Bellefonte, Pa., Feb. 9, 1894.
JUDGE NOT.
Oh, men who are good, who are honored and
reat,
Be Kind to your brothers of lowly estate.
If masters, then be not in tasking severe.
If rulers, then rule men in love and not fear.
And if ye be fathers, wise, learned and strong,
Lead the little ones tenderly, slowly along.
Ere you speer at the hum! fe or punish the
se
Pause and think for awhile, “Put yourself in
their place!”
Fair Iadyy so haughty, so chaste and so cold
Kept safe from harm in love's sheltering fold,
Ere you turn from your frail, erring sister
th scorn,
Think how she was tempted and how she was
orn.
Her ruin may date from a smile or kind word,
The first that Ler poor, hungry heart ever
heard.
Then pause ere you taunt her with sin and
disgace—
How if yon had been triedl “Put yourself in
her place !”
Proud man, whom the robes of ermine enfold,
As you weigh others’ sins in the balance you
0 ’
Ere you crush the last spark ina heart doomed
to bleed,
Let mercy come in for a moment and plead,
Ere you sentence “for life,” a poor brother to
dwell
With fhe ghost of the sins that shall people
is ce
Think why you are honored and he in disgrace.
What is hid in your heart? ‘Put yourself in
his place !”
“Put yourself in their place!” Yea, have mer-
cy on all
Who through love and through hate, good or
evil shall fall;
Who knows in the light of a judgment divine,
Which soul shall be whitest, the sinner’s or
ne!
Fearto judge lest yow stand at the heavenly
oor,
To see harlots and publicans go in before,
While you cover with guilty confusion your
face
And cry, when too late, to be putin their place!
— Phoebe Cary.
TR
AN UNATTRACTIVE GIRL.
Of course such a thing has never
come into our family before, and I feel
with you. Now I should like the gray,
and I will give you just what you paid
Dulse for the green and magenta tea
gown.
The speaker settled back in a Chip-
pendale armchair, and looked inquir-
ingly across the table toward her com-
panion, who lay stretched at fall
length on a rag-covered divan. A
high colonial screen ot pressed leather,
which had been placed behind it, cut
off the rest of the room. Thereclining
woman had one of those aggressive
personalities that attract and demand
general attention. She was tall and
startlingly slender,——a fact which
the lines of her black gown brought
more into notice. Her hair, of a sandy
color, was full of life, and stood out in
natural crinkles all over her head.
She had blue eyes, now something
faded ; and her lips were so thin that,
when not in motion, she often com-
pressed them into an almost straight
line. She spoke with that nervous
quickness which is sometimes employ-
ed as an artificial substitute for the en-
thusiasm of youth.
“You are welcome to the gray,” she
said, “but the magenta and green was
a great bargain, even from Paris.
Dulse aspires to a large American pa-
tronage, and she made an effort. Still,
I don’t know,——by another year it
will be a common combination,
and perhaps I couldn’ wear it, even
then. It is a very delicate poiat to de-
cide, Harriet. When your husband
chooses to leave you by his own hand,
you can’t be expected to mourn for
him quite as you would if he had —
well, gone from natural causes. Of
course, I mourn, but I can’t help re-
membering the scandal of it. Now,
what do you think, dear? Frances will
be coming out next season ; shouldn’t
make an effort for ber sake, and light
en my black a little 2”
Her visitor meditated.
“It is a nice point,” she said,
thoughtfully shaking her head, “but
people grow more liberal all the time.
I should say you might wear gray and
lavender. Nobody will stop te count
the mouths ; and, anyway, if you are
bringing out your daughter, it will be
an excuse.”
At this moment a girl came suddenly
around the corner of the screen. Her
appearance checked the conversation
instantly. Under the best of circum-
stance she would not have been at all
good looking. Her forehead ran back
too far toward the center of her head ;
her bones were too large for their eov-
ering of flesh ; and, 4t present, her face
was so ewollen from weeping that it
was impossible to judge how amiable
or intelligent its expression might be.
She glanced inquiringly at her mother,
who had slipped into an upright posi-
tion, and now gave a litile gesture of
dismay. ped
“What a fright you have made of
yourself again, Frances I” ghe said.
“Here is your cousin, Harriet, who
has been comforting me most tenderly.
