ial, nimble of brain, and facile of tongue, she a nonpareil of a foil to her stately mate. She was an orphan, Morris. With blending grin and snarl, she told what a relief it was to her to be rid of a troublesome parasite. Her was strong enough to put away ounce and for all the memory of the falsest woman ehe had ever known ; to tram: added strange gentleness to her casual speech of her escort in the ves: and overweighted beart, “I am glad! "countenance. Turning to reply to a glad / GLap! that I forgave her before. I heard of it I” Bellefonte, Pa., March 23, 1894, For and About Women. black eyes twinkled and glared alter- nately as she surveyed the statuesque listener whose black gown accentuated her pallor. “I could have told you why she _tibule, she found herseli face to face | with Renselaer Morris. | He held out his hand mautely, to | meet hers in a close clasp before either | spoke. ple upon the shards of tawdry clay idols. Fate had decreed that she should be eet apart from happy dwell- ersin happy homes on this night when | the jocund mormur of the Easter dawn | and dependent upon a tart, stingy great-aunt. The girls were intimate from the beginning of their school life to the evil day when Sara set out for California with her invalid mother. A The second Vassar graduate to receive from Yale the honor of the publication of her thesis at the expense of the uni- THE SLEEP. | Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward into souls afar, Along the psalmist’s music deep, Now tell me if that any is, For gitt or grace surpassing this— “He giveth His beloved sleep?” What would we give to our beloved? The hero's heart, to be unmoved, The poet's star-tuned heart to weep, The patriots voice to teach and rouse, The monarch’s erown to light the brows? He giveth His beloved Fer What do we give to our beloved ? A little faith, all undisproved, A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake. He giveth His beloved sleep. “Sleep soft, beloved !” we sometimes say, ‘Who hath no tune to charm away 4 Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep, But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber ‘when He giveth His beloved sieep. . Oh earth, so full of dreary noises, ! Oh men, with wailing in your voices, O delved gold, the walter’s heap, Oh strife, oh curse, that’s o'er it all God strikes a silence through you all, And giveth His beloved sleep. His dews drop mutely on the hill, His clouds above it falleth still. Though on its slope men sow and reap More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, He giveth His beloved sleep. Ay, men may wonder while they scan A living, thinking, feeling man, Confirmed in such a rest to keep; But angels say, and through the Word I think their happy smile is heard “He giveth His beloved sleep.” For me, my heart that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show— Seeing through tears the jugglers leap, Would fain its weared vision close, And, child-like on His love repose Who ‘*giveth His beloved sleep. And friends—dear friends—when it shall be That this low breath has gone from me— When round my hier you come to weep, Let, one, most loving of you all, Say, ‘Not a tear must o’er her fall. Te giveth His beloved sleep.” : —&lizabeth Barret Browning MISS LIVINGSTON. BY MARION HARLAND, Mies Livingston had been one of the passengers on the Bedavia when she came into port after a rough voyage one week before Iintroduce you to her. For all that environment said to the contrary, she might hawe occupied her present abode for seven years. Her only brother had taken the house in Fifty-seventh Street, and had it fitted up, at her reguest with old fur- niture, bequeathed to her by her moth- er, Miss Livingston had brought over with her diverscases filled with stuff accumulated in five years’ residence and travels dia foreign lands. The room in which she sat alone on the Saturday night before Easter Sunday. was small, Jusurious and glowingly coy with the blaze of a wood fire and’ the shaded shine ot a silver lamp. She had net.moved for an hour. Her head lay back amoeg the yielding cushions of her casy-chair; her hands were folded together in her lap. They were beautiful hands, dong, slim, and perfect in form. The full gray eyes, that seemed to count the tossing waves of flame, were deepened by thought or sadness, but not softened. The mouth lines were proud and se- vere. Attitude and vieage belonged to one who knew fate too well to fight against it, yet whose fortitude failed not. “Hagdsomer than ever—and /Aaugh- tier!" Mrs. Robert Livingston bad re- ported to her husband after lundbing with her sister-in-law that day. “She hast’t.gone off one bit, although she is only two years younger than I. It is odd that the children should take to her as