here?”
“Yes, if you please, Ma'am,” said
Dorcas. You didn’t think I was going
to leuve yourself, now Miss Jane has
gone.”
“Bat, Dorcas,” said Miss Maria
gently, as she sank into a chair before
the fire, and Dorcas brought out her
fur slippers as usual, “vou must be
aware that [ bave met with pecuniary
reverses, and an unable to keep a ser
vant.” ;
Miss Maria had once nursed Dorcas
through an illness, and Dorcas—a
very pretty, affectionate girl— was ill-
bred enough to remember the fact.
“I’m going to be married in a few
months, Ma'am, to Farmer Stebbins’
head man,” she said; “and the vicar
has offered me the lodge ?" demanded
Maria.
“Here, Ma'am,” replied Dorcas.
“My duty is to look after my mistress.
But it’s time you had your negus.”
She came back in a few minutes
with the negus and a slice of toast cut
into strips, Miss Maria, her gown
turned back, as was her custom, sat
with ber feet on the fender thoughtful
ly warming both hauds at the cheerful
ire.
thank God for all His mercies.” she
eaid, “And Dorcas—"
“Yes, Ma'am quietly returned Dor}
"cas, :
“Don’t sit over there in the cold,
but draw your chair up to the fire.”
Dorcas had made her bed in the lit-
tle dressing room next to Miss Maria's
chamber. She tucked up Miss Maria
very tenderly, and then went back to
her own room. Miss Maria was go tired
that she tell asleep without thinking of
the hair-brush. Then Dorcas stole quiet.
i ly down stairs and admitted those ghiv-
| ering, half frozen conspirators, Mr, and
Mrs. Barton.
At 8.30 Dorcae brought in Miss,
“How does she take it?” sobbed
Jane.
cas. “Would you care to have just a
peep at her?” :
“She would think it a great liberty,”
‘eaid Jane; but she followed Dorcas
Matia’s Bible and respectfully sat
down near the door.
Miss Maria looked round with
somewhat blurred eyes. “Let us|
| softly upstairs, and knelt Miss
by
Maria's bed.
| Miss Muria’s hand wandering un: |
' consciously about in seareh of the hair-
“Like a lamb, Ma'am,” replied Dor-
“Nine
out of the chariot. o'clock,
Le asked,
“Yes, said Miss Maria, taken b.
surprise ; and the chariot rumbled
away, each wheel looking as it it want.
Led to go to a different point of the com-
brush, tonched Jane's soft hair. She
gave a little ery and awoke,
“Jane! Jane!” she cried. “Dear,
| dear Jane, where are you?”
“Did yon call, Miss ?” asked Dorcas,
I stairs to remove
| was a cozy fire in the best bedroom,
quietly presenting herself with a light |
{ after Jane had crept away.
“Yes, 1 —I—I must have been dream:
ing, Dorcas, [ thought Jane was here,
and that she cried over me.”
“Is the strange room, Ma'am,”
replied Doreas, tucking her up again,
| and again Miss Maria slept.
As the days went by every one of
any importance made a point of call-
ing on Miss Maria. People respected
her gallant struggle against overwhelm-
ing odds ; they wauted to show their
respect, and so they called at ail hours
trom old Lady Castlemaine down to
Farmer Stebbins, who had sung in the
choir with Miss Maria when they
were children. In those days Miss
Maria had patronized Stebbins with a
gracious condescension which some:
what overwhelmed him, never forget-
ting to let him teel that they were sepa-
rated by an immeasurable gulf. And
Stebbins had sighed and gene about
the accumulation of filthy lucre in the
shape of manure as the one object of
his life. Many a maid had longed for
him and sighed in vain ; many a ma-
tron had lured him in to afternoon tea
or sunday and thrown out mysterious
hinis that so warm a man ought to
marry and settle down. Farmer Steb-
bins had vever married. And now
that his idol had seemed to fall from
her high estate, he developed 2 more
chivalrous courtesy than before. It is
needless to say that he bad not worried
Miss Maria with bills. Every morn-
ing he came personally with a tin can
of hia best cream for her own use;
every week he brought eggs and butter
to Dorcas ; and when Miss Maria gen-
tly checked him one morning, he replied
that he was sorry to displease her. but
that he must obey orders. Miss Maria
thinking that be alluded to the trus.
tees, made no more objections, but,
from gracious condescension, actually
mvited him into the parlor once a
month for five minutes’ conversation.