Nobody in the family, Harriet, has
said just the right thing to me in the
way you have. Most of them have
showed no sensibility, no tact. The
Remingtons came over and put me
through a regular catechism. Did I
known of ‘any cause? Was John fi-
nancially embarrassed? Was he mor-
bid? Was he ill? Had he over-
worked himself ? They talked as if he
were a martyr ; and Frances is nearly
as bad. Now, when a man leaves his
family to disgrace n :
“Oh ! mamma, please don’t I”
The girl flushed painfully through
her thin, freckled skin, and passed
her hand; with an impatient motion
over her hair, which was several
shades deeper red than her mother’s.
“Now, Frances, don’t try to dictate
to me. Your cousin Harriet knows
thatit is so. There was no cause.
‘We are not any poorer than we always
have been, and ['ve stretched a dollar
twice as far as. most women. It he
wasn't insane, I don’t know the rea-
son.
She was addressing the older woman
at the end, but the girl faced about,
savagely, Her pink-rimmed eyes had
caught fire; her hands clinched. She
glared at her mother, trembling like an
animal ready to make an attack,
“I know the reason !” she flung out
violently.
“Frances |” :
“I know the reason perfectly well ;
he was nagged, nagged, nagged, and
be got discouraged, and he couldn’t
bear it any longer, and he killed him-
self I”
Her passion spent itself in the last
words, and her voice shook. There
was a moment's pause ; then she turn-
ed, and, crying bitterly, stumbled out
of the room.
The two older women had risen and
stood opposite each other. The visitor
looked embarrassed and awkward.
“I must go,” she murmured ; “the
horses are clipped.”
Mrs. Vermilye raised het handker-
chief to her eyes.
*Good-by,” she said from behind it
“And don’t mention this new trial to
the rest of the family, Harriet, for
Frances sake.”
Dinner had been over for a couple of
hours and Mrs. Vermilye sat beside
her daughter's dressing table, superin-
tending her first ball toilet. The year
of their mourning had ceased only ten
days since, and although Frances had
been sent by her mother to opera par-
ties, teas and dinners at the end of
eight months, this was, strictly speak-
ing, her formal introduction into socie-
ty. The face of the elder woman ap-
peared more anxious and thinner than
ever. Her voice sounded more irrita-
ble and she talked out her thoughts
without much regard as to whether
Frances responded or not.
“I do hope I'm not making a mis-
take in sending you with your Aunt
Eustis,” she was saying. She won’t
have the slighest notion in putting you
forward. I wish I had sent an excuse
to Sartoris, and gone with you myself.
But your cousin Julia will help you.
Try to imitate Julia a little, Frances ;
she is always a success with the men.
Laugh a little, whether you are
amused or not ; try to seem interested ;
hold yourself up, and don’t let that va-
cant stare come into your eyes I’
The girl made a quick attack upon
her powder-box but said nothing.
“If that yellow gown doesn’t give
you self-confidence,” her mother went
on, “nothing ever will. That shade,
with your hair, is tremendously effec-
tive. And after all, people would rath-
er have a novelty than downright
beauty ; it takes better, Oh, dear,
dear! life is so unexpected. When
you were a baby, I used to dream of
how I should bring you out, with a
grand reception to all the best people ;
and now here we are, living in an
apartment, and you care nothing.
Frankly, Frances, I don’t see where
| you get your temperament. Your poor
1 fale in spite of everything, was gen-
jal.)
She sighed. and regarded her daugh-
ter reproachfully. The girl went on
with her dressing calmly, save for a
slight contraction of her nostrils.
“I don’t think there is very much
use in my going about, mamma,” she
said. “I am not pretty, and I can’t
talk small talk.”
“Nonesense ; it is not what one says,
but the way one says it, that counts.
You have nc vivacity of manner.” .
“I don't feel any.” Frances’ voice
quivered. “I never shall attract the
sort of attention you mean, and I don’t
intend to try any more. Whenever 1
have, as you say, pnt myself forward
to a man, he has always stared as it
he was surprised, answered mein a
hurry and gone on talking across me
to some other girl.”
Her mother rose and began walking
up and down the room impatiently.
“There, there; you talk like a little
goose ; you have no pride.”
“I hope I have too much pride to
clutch at every man as a possible hus-
band.” She sounded steadier, and
more defiant.