they do. She /ineisted upon my bringing Cathy and Rob with me. Of course she doesa’t understand baby- talk, but she gets along wonderfully with them,” “Sara was always seneible, interject- ed the husband of Miss Livingston’s sis- ter-in-law, dryly. His pippin-cbeeked spouse prattled on, ‘She brought me some keavenly old lace and the darlimgest spring outfits for the children. They must have cost frightfully.” “Sara was always the most generous of women,” rejoined her husband rais- ing his glass with a gesture that, to a quick-witted.or imaginative spectator, would have hinted at an inaudible toast and apostrophized pledge. Mra. Robert Livingston’s wits were practical, and a high-shouldered tur- key-hen has more imagination, Had a modicum of ¢act compensated meas- urably for these deficiencies, she would have kept baek her next observa- tion: “It wasn’t in the least like a eonfirm- ed old maid to eater so cleverly for my tastes and the children’s complexions, Heigho! 1 suppose people will call your sister that. Seems to me that belles ate not so apt to marry well as others. Think of wha: Sara was—ac- complished, literary aud so on—and here she is, at twenty-seven, Sara Liv- ingston still.” “There are worse possibilities in women's lives than to be Sara Living- stons at any age,” said the sententious auditor, He never bickered with his pippin- cheeked Agnes, but neither would he have her belittle one he loved fondly in his way—which was also his sis- ter’s. At twenty-one Mies Livingston had named as her “triumvirate of best- be loveds’ her mother, her brother, and Vida Van Nest. “You put me last!” pouted her con- fident. “The third place heart is better worth having than’ the firet in any other, but when the prince who will cutrank us all stepsinto line. AIshall be fourth—almost out in the .cold.” in your | winter in Santa Barbara was impera- tively advised by desperate doctors, and the daughter caught at the faint hope the recommendation held out with the energy of almost despairing love. Her brother was abroad upon his bridal tour, and she resisted the powerful im- pulse to recall him. He bad planned to be absent for a year, and the ques: tion of life or death would be decided in a few months. She would have taken Vida Van Nest with her into exile but for the obstinate refusal of the aunt to allow her ward to accept the richer girl’s invitation. She “would: not let her flesh and blood play the part of humble companion even toa Livingston.” The decision reported tearfully by Vida, disappointed Sara. She was too sad of heart to be hurt or angry. She had much upon her mind just then. Her lately betrothed Rensselaer Morris, a rising young law- yer, discouraged the Santa Barbara scheme vigorously, and finally resent- fully. With the heated intolerance of the healthy young, he classed chronic invalidism with “fads.” Mrs. Living- stons cough was partly nervousness, paruy indigestion, according to his dis- daintul’ diagnosis. It was preposter- ous and professional in the physicians to send her to the Western water-shed of the continent, when the best air and the best civilization were to be found upon the Eastern. It was cruel and characteristic in the prospective moth- er-in-law to accept their dicta. Had Sara loved him as he loved her, she would cast the weight of her influence into the scale that held his happiness and hers. As the time of departure drew near, variance of sentiment became a clash of wills. Each of the privately plight ed pair was proud; both were con- scientious in belief and action. Love fanned the flame of dissension, and when rupture came, it was the parting of a frayed cord rather than the snapping of a cable. So said Miss Livingston to her moth- er and to Vida. Mrs. Livingston nev- er guessed the cause of the quarrel. She had confidence in her daughter. It was fortunate that the engagement had not been announced, she remarked when Sara told her that it was broken. There would be no need to mention it in her next letter to Robert. Things happened so providentially. And about furs now ? It seemed hardly worth while to call upon Gunther for the long seal-skin cloak she had sent to him for storage last spring: A fur- lined circular ought to be all she would need in a climate where strawberries ripened out-of-doors in January. On the eve of the journey the two girls sat together in Sara's dressing room, four feet mpon the fender-stool that now supported Miss Livingston’s Paris slippers, and talked until the stir and groan of the awakening city anguish of what the new day bad in store, Sara Livingston let her com pan- ion gee to the bleeding core of her heart. “I love him as I love my own soul— aod more !” shesaid, her face agleam with strange pallid fire. ‘“He has said harsh words of my ‘willingness