Stebbins was true to her ; he had al-
ways recognized her social position,
and the disparity in their family was
so great that Mies Maria felt that she
could safely meet him on the neutral
ground of their childish experiences
without losing caste. Jane never had
cared for caste, and was happy; Miss
.Maria had cared for caste all her life,
and was unhappy. She fell into the
habit of inquiring about Jane from
Stebbine, Jane also asked about Miss
Maria from the worthy farmer. Thus
an indirect method of communication
between the sisters was established.
Miss Maria also relied upon Stebbins to
help in the onerous duties of her post.
T'o ber surprise, she found berself grad-
ually glad to leave most of them in his
hands, Her long struggle with the
world bad tired her mentally ‘and
vhysicaily. The ruddy cheeked Steo-
bins, with his enormous muscular
strength and gentle, clumsy ways, ex-
ercised a soothing effect upon her
nerves. She even discovered from the
County Guide that his family had once
been the DeStevens, He came of
more honorable and ancient stock
than the Peplows themselves, although
his father had never served her Most
Gracions Majesty. Hence, when Steb-
bins, with many blushes, asked her to
take tea at the farm in order to meet
Mrs. Barton on neutral territory. Miss
Maria, alter a faint show of resistance,
actually consented to do so. For some
three or four months—it was now Jan-
uary—she had lived her solitary life,
haunted by the fear that Dorcas would
marry and leave her.
“You must not waste your life on
me, Dorcas,” she said, as she dressed
in her best lavendar silk for the tea
party. ‘I have been selfish in accept
ing your devotion. When do you in-
tend to be married ?”
“Not before you, Ma'am,” said Dor-
cas, quietly, and went away.
Miss Maria started. Poor Dorcas!
Then a faint flush dyed her cheek.
“Dorcas, what did you mean by that
remark?’ she asked, when Dorcas
returned with her best cap.
“What 1 said, Ma'am,” answered
Dorcas, carefully putting the cap in the
box. ‘Shall I bring a lantern to light
us on the way back ?” .
It was a clear, frosty afternoon. A
robin twitted taint, make-believe music
on a bare branch outside the window.
Miss Maria listened to the bird for a
moment, and then drew on her gloves.
When she went down stairs another
suprise awaited ber in the ehape of the
Red Lion chariot. “What do you
want?’ she inquired somewhat sharp.
ly of the red-nosed Jehu.
Jehu was a man of few words.
“You, Mum,” he stolidly answered.
“What tor 2” inquired Miss Maria.
‘“Stebbinses,” said Jehu woodenly.
“But, my good man, [didn’t order
you to come,” said Miss Maria.
Jehu flicked an imaginary fly from
the venerable ruin in the shafts, but
made no answer,
| “Go home,” said Miss Maria. “I
| ehall waik."”
| She went down the path, followed
by Dorcas and the chariot. When she
looked round Jehu still followed at a
snail's pace.
“Didu’t you hear me ?" asked Miss
Maria. “Where are you going ?"
| “Stebbinses,”’ said Jehu,
|
“I think we'd better get in, Ma'am
suggested Dorcas.
the same.”
Miss Maria got in, mentally deciding
that she had yielded only to force ma.
jeure,
Jehu touched his hat when she got
“He'll go there all
Miss Maria sat up in bed wildly, |
pase.
Stebbins was at the hall door to re-
ceive them. Miss Maria thought that
he bad never shown to such advantage,
All his natural timidity had vanished.
He was the quiet, courteous host, full
of homely cordiality and good feeling.
His housekeeper took Miss Maria up
her bonnet. There
Suddenly Miss Maria—the housekeep-
er had gone down—féll on her knees
by the side of the bed and began to
cry softly, utterly regardless of the fact
that she was crushing her best cap be-
yond redemption. She moved from
one familiar piece of furniture—Ifurnit-
ure which she had thonght never to
see again. There it all was—the old
familiar mahogany bedstead, the little
bookcase by its eide, the ancient bu-
reau, the vast clothespress, the faded
carpet, the painting of her father on
the wall, the needle work sampler
which had bidden countemptuons defi.
ance to all well known laws of orai-
thology and botany for so many years;
nay, even the paper was the same pat-
tern, although fresher and newer.
And the room had been partitioned oft
to exactly the same size as her old
apartment at Peplow House. There
was even an old fashioned pincushion
on the table-—no one knew how sorely
she missed that pincushion—just as it
had stood for years at Peplow House.
Before she had recovered from her
surprise, the housekeeper again
knocked at the door. Miss Maria
hastily busied herself with her cap.