“Now, don’t be a school girl, Frances
Nobody has said a word about clutch-
ing at husbands ; although I trust with
all my heart, you may have a good
one, who will give the suitable home
your father deprived you of. I am sure
I don’t want you to marry any one
whom vou don’t like ; but at the same
time, you ought to remember that we
are not millionaires. I am straining
every nerve to find you clothes, as it is;
and you know perfectly well that you
haven’t the money for charities and
arts, and all the fads that rich girls can
make an excuse for not marrying.”
Frances would have replied, but the
entrance of a maid, bringing Mr. Sar-
toris’s card, interrupted her.
Mrs, Vermilye glanced in a mirror,
and touched up her laces.
“Let me see you before you go
away,” she said.
Half an hour later, Frances appeared
to her mother and Sartoris in the draw-
ing room and stood awkwardly wait-
ing for the former's inspection. Sar-
toris had risen as she entered, and his
eyes now wandered over her indifter-
ently, He was a large man, whose
good living showed iteelf in too ample
flesh and a shining, high-colored com-
plexion. He expressed the polite hope
in an absent-minded manner, that Miss
Francis would erjoy her ball, and re-
sumed the conversation where it had
been left before she was fairiy out of
the room, As the maid put. on her
cloak, outside the door, she could hear
him saying, “Yes, that land scheme
was very fortunate ; I shall build at
Bar Harbor in the spring.”
It was late when Frances came in,
and the gas had been turned very low
in the hall. As she felt her way along
the train of her dress canght on a
chair, and she uttered a low exclama-
tion. Instantly her mother called :
“Is that you, Frances? Come into
my room a moment.”
The girl struck a light, and going
over sat down on the edge of the bed.
Her dress was as fresh and stiff, and
her hair as smooth, as when she left,
four hours before. She had nothing of
‘the fatigue and disheveled look of a
woman who had danced through an
entire evening. Mrs. Vermilye sbield-
her eyes from the sudden glare and
blinked at her daugnter inquiringly.
“Did you have a good time?’ she
"asked.
Francis pulled off her gloves and
rolled them up carefully.
“I don’t suppose you would consider
that I did,” she replied, at last. But
I rather enjoyed watching the women,
and the men were awfully funny
sometimes.”
“Fanny ? Dido’t you dance ?”’
“Four times. Once with Cousin
George, and twice with a man whose
pame I didn’t catch, and once with
Mr. Brundige.”
Mrs. Vermilye propped herself up
with an extra pillow.
“Well, I should think your Aunt
Eustis might have managed better than
that for you, I wish I had gone my-
self.”
“I think Aunt Eustis made an ef-
fort,” said the girl, flushing, but hon-
est. ‘She presented a good many men ;
and Julia was kind, too. Itried to be
pleasant ; I think I tried too hard;
anyway, it didn’t make any difference,
they all excused themselves.”
Mrs. Vermilye gave an exasperated
exclamation.
“Frances, it makes me shudder to
hear you talk like this. If you think
such things, you shouldn’t say them.
Never admit that you haven't every-
thing you want. If you aim to suc:
ceed, pretend you're successful.”
Frances unclasped her string of
pearls without replying.
“Who took you out to supper ?”
“Lord Barton.”
“Lord Barton? The man whose
name I saw in the papers last Sunday.
Isn’t he a friend of the Lefforts ? Why
didn’t you speak of him before ?”
“There wasn’t anything in particu-
lar to say of him. He is a nice old
man, about 60, 1 should fancy, and
very quiet, I think he felt sorry for
me. He took me down to supper, and
we sat out a waltz,
call Friday.”
“Frances |”
“Why, mamma, you always have
said that I didn’t ask men to our
day.”
“Of course child ; young men whom
we meet everywhere and informally ;
but an Englishman of his age, with his
ideas of propriety for a girl | Oh, you
have no instincts | What will he think
of you I"
Frances began to collect her wraps.
“I am sorry I asked him,” she replied
from the doorway, ‘because he said he
should come.”
“Oh, by the way,” called her moth-
er, “‘Sartoris was more tiresome than
ever; but he has a box for the new
play Thursday, and we are to dine at
the Waldorf before it—six ot us.”
In spite of her protestations Mrs.
Vermilye’s rooms had an aspect of par-
ticular festivity on the tollowing Fri-
day. There were hyacinths in the cut
glass vases, and some gold spoons had
been brought out tor the tea table. The
lady herself looked more alive, more
wiry, than ever, as she received in an
elaborate tea gown. It was evident
that Frances, too, had been dressed for
the occasion ; but the original design
of her brocade coat, with its eoft laces,
was almost lost by the awkward bear-
ing with which it was worn.