to sacrifice him for the the vagaries of a hypochondriac.” It was suffering that made him unjust. Should he judge me more leniently—should you guess, never 80 remotely, tbat he would ac cept a recall—tell him frankly what I bave said to you to-night. Tell bim that estrangement is slow death to me, that I could go to the stake as easily as to leave him, Oh, I must be very wretched, or I could not say thus much even to you, dear heart! See how I trust you, surelyas no woman ever before trasted another!” Between her sobs, clinging to Sara with gushing tears and consoling caresses, Vida promised all that was asked—and much besides. What woman’s ingenity could devise and loving arts accomplish should be brought to bear upon the prideful lover to win him back to his allegiance. “Only give me a few weeks—maybe a month or two. ‘Time and I against any other two.’ What chance has -one man, however haughtily obstinate, against us—especially when his own heart is a traitor to his will 2” Away off in the monotonous sun- shine of the Californian town, Sara waited, first hopefully, then patiently, for news of the predicted change, no- ting reluctantly the growing infrequen- cly of Morris's name in Vida's letters, yet never asked a question of how mat- ters were goingunder the tender diplo- macy of her ambassadress. After six years of knowing and loving her friend doubt tound po lodgment in her thoughts of the leal little fairy. Mrs. Livingston’s decline, although When spring-time came, she was re- moved by easy stages to a mountain village in New Mexico, and there spent the long, heartlessly bright sum- mer. In September, Robert Living- ston was summoned to see herdie. It was mid-Oetober when he returned to New York, bringing his dead mother and living sister. The day after the funeral Sara bad a call from her ancient aversion, Vida Van Nest’s great aunt. The sorrow- ing girl's inquiries for her friend had been answered by the intelligence that Vida was visiting relatives in Boston. Bara had no letter from her for more than a month. Rensselaer Morris's name had not been mentioned by eith- er of the friends in half a year. Hast ening eagerly down stairs 10 meet one who must have later tidings of her for whose companionship the orphaned heart was famishing, she was met by a blunt revelation that would have driv- en a weaker woman mad. She was a bewitching elf—this dearest girl friend of the belle, Bru- nette, pefite, animated, supple, mercur- Mies Van Nest the elder had that morning received news of her niece's marriage yesterday to Mr. Rensselaer could be heard. In the anticipatory. unmistakable, was agonizingly slow., wouldn’t go with you to California, The Lord knows I tried hard to shake her off my hands then, but she was like a rock. She staid for a purpose, and so I told her. He walked right in to the trap, coming, first, and for ever so long, to see her because she was your confidante, until she fastened her soft clutches—like a devil-fish’s—upon him. I used to listen at the inner dodr of the library, and hear how the pretty work went on. He was all for writing to you and making up, and taking all the blame upon himself, until she told of atalk youtwo had the night before you set out for California, and how you bad charged ber to keep him from an- noying you with overtures, since your love tor him had died out like the snuff of a candle—'killed by your Liv- ingston pride. That is what she called it. By-and-by he believed her. I didn’t. I've known the little snake too long, I wrote to her last week that you were on your way home. ‘Look out, my lady I" I said. ‘She’ll get him back yet? So I wasn’t surprised when the letter came to-day.” She chuckled so maliciously that Sara rallied the pride at which aunt and niece had sneered. Every slow word had the chill and tinkle of an ice pellet. “I am sorry to hear that your niece bas repaid your many benefits by such flagrant ingratitude, and done such discredit to the breeding learned from you.” As she gaidit,shearose. “Sor- ry, also that you have put yourself to the inconvenience of coming out on a rainy day to tell me a story that con- cerns me less than it would have done a year ago. The engrossing interests of the past eight or ten months have made other matters seem unimportant. If there is nothing I can do to testify to my sympathy in your affliction, will you excuse me? I am very busy with preparations for an absence from home that will last for several years. I have friends who sail for Japan next week, and I shall accompany them. 1 have long desired to see the Orient, and at leisure.” Her civil smile, if wintry, was unem- barrassed. In reporting the interview to her niece, the toiled gossip assured the bride that her former intimate “didn’t care a brass penny for old