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.