Whether or not ithad been intima-
ted by Mrs. Vermilye that his lordship
would drink tea with her, there was
an unusual number of guests, includ-
ing a large family contingent. Toward
the end of the afternoon, Lord Barton,
did, indeed, arrive. When he had met
Mrs. Vermilye, and been duly seated
beside her, he appeared a good deal
embarrassed by the prominence of his
position. One or two women, who
were near enough, put questions in-
tended to give him a conversational
start with themselves, Mrs. Vermilye
called his attention to her French
poodle, which had just strayed in.
Thereupon, his right-hand neighbor
began to gush: “Of course, Lord
Barton loves dogs. All Englishmen
have that true liking for animals and
sport.” The marvellously clipped
poodle came over, and stood meekly
before Barton, as if to apologize for the
association of himself with the idea of
killing anything. Nobody saw any
humor in the situation. Even Lord
Barton patted the dog’s head kindly,
and assured his inquirer that he was
not a great sportsman ; in fact, had
uot carried a gua fot fifteen years.
Presently, during the commotion of
a departure, he drifted over to a win-
dow seat, where Frances was twirling a
tea-ball diligently in a tiny. cup. She
flushed furicusly at his approach and
two of her cousins raised their eye-
brows significantly. Mrs, Vermilye
saw it, and felt elated. It was proba-
bly the first time in her life that Fran-
ces had ever called forth this meaning
in an eyebrow.
© Neither she nor Lord Barton said
much to each other. They both look-
ed rather warm and not quite at ease.
Just at this juncture, however, general
attention was diverted by the an-
nouncement of Mr. Sartoris. He at
once settled himself comfortably in the
chair. Lord Barton had left. and prepar-
ed to include the entiré circle in his
expansive conversation. Mrs. Ver-
milye introduced him to Lord Barton,
and it provoked tresh outbursts.
“I am glad to meet your lordship,”
he went on, after the first civilities.
‘I’ve had itin my mind to visit your
noble country, and I shall get there
some day, It isn’t the time that trou-
bles me, you see ; it’s that infernal—I
beg pardon—that six days on the wa-
ter, away from the telegraph, away
from all communcation. If you are a
business man, with large interests, vou
ean’t afford to take chances. And you
don’t realize, sir, how much can hap-
pen in six days here in America, if it
ouce gets about it. Six minutes clean:
ed out a friend of mine on the stock ex-
changed tke other day.
Not long after this tea gossip began
to take a more lively interest in the
Vermilye family. It spoke of the
mother in connection with Sartoris,
and of the daughter as a possibly Lady
Barton. In the case of the latter, the
newspapers took up the subject, graph-
ically announcing an engagement on
one day and denying it in the next.
They went over all the details of the
affair, on both sides, repeatedly. They
I asked him to
rehearsel Lord Barton's history and
the history of his house. They put
headlines on Miss Vermilye’s lack of
history, as-if it were a criminal case
coming up for trial. Certain enter- |
prising editors even made a stock of |
the tragedy that had left her a halt or- |
phan, There was plenty of bitter for |
Mrs. Vermilye, mixed with the sweet !
of her publicity. Moreover, in the!
eyes of her friends she was well aware |
that, aside from his title, Lord Barton
could not be considered as in any way |
a brilliant match for an ambitious |
girl. His disregard of social position,
his frankly avowed lack of fortune, his
small stature and mild, hesitating man-
ner, had all helped to keep him free
from much matrimonial target prac-
tice. It was because the girl was
not ambitious, whose relatives had for
years gone about openly pitying her
plainness, that his attentions were re-
garded as little short of a miracle,
Judged by an American standard.
these attentions were, perhaps, not
sufficient to trace a cause for the first
public ramor of them : They cousisted
of frequent calls during which he and
Frances often read a new book while
Mrs. Vermilye discreetly wrote notes
on the otherside of the portiere, gifts
of books and flowers, and innumerable
small courtesies at parties, or wherever
they chanced to meet.