crony or old lover.” Mies Livingston had sailed for the East before the newly wedded couple returned to New York. Since then, herfeet had trodden more lands than she cared to enumerate to-night. She wag weary in body, mind and spirit. Agnes always drew hard upon her cel lular tissue, and with the passionate love for children which even Agnes had discerned there mingled, when with them, in definable longings aud disallowed pain. The elderly cousin who conserved the proprieties in the manless household was passing the evening with friends. Miss Living- ston was utterly alone in her cozy cor- ner, and, she admitted to her candid consciousness. utterly desolate. Between her and the red-hearted fire grew as she mused, the simulacrum of a picture she had seen in a Venetian gallery. High upon a black rock, surrounded by sullen surges that were sicklied, not illumined, by a waning moon, a shipwrecked woman wasted by famine, raised eyes and hands to heaven in a prayer not for succor, but for death. It was a grewsome fantasy for one steeped in the warmth and color of this luxurious nook, but it forced itself upon her, a ghastly interlude to the stages of reminiscence. What I have recounted succinctly, she dwelt upon at length, sparing herself no detail, tempering no blackness of shadow with factitious gleams. Of the four people who had made her world and were the light thereof, but one re- mained to her, the brother whose reti- cence she interpreted by her own, and there were Agnes and the children to be considered before his thought coulda reach her. His Easter offering, received at dusk that afternoon, stood upon a marble column near the wiudow—a great jar, exquisite in ware and design, in which was set a pot of marguerites. He had not forgotten her old fancy for daisies. He had never surmised that she loved them because they were Vida’s favor- ite flowers. Some occult force at- tracted her eyes at length from the blazing logs to the pillar gleaming white against the velvet curtain and the canopy of snowy flowers crowning the royal Worcester bowl, “I wonder,” Vida had said once, her head set meditatively on one side, “if my passion for daisies isn’t an eco- nomic instinct? They are the poor girl's flower’s, never expensive, and warranted to wear well. But I love you, my sturdy, saucy beauties,” rais- ing suddenly to her lips the big bunch of winter marguerites Sara had given her to carry toa ball. “You are al- ways smiling, always frank, always faithful, in all sorts of weather, and lend yourselves as cheerfully to a home-made gown in its second season as to a Worth creation just imported. When I die, Sara mia, I should like, ple and red’ after the fashion of Maud’s lover, but to spring up again in a daisy meadow, and kiss your arched instep a8 you sweep along, my princess, and maybe be gathered by your dear hands, and laid to vour sweet mouth as you say. ‘How Vida loved me and dais- ies!” The lonely dreamer winced as at a stiletto prick in recalling word, tone, and glance. In all these years and af- ter all these journeyings had the old wound only skinned over that it bled at a scratch? Turning impatiently again to the fire, she gazed resolutely into it. She had come home to rest, not to suffer. At twenty-seven woman should accept life as it is. She not to ‘blossom under your feet in pur- | mingled with the roar of traffic rising to her windows. She had learned the futility of complaint, the folly of tears. “What is this that thou hast been selt-torturing on account of ? Say itin a word: is 1t not because thou art not happy? Foolish soul! what act of Legislature was there that thou shouldst be happy ? There 18 in man a higher than Happiness; he can do without happiness, and instead thereof find Blessedness. This is the everlast- ing yea, wherein all contradiction is solved.” She said the oft-conned words aloud, as was safe in her guarded solitude. She added, in biting self-contempt : “I bave never found blessedness, it is true. That I probably never shall, is also true. Has anybody 2” An invisible force drew her eyes gently and gradually from the drowsy fire—soft, mysterious compulsion she did not resist. Delicious languor en- wrapped her senses and swathed the lax limbs. Faint currents of perfume stole toward and past her. Where pil- lar and plant bad been, stood Vida in bridal robes; a gauzy veil shimmering from her head to the hem of her trail- ing gown. She leaned slightly forward hands clasped, eyes dilate and yearn- ing, fastened upon the woman she had wronged. A trail of daisies dropped from her fingers to the floor; daisies bound her veil, and were heaped about her feet. “I have come back, as I said I would,” said accents like the dying night wind, yet Vida’s in every intona- tion. “Can you forgive me, Sara? I