“Does any one use this room?” she
asked. :
“No Ma'am.”
“Has anyone ever used it 2”
“No Ma'am.”
Then she went dowa stairs, and was
not surprised to find herselt back at
the Peplow House drawing room again, |
Stebbins came forward to meet Miss
Maria with quiet deference, and led
her to a chair—her chair—by the fire.
She could not speak.
Stebbins gave her time to recover
herself, “How can I thank you?”
asked Miss Maria.
“If it gives you pleasure,” he said,
in his simple, honest way—*if it gives
vou pleasure,” Miss Maria, it is the
only excuse I have for doing it. 1
didn’t like to think of your missing the
things.”
“But don’t you see,” she said, *‘you
—you make it harder for me to go
back.”
“Don’t, go back. I'll go away if
you care to stay here.”
“What, John!” His name slipped
from her lips unconscionsly. She had
not called him ‘John’ for five-and-twen-
ty years. “Give up your home for me!”
“Yes,” he said simply. Why not?”
Miss Maria's feeble editice of family
pride tottered and crumbled away like
a house of cards. “John,” she said
softly, “I have spent my whole life in
pursuit of shadows. You shame me
Jolin.
He led ler back to her chair,
whence she bad risen under the iuflu-
ence of strong emotion. “I only want
to see you happy,” he said. “I could
think of no other way than to preserve
the things you love, They—they—
comforted me.”
“Comforied you?"
“Have you any sorrow ?’ hesitating:
ly inquired Miss Maria.
“Yes,” said Joho; “ever since can
remember anything, it has been with
me,”
Then alizht flashed upon Miss Maria,
This man bad loved her throug life.
She had made a barrier between them
which was insurmountable. He had
watched over her, cherished ber, loved
her, only too be repaid by condescend-
ing impertinence and patronage. Even | -succes
| of many who are otherwise faithful in
now he was to noble to be revenged,
too magnanimous to crush her as she |
deserved. His sole thought had been
for her happiness, for her well-being.
For a moment they stood looking
into each other's eyes. The woman's
fell. She moved blindly towards the
door.
vantage of her helplessness. This
man would not speak even now. Sud.
denly she came back and held out her
hand.
“Will you forgive me?” she asked.
“I have treated you very cruelly, very
unworthily. TI only see mv otwvn mean:
ness through my tears. Had I found
this out years ago, when I was young-
er and unbroken by the world. [--I
whould have acted differently.”
Stebbins stood as one dazed, but she
came nearer still, her thin, white
hands clasped together. “I am so sor-
ry,” she said, ‘‘so very, very sorry. Oh,
it our lives could come over again.
Now, I am broken, and old and worn,
with no one to love me, noone to care,
no one to remove the barriers which
my hideous pride has raised around
me. I have wasted my life—and
yours! Forgive mae!”
Stebbins raised her up. “You are
the only woman in the world for me,”
he said. “I’ve loved you ever since we
sat in the choir and our voices ming
led together. You made my heaven.
then, Will yon make it again ?”
She crept into the shelter of his
strong arms. “You are so strong,”
she sobbed, and laid her head upon
his breast.
TE A ER wr,
Hairpin In His Nose. ‘
A Young Man's Collision With His Girls
Back Hair Results Disastrously.
CINNCINNATI, ‘Dec. 9.—Wm. Koch-
man, while waltzing at a ball Saturday
night, slipped and bumped his face
against his girl’s back hair. The next
day he had violent pains and since then
has been growing worse until the doc-
tors gave up hope of saving his life.
While searching for ‘his mysterious
ailment to-day, they found a bairpin
driven far up his nose. It was extrac.
ted, but Kochman’s condition contin-
ues serious, and it is thought his brain
rece,ved injury.
Most men would have taken ad- |
|
i cream will be found very
For and Abont Women.
Mrs. Mary G. Bryan, who hss proba-
bli the largest salary of any literary
woman in America, though Mrs. Fran-
ces Hodgson Burnett is said to have
made a larger fortune, receives $10,000
a year from the publisher of a New York
periodical in return for writing two
seriais a year and a short story each
month, as well as an answer to corres
pondents.
Buttons have assumed great import-
ance, lending an air of supreme elegance
to coats and bodices. They usually
come in three sizes, the very large ones
being used on outside coats, tae next
size for the bodice, and a smaller size
for the sleeves. Many of them are very
elegant and costly, being a disk of dead
gold or silver, surroanded by a4 rim of
brilliants or cut steel ; others are intri-
cate Genoese filigree or of faceted steel ;
still others are ot changeabla mother -of-
pearl hand-painted. Models of colored
silk are covered with silk crochet in
black.