Mrs. Vermilye watched her daugh-
ter brighten and gain poise under these
new conditioas. She began to venture
opinions on many subjects ; she took
an interest in her gowns; and, at her
suggestion, a hairdresser now came
twice a week to wave her hair in the
prevailing fashion. Ot most of the
outside comment going on concerning
her, however, she remained entirely
ignorant, She had no intimate girl
friend to speak of it, she seldom read
newspapers, and her mother’s supposi-
tions and hints had, from their very
constancy, long since ceased to have
any great value in her mind.
It was while affairs were thus, to all
appearances, favorable for another “in-
ternational match,” that his lordship
created a disturbance by an unexpec-
ted departure for the west. He sent
Miss Vermilye a bunch of yellow tu-
lips, with a note of farewell, in which
he spoke incidentally of their future
meeting.
These came during breakfast ; and
after Frances had read the little letter
aloud, her mother took it between her
thumb and finger and used it as a text
for various speculations on the subject.
It was an unexpected thrust and for a
few moments her opinions were at see-
saw with eachother. Now it was “the
most natural thing in the world that
Lord Barton should go off to see the
west at once, because later,” signifi-
cantly, “it might not be quite in order
for him to run away.” The next in-
stant it was “queer that he had given
no hint ; it looked like a retreat.
Frances listened for half an hour,
sometimes amused, sometimes annoyed.
Her feelings could not have been defin-
ite to herself. When a girl has been
systematically trained to regard her-
gelt chiefly from the point of view of
any man who may possibly want to
marry her, che is apt to lose sight of all
personal inclinations.
Mrs. Vermilye went over the evi-
dence of Lord Barton's preference for
Frances again and again ; but it never
for an instant entered into her calcula-
tions to consider her daughter’s prefer-
ence. After all she probably took it
for granted that Frances had no right
to a preference.
It was a week after his lordship’s
departure that Mrs. Vermilye.came in-
to Frances’s room one afternoon and
insinuatiogly demanded her immediate
attention. It was evident that she
had a disclosure to make, and she went
about it systematically.
“My dear,” she began, “I want to
talk to you a little about some practi-
cal matters. You will do me the jus-
tice to admit that 1 have always spared
you these annoyances. But 1 don’t
think that you have ever quite realized
how very little your poor papa left us
to get along with. You have never
been willing to hear a word against
him—not that I have anything to say
against him that all the world hasn’t
heard. Bat, at all events, you'll grant
that it was like him, to have to let one
of his insurance policies lapse. There
were some worthless securities, and of
course when I had to convert things in-,
to money I lost. ButI had to have
ready money somehow; you can see
that. You were coming out, and it
meant your future. As it is, we have
lived here very decently; you have
worn good clothes, and you have gone
everywhere. Nobody has suspected our
strait, not even the Remingtons, who
have been so near. I have managed—
I have made my sacrifices—"
“You have been very kind, mam-
ma,” broke in the girl. “If I haven't
seemed to appreciate it, you must re-
member that I am not demonstra.
tive.”
Her mother moved uneasily.
“I don't want you to be demonstra-
tive Frances ; only sensible. I want you
to see things as they are. Now, the truth
is, yesteirday I began to draw on the
last thousand dollars we have in the
world.” .
She paused as if to watch the effect
of this statement. Frances gave a soft
sympathetic cry.
“Why didn’t you tell me? How
selfish, how careless I have been!”
She put out her hand toward her
mother, and then withdrew it sudden-
ly at the sight of the calm satisfaction
in her face.
“You needn’t begin te worry now,”
she said. “You have had your chance.
I don’t complain, although I have
stood alone with no one to advise me
or to lean upon. Of course people will
have to know, sooner or later, that you
are dowerless ; but they can’t have ex-
pected much. Lord Barton doesn’t, I
am sure. There is only one thing. He
might draw back if he knew, youn had a
mother dependent upon you. Euoglish-
men and foreigners feel more strongly
against their mother-in-laws than we
do in this country. No don’t interrupt
me. You remember Fanny Willough-
by who married that German prince—
what is his name? When her mother
wanted to see her she bad to go and
| board in the village ; she was never in-
vited to sleep at the castle. Think of
the humiliation! And you could not
expect me to want to be a burden,
could you?”
“Why will you persist in talking all
this about Lord Barton so horribly for
granted |”
“I take nothing for granted; I sim-
plv don’t intend to stand in your light.”
“How can yon speak as if 1 should
be like Fanny Willoughby ?”