risked my soul—and yours, but I loved him better than life, better than my soul’s salvation |” “You ruined my life! You blighted my faith in God and in man. How can I pardon that which is unpardona- ble 2”! She said it in a whisper—the whis- per was fierce. The vision flung her hands over her face, bowed herself to- gether and swayed in pain. “If I had not sinned, pardon could not be,”” she moaned. ‘Because my guilt was great I pray you to forgive and forget it. For Ren’s sake! You loved him once!” Miss Liyingston struggled to rise. “How dare you name him to me ?” she gasped. ‘Forgive! forget! Nev. er, in time or eternity I” “My dear Sara |” : Cousin Sabrina’s. hand was on her shoulder. The fire bad blazed up anew in the corner, marble pedestal and massed marguerites showed pure in the shine of the silver lamp; Miss Livingston's feet were numb, her mouth and tongue were dry. “You were suffocating in this hot room,” the mild spinster went on to say, raising a window. “I never knew you to have a nightmare before.” 1% Easter Sunday was raw and dour. Cousin Sabrina’s rheumatism, aroused by the nipping sea air, prevailed over pious desire to worship once again in a New York sanctuary. Agnes’s baby had sneezed twice since his bath and breakfast, and she durst not leave him with a nurse who might not keep ac- count of further sternutations. Thus it came about that the brother and sister walked to church in com: pany, and sat without other compan- ions in the family pew. Had the well- bred curiosity that mastered every de- tail of.a costume too simple 1n its ele- gance to have been made anywhere but in Paris béen as observant of the wear- er, a light cloud of color that swam over the patrician face would not have passed unnoticed as her eyes fell upon the floral decorations of chancel and desk. Except for an altar of lilies arising from the centre of the parterre, the on- ly flowers in the church were marguer- ites. Alert yet serene, happy yet solemn, leaning their cheeks together as it whispering of the day's joyful secret, or looking straight heavenward with wide innocent eyes, they told the story of the Easter-tide; of the Christ who had arisen ; of the humanity that is to be redeemed. Neither in heart nor voice did Miss Livingston join in the General Confes- sion, or in responsive prayer. The glorious music poured from organ and choir fell upon deat ears. Mechani- cally she followed the order of down- sitting and uprising; she saw nothing but the hundreds of grave, expectant eyes that seem to question hers; a spell like last night’s dream, bound sense and thought. Above the mimic meadow of daisies she beheld, with slowly filming eyes, the pleading vis ion that had bent toward her from the haunted corner last night; through the long-closed chambers of her heart stole in broken music tones and words to which she had refused to hearken yester-even. “And kiss your arched instep as you sweep along!" throbbed the weird antiphon. (““Ob, the tender humility of the love that was mine beyond ithe peradven- ture in that dear, distant day I") “And be gathered by your dear hands.” | (“I can feel the seeking, clinging touch of the slender brown fingers 1) And be laid to your sweet mouth as you say, ‘How Vida loved me and dais- ies I’ | (“She was not always false—and the {temptation ! Ah! let the wild unrest of my own sinful heart attest to the might of it!'") | ‘‘Because my guilt was great, I pray jou forgive and forget it.” (*O human Saviour! as I hope to be forgiven I") | Miss Livingston's eyelashes were a I wet as she passed down the aisle at her | the same words, the curves of the mouth ' the storm of tears relieved tense nerves brother g side, fretting and fuming and lamenting and | “I bad not heard that you were in America. I doubted my eyes when I saw you in church. When did you get back, and where are you staying or living? With you, I suppose?” look- ing at Robert Livingston, as one agitat- ed query passed upon another, Miss Livingston let her brother ans wer for her. Dizzily she descended the church steps between the two men, and the three had strolled abreast for several blocks before she took part in the conversation. The Easter collect she bad not heard to-day recurred to her now, as she had learned it from her mother’s lips and responded to it many times, kneeling at her mother’s side. “We humbly beseech Thee, that, as by Thy special grace preventing us Thou dost put into our minds good de- sires, so by Thy continual help we may bring the same to good effect.” What better effect could spring from the new desires than strength to cast behind her the deadly pain and sinful weakdess that were sapping resolution and hindering speech ? With the ef- fort her heart came to her again like as it were the heart of a