Full waving tresses drawn back in a
very simple knot that projects shghtly
atl the crown make up the coiffure most
affected at present. The hair is parted
down the middle when becoming —that
is, when it 1s very thickly set above a
low and broad Greek forehead. CQther-
wise it is carried back and upward in a
soft waving roll, and the high forehead
is softened by a fringe not heavy
enough to be called a bang, or by a sin-
gle curl down the middle, with slight
curving tresses on the sides, A jewelled
hair pin, or one of filigree gold or silver
in small comb shape or forming a tiny
wreath, a wing, a pair of wings, or a
fun is thrust in the coil at the back.
The coronet front of the entire crown of
jewels is worn by matrons. A cockade
bow of light satin ribbon attached to a
buir-pin is very popular either in wing
shape, or as a tiny chou with two point-
ed ends springing from it.
A pretty winter gown is chestnut
brown face cloth, with a green velvet
facing on the skirt. The velvet 1s cut
on the upper edge in a waved outline,
and several velvet pipings are above it, .
all following the same outline. The
bodice has several waved pipings
around the bust, a velvet stock collar
and a little basque of cloth lined with
velvet, all in godets, so full round the
back that one would call it a fraise.
The sleeves have no particle of trim-
ming, but they are deliciously full above
the elbows ; and over the close wrist
is drawn up a tan suede mousquetaire
glove not very long, only four-bution
length, completing a toilette, with
which no one can find fault. ”
Steaming and {face massage are ad-
vised to all who are desirous of improv-
ing the complexion, but oftentimes with
little teaching as to the proper time and
intervals, Some complexions require
more care than others, and on the other
hand some skins would absolutely
injured by the friction and steam given
to another with impunity. A cosrse,
largepored skin, with a tendency to
pimples and blackheads, should be
steamed every day, and if two short
steamings do not make it uncomfortably
tender they would not be too many. A
more delicate skin, which grows red
and tender with stenming, should re-
ceive this attention not oftener than
every three days, and then only fora
short time. :
A thorough application of
soothing
be
cold
after
| a steam bath, and when convenient the
| latter should be taken just before retire-
ing, 8s the cream may then stay on the
skin foreight or nine hours without be-
ing washed off with soap. A fine, mild
soap should always be used in connee-
tion withsteaming, as a coarse soap will
i make the skin rough and sore at times.
A bitlealmond mesl is a good thing to
place in the bath or toilet basin, and
aids in softening the skin and making
it smooth, No powder and no rouges
This rule 1s implacable. and to its disre-
gard may be atiributed the non-success.
treatment.
Straight linen collars, which we ser-
iously advise artistic women to eschew,
unfortunately threaten to crowd out
rufles. Only white is permissible ;
colors vanished with the summer.
An excellent way to put on the dress
binding is to place candle wick in the
bias velvet facing, this forms a thick,
soft cord, causes the dress to stand out
from the feet and prevent it from wear-
ing.
Remember that your belts must be
no longer broad and full, bat tiny rolls,
that bring out the slenderness cf the
waist. For the short bodiced effects are
grown distasteful, and we want no more
of them. The narrow band has long
streamers In front, falling to the feet.
These sets are wonderful brighteners,
and, if a jeweled clasp catch the band
together, all the better. Sometimes the
belt is broadened into an’ Oriential
scarf, knotted loosely and falling in
fringed ends.
Rose-red cannot be put in contact
with the rosiest complexions without
causing them to lese some of their fresh-
ness. Dark red is less objectionable for
certain complexions than rose-red, be-
cause being higher than the warmer
tone it tends to impart whiteness to the
skin, in consequence of contrast of col-
or. A delicate green, is, on thecon-
trary, favorable to all fair complexions,
which are deficient in rose, and which
may have more imparted to them with-
out inconvenience. But it is notso fav-
orable to the complexions that are more
red than rosy, nor to those that have a
tint of orange mixed with brown. In
the latter case a dark green will be less
objectionable than a delicate green.
In lieu of the haircloth facing many
dressmalkers run several rows of feather-
hone, an exceedingly pliable material,
in the facings of skirts ; it is lighter, less
expensive and more manageable than
hair cloth, will not break or wear and is
not injured by dampness, »
Overskirts with very deep points
leaves or saw teeth are placed on dressy
carriage or afternoon costumes.