“Well, I should be a superanunated
old woman, with. a place before your
library fire. I should be grandmother
to your children, and expected to tell
them stories, no doubt. To have no
authority ; to be put aside; I tell you
quite frankly, I couldn’t stand it. A
way has been offered me out of all this
anxiety. For both of our sakes I in-
tend to takeit.” She paused, and then
added, quietly, “I am going to marry
Sartoris.”
Frances sat straight,
several seccnde.
“You are going to marry—you?”’
she gasped.
Her mother colored deeply at the
tone. “And why not? Am Iin my
second childhood ?”
*I don’t believe it.”
“My dear Frances, you are unreag-
onable. I tell you that we are pau-
pers. You assure me in one breath
that Lord Barton means nothing ; in
in the next you blame me? Mr. Sar-
toris is ready to do all that a father
can for you.”
“Father I” The girl turned as if she
bad been struck. That man my father!
That vulgar, dissipated—oh, mamma,
don’t sell yourself to him—don’t—
don’t 1”
“Frances, you forget that I am your
mother.”
“No, I don’t; I don’t forgetit; but
it doesn’t deceive me. He would nev-
er have been permitted to come here at
all, if it hadn,t been for his money.
He has bought his way in, with his
theatre boxes and parties. Money,
you say you haven’t any ; but there
must be something else. Somebody
must help us. The Remingtons will
let us stay with them until we can
think what to do. Oh, mamma, don’t
don’t marry him!” she threw herself
down on her knees, sobbing ; but Mrs.
Vermilye drew away.
“I am not an object of charity yet,”
she said, “and it seems to me you have
an odd way of showing your gratitude
to the mother who bas given up every-
thing for you, and to Mr. Sartoris, who
offers you a home with us as long as
you need one.”
While she was speaking Frances
had risen.
“I shall never need one.” she replied
in a hollow voice. “If I should starve
in the streets, I should never need a
home paid for in that way.”
The following days were trying for
both mother and daughter. Each, ap-
parently, was waiting for the other to
bring about a second crisis. Affairs
were in this state when Lord Darton
made known his return by an after
noon call. Mrs. Vermilye was out pay-
ing visits. and Frances received him.
The next morning he returned again,
however, and asked to see Mrs. Ver-
milye alone. When he had gone Mrs.
Vermilye hastened to hunt up her
daughter, with a countenance of beam-
ing conciliation. She swept away all
awkwardness by embracing the girl
warmly.
“I congratulate you,” she eried. ‘It
is just as I had supposed it would be;
Lord Barton has asked me for you.”
Frances disengaged herself mechani-
cally. She seemed dazed.
silent for
“He was so manly about it!” her
mother continued. ‘He admitted that
he hado’t a large income; but then
you will be presented, and have a posi-
tion. 1 didn’t forget your interests. I
made it a condition that he should go
out more. Darling Frances, I am so
happy for you.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she
answered, almost angrily. “I am not
going to marry Lord Barton.
“He spoke to me first, dear; it is the
custom of his countrv. He loves you.”
“Did he say he loved me?”
‘He spoke with great feeling.”
“No; he does not love me,” cried
Frances. I have been thinking lately
about what was right and wrong, and
now I know what I never did before—
I just waited for things to turn up, and
accepted them. But I will tell you
why it is, mamma ; I have been shame-
lessly flung at his head.. I realized it
in one way, and in another I didn’t.
He waseso old, and he took more inter-
est in me than anybody, and tried to
help me get something out of myself.
I knew everybody was thinking he
might, perhaps, be willing to marry
me, and if he were, I ought to be very
grateful. Iam not pretty; I am not
rich. It was not the highest bidder in
my case; it was any bidder. I suppose
I must have admitted this to myself,
I wouldn't have gone on listening to
you. But I know better now. 1 know
what it means to sell one’s self for a
home.”
Her mother colored at the last words,
but ignored them in her reply.
“Are you sure you don’t love him ?”
she asked.” Are you surelove couldn’t
come after marriage?’ Tt often does.”
“It wouldn’t matter if I did love
him,” Frances persisted. ‘He doesn’t
love me; he is only sorry for me.
Why, only yesterday I told him”—she
hesitated, then went on—*I told him”
about you. I said I should go to
work. I asked his advice, his help.
you see, he thinks I am not even clev-
er enough to take care of myself. He
pities me: oh, he must pity me very
much, indeed, to marry me!”