little child. The face uplifted to her former lover was clear and sweet, her tone was cor- dial. “I hope that Vida is quite well?" she said, simply. He looked surprised and extremely gratified. A moved smile lent charm to his grave features. “Very well, I thank you. Itis good in you to ask after ber. Will it be presuming upon that goodness if I request permission to bring her to see you, and before long ?” Time and place were singular for a speech that implied full knowledge of what had separated her and himself. But Ren was used to be as frankly im- pulsive as she was discreet. Her ans- wer was direct and gently spoken : “I shall always be. glad to see you both,” He smiled again, and brightly, and pushed his advantage with the boyish impetuousity she recollected but too well. “May we come this afternoon ? I promised to walk with her. I am hers, soul and body, on Sundays. Not that I rebel against the sweet tyr- anny, but I foresee that I shall not be allowed to make the call without her. If it will not be an intrusion,” bring- ing up abruptly, struck, perhaps, by something in the kind serious face he looked upon. “It could never be that. You will oot forget the number? I shall expect you both. Good morning.” They were turning a corner, and she chose to take it for granted that their ways diverged. The good desires held fast, but the poor human heart was dragging an- chor. Involuntarily, as they parted from Morris, she put her hand within her brother's arm. Robert never failed her. His love was stable ; his pres- ence was a tonic. Just now she must lay hold of something of her very own. Glancing down effectiunately, he noted without verbal comment upon her lack of color. She smiled back at him. “It is good and beipful to be with yon again, Rob. You are such a sat- isfactory entity.” He pressed the gloved hand upon his arm more closely to his side. “Thank you! Old friends are the best, atter all, eh 2 Ren Morris is evi- dently of the same way of thinking, T am glad we fell in with bim. You and he were prime cronies in the olden days, weren’t you ? “We saw a great deal of one anoth- er about the time of your marriage. I | missed you, you see,” feebly playful. “He is a noble fellow. I have be- come rather intimate with him during the last year, belonging as|we do to the same club, and being in the same pro- fession. Bat I haven't seen hjm look 80 bright since his wife died as he did at sight of you.” He interrupted him- self to catch step with her. Her gate was less even and steady than when they used to take long tramps together. “I don’t believe he has made a social call in two years, Or is it three since he lost his wife? He devotes himself to business and to her four-year-old namesake. She is a pretty sprightly little thing, the image of her father. You saw how pleased he was when you inquired after her, and how full he was of talk about her. She is all he has in the world, you see.” His sister had missed the step again. He reflected, in repairing the fault, that unmarried women walked but little with men in foreign lands. Now that he had her at home again, they would return to old ways and habits. Agnes would not take his arm in the daytime. She said nobody did it nowadays except fossilized married couples. He liked to feel the light weight upon his sleeve. It warmed his heart and inclined him to confiden- tial chat. At Miss Livingston’s door he took a closer look at her. “Now that the sea tan has gone off, you are whiter than is altogether natur- al. Take care of yourself. The sun is coming out. Suppose I give you a turn in the Park this afternoon. The color returned in a painful rush. She looked down at the door mat on which she stood. “I should enjoy it ,of all things, but since Mr Morris spoke of bringing his little girl—" “Of course! How stupidly forget. ful Iam! Another time, then. No, thank you; I cannot come in. We dine early with the children on Sunday and Agnes makes a point of punctual- ity.” y Livingston dragged her be- numbed feet up to her boudoir, locked the door, and flang herself upon her knees beside the marble shaft with the capital of marguerites, weeping wildly and exclaiming passionately. Always over and over, until versity is Miss Laura J. Wylie, of the class of ’77. Her subject was the “Hvo- lution of English Criticism from Dryden to Coleridge. ‘Miss Wylie was for some time a resi- dent of Bellefonte, Pa. Her father was the Presbyterian minister who preceed« ed Dr. Laurie. Better marry a praying sinner than a preaching saint. Adelina Patti celebrated her 51st birthday Sunday at Hartford, Conn., by giving a dinner to a party of friends. Few women of her age present so youth. ful an appearance. —— A pretty paper weight which is to be placed in a business man’s Easter stocking by his