Mrs. Vermilye grew a little pale and
her thin hands worked nervously. She
could hardly hold back her voice from
a shriek.
“You have been very wicked and
untruthful,” she said. “You have
tried to cast a slur on your mother.
You have showed no gratitude for Mr.
Sartoris’s hospitality.
would bring another disgrace upon
e.
“I shall not bring another disgrace
on vou,” replied Frances quietly. “I
shall be honest, and I shall work. I
am sorry for what I said the other
day. I don’t want you to think I
blame you for what you are going to
do. It isn’t for me to judge. I was
doing the same thing until you brought
home to me. what it meant.”
There was a new sweetness and dig-
nity about her, but Mrs. Vermilye had
gone beyond any such mild influences.
Her bright hair quivered ; ber lips lost
their color. “I have done everything,”
she wailed, “everything. You are of
common blood. You are like your
father!"
Frances went over and took her
hand very gently. “Do not let us
speak of it again, mamma,” said she.
“The criticism will be all of me, not
you. I engaged this morning to go
with the Bentley-Morrisons as their
nursery governess.’ —Mary G. L. Un-
derwood in the New England Magazine,
Democrats, Attention ;
DemocrATIC STATE COMMITTEE, \
PHILA, Jan, 31, 1894. J
To Tak ELECTORS OF PENNSYLVANIA ©
The Democratic State Convention,
1894,
nominated its candidate and adopted its
held in Harrisburg, January 10,
platform with unanimity and with a de-
gree of enthusiasm that has not been un-
surpassed. A representative convention
of nearly five hundred delegates, as-
sembled from every Representative dis-
trict in the State, without a seat con-
tested and without a dissenting voice,
ranged itself in solid support of the nat-
ional organization of the party and of
the Democratic Administration of the
It
nominated a representative Democrat as
Federal and State Governments.
the candidate for Representative-at-
large in Congress upon a platform in ac-
cordance with the last authorized deliv-
erance of the National Democracy, and
with its exposition by a Democratic
President.
with and support of the efforts of a De-
It declared their sympathy
mocratic Congress to relieve the country
from business depression and from all
the bad effects of Republican misrule.
It declared for a true American system
which would bring relief for languishing
commercial interests, better wages to
American labor, and which will restore
American commerce.
Hon. James DENTON HANCOCK, of
Franklin Venango County, the candi-
date for
Congress, is a man of high and pure
Representative-at-Large in
character, of large attainments and ex-
perience, with the intelligence to have
convictions and the courage and hones-
ty to avow them. He is the candidale
of the whole party, and is entitled to its
unanimous support. ;
Gratified by these conditions, the or-
ganization of the Democratic Party in
Pennsylvania, feels encouraged to call
upon the electors of the State, without
regard to party affiliations, to rally to his
We believe that the principle
of tariff reform has permeated the minds
support.
of the people of Pennsylvania, and that,
in the language of the Harrisburg plat-
form, they are ready to ‘‘record the vote
of their State in Congress for an en-
lightened, liberal and progressive sys-
tem, that must quicken the prosperity of
our Commonwealth and promote the
general welfare of the country.”
We have everything to gain and
nothing to lose by discussion and agita-
tion. I therefore appeal to and call
upon the organization of the party in
every election district to disseminate tiie
principles of the party as declared in its
platform and in the deliverance of its
candidate, and to promote, full, fair,
and free discussion of the issues of the
campaign. To the end that there may
be efficient and vigorous organization, I
call upon the Democracy of the State to
pertect their organizations by counties,
by election districts and by school dis-
tricts. Above all, let there be a spirit
of unity and harmony throughout the
organization and in every district, so
that a singleness of purpose may prevade
{the efforts of the party toward the elec-
tion of its candidate, and unity of
counsel may be joined with efficiency of
organization and aggression in action.
If the half million Democratic voters
of Pennsylvania will record their votes
for the nominee of their party, Penn-
sylvania will take its right place in the
Democratic line.
J MARSHALL WRIGHT
Chairman State Committee.
Sibley Gets His Letter of Resignation.
HARRISBURG, Pa., Jan. 31.— This af-
ternoon Governor Pattison sent Con-
gressman Sibley a letter acknowledge-
I, who have |
made every sacrifice for you—you’
ing the receipt of his communication
withdrawing his resignation and en-
closing the letter of resignation.
5