sweetheart is an egg filled with plaster of paris, thus avoid- ing the danger of breakage. Around the bottom 1s a frill of muslin, such as Columbus wore, and on the head a cap like those we see in pictures of Colum- bus. The features painted as near a likeness as can be reached on the oval surface, and the whole will make a pret- ty remembrance of the world’s fair yeur.. A woman with a happy disposition ig far more toa man as a wife than the woman with a great fortune, for riches take wings, Worldly prosperity has a way of altering, and if once money van- ishes the gloomy individual does naught. but sit down and weep, having no word of encouragement for the husband, on whom the blow falls most heavily. The happy dispositioned wife will see a way out of the difficulty, or will accept matters as they are in a sweet spirit of cheerfulness that endows her husband’s zeal and causes him to look ypon her as the guiding star of his existance. If God has not given you such a disposi. tion cultivate it as far as possible. It does no good to brood over one’s trou bles. It dvesen’t help matters outa bit, Be on the lookout for bright rays and you will certainly find them. Bows are ubiquitous,” said madame; “they rival the grip; every one has them.” . No hat for the early spring will be in the mode unless it is crowned by one of the Virot bows, over which Paris has gone wild, ora Princess Tam, or at least a butterfly or a fishtail. A buckle and a bow in fact will con stitute the trimming for most of the hats which smart folk put on in the ba. ginning of the season. The Virot bow is always placed against the back of the hat, the jet buckle that confines it resting its edges on the hair. It is made from a one-yard length of silk (preferably watered) cut on the bias and three-eighths in width. The edges are well turned in and blind stitched. The two ends of the silk are sewed to gether, so that the strip becomes a cir- cle. Itis folded then into four loops, two on either side, the upper ones a bit longer than the lower ones, and the lower edges of each loop drawn tighter than the upper edge —this compasses the extreme pointed effect. Holding the loops firmly in place with the fingers the left loops are turned over the right ones, and the whole tied into an ordinary ‘‘tight knot.” This forms the knot in the centre that con fines and completes the bow, without any sewing to be done, A jet buckle is fastened over this knot, or a few smail rhinestone stick pins hold it in place. ¥ Wide ribbon can be used to make a Virot, but bias silk is preferable. When such a bow 1s placed at the back only a low bunch of flowers is used in front, or in some cases simply a large buckle. As all the spring hats are Lo have decided crowns, even to cone shaped ones, a Virot bow does not ape pear singular. Ribbons will be more popular than ever for trimming summer dresses, they say, now there are several novelties among them. A ‘perfectly lovely’* sash ribbon is stiff enough to stand alone. and has tiny bouquets ot flowers pow- dered over a white ground, like the. exquisite little sprigs on old Dresden china. The same design in black gros grain is also very effective, and another pretty novelty is a ribbon with a long white lace edge. The spring wrap par excellence has it. sewed on to the full eapes of black moire. These jaunty little affairs are frequently finished in front by a mam« moth cravat, but if we are wise in our prophecy the big bows are not destined for a very long run among the elect. The lace and feather boas are so much prettier and far more becoming. Speak ing of neck trimmings a most charming affair is made of pleated moire ribbon, standing up quite full as a ruching, This boa has the advantage over the feather and lace ones of being damp proof, something of an item when one has spent time or money on a trivial bit of prettiness, which wilis down directly when there 1s the slightest indication of rain. Not to own a tailor gown this spring is to argue yourself deplorably old-fasa«. ioned, for severity is the thing and every eyelet, must be finished in real man fashion, A very pretty dress was of summer silk in golden brown with narrow stripes of black and pale yellow. The bodice bad a vest of pale ‘yellow satin bordered on either side by coffee-color- ed lace jabots, a black satin collar im- mense sleeves to the elbow meeting lace cuffs and a sort of pointed corselet in black satin just edged with yellow. Every garment that extends below the waist line hangs in godets to the lower edge, apparently increasing the size of the figure. "The best remedy for ill-used tresses is strict care ; glossy, vitalized tresses, kept in order by constant brushing, as« sume by degrees a better color.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers