a . Bellefonte, Pa., February 14, 1908. “OH, WHO Am 11 “Only the singer of a little song" — But what a singer! What a song she sings! Yea, heaven to earth her music nearer brings, With subtle powers, that to her gift belong. And Jovely thoughts her rippling verses throng, Their inspiration drawn from secret springs ; We rise and soar with her on angel wings, As she io flights of fancy glides along. She teaches us our dearest friend in pain, Aud not, as we had deemed him once, our foe ; And using things in nature, mean and low, The highest truths her metaphors contain. Cease not thy strain, thy melody prolong, Sing on sweet singer, for we love thy song ! — Henry B. Blunt, WILKINS WIFE. Nobody ever understood why be warried her. You expected calamity to pursoe Wilkin- son, —it always bad pursued him,—bos that Wilkinson should have gone ous of his way to pursue calamity (as if be could never have enough of it) really seemed a most apvecessary thing. For there had been no pursait on the part of the lady. Wilkinson's wife had the quality of her defects, and revealed herself chiefly in a formidable reluctance. It was nnderstood thas Wilkinson had pre- vailed only after an austere stroggle. Her appearance sulliciently refuted any theory of nnholy fascination or disastrons charm. Wilkinson's wile was not at all nice to look at. She had an insignificant figare, a small, square face, colorless hair scraped with difficulty to the top of her head, eyes with no lasbes to protect you from their store, a wouth that pulled at an invisible ourb, a sallow skin stretched so tight over her cheek-bones that the red veirs stood stagoant there; and with is all, poor lady, a dull, straived expression hostile to fur- ther intimacy. Even in ber youth she never conld bave looked young, and she was years older than Wilkinson. Not that the difference showed, for his marriage had made Wilkinson look years older than he was; at least, 80 it was eaid by people who had known bim before that nuforsunate event, It was not even as if she bad been intel- ligent. Wilkinson had a gentle passion for the things of intellect; his wile seemed to exist on parpose to frustrate it. In no de- partment of his life was her influence so Puostiativg and malign, At forty he no longer counted; he bad lost all his bril- liance, and had replaced it by ashy, un- worldly charm. There was something in Wilkinson that dreamed or slept, with one eye, fixed upon his wife. Of course, he bad his blessed hours of deliverance from the woman. Sometimes he would fly in her face and ask people to dine at his house in Hampstead, to disous« Roman remains, or the Troubadour, or Nietz«che. He never could understand why his wile conldn’s ‘‘enter,’”” as be expeoted it, into these sub- jeote. He #miled at youn in she dimmess, saddest way when he referred to it. “It's extraordinary,’’ he would say, “the little interest che takes in Nietzsche.” Mrs. Norman found him once wandering in the High Street, with his passion fall on him. He was a little absens, a listle flushed ; his eyes shone behind his specta- oles; and there were pleasant creases in his queer, clean-shaven face. She inquired the cause of his delight. “I’ve got a mao coming to dine this even- ing, to have a little talk with me. He knows all about the Troubadours.”’ And Wilkinson would try and make you believe that they had threshed out the Troubadours hetween them. Bat when Mrs. Norman, who was a little carious about Wilkinson, asked the Tronbadour man what they had talked about, he smiled and said it was something—some extraor- dinary adventure—shat had happened to Wilkinson's wile. People always smiled when they spoke of her. Then, one by ove, they lefs off din- ing with Wilkinson. The man who read Nietzsche was yuite rade about it. He eaid be wasn’t going there to be gagged by that woman. He would have beer glad enough to ask Wilkinson to dine with bim, if be would go withous his wife. If it bad not been for Mrs. Norman the Wilkinsons would have vanished from the social scene. Mrs. Norman had taken Wilkinson up, and it was evident that she did not mean to let him go. That, she would bave told you with engaging em- phasis, was not her way. She bad seen how things were going, socially, with Wilkinson, and she was bent on his deliv- erance. Itanybody could have carried it through, it would have been Mis. Norman. She was olever; she was charming; she had a house in Fitzjohns's Avenue, where she entertained intimately. As forty, she bad preserved the best part of her youth and prettiness, and an income insufficient for Mr. Norman, bat enough for her. As she said in her rather dubious pathos, she had nobody hut herself to please now. You gathered that if Mr. Norman bad been living he would not have been pleas- ed with her cnltivation of the Wilkiusons. She was always asking them to dinver. They turned up punctually at her delight- ful Friday evenings (her listle evenings) trom nine to eleven. They dropped in to tea on Sunday afternoons. Mrs. Norman had a wonderful way of drawing Wilkin- son out; while Evey, her nnmarried sister, made prodigious efforts to draw Wilkin- son's wife in. “If you could only make her,”’ said Mrs. Norman, ‘‘take an interest in something.” Bat Evey counldn’s make her take an in- terest in anything. Evey had no sympathy with her sister's missionary adventure. She saw what Mrs. Norman wonldn’t see— that, if they forced Mrs. Wilkinson on peo- ple who were trying to keep away from her, people would simply keep away from them. Their Fridays were not.so well at- tended, so delightful, as they had been. A heavy cloud of dulluess seemed to come into the room, with Mrs. Wilkinson, at vine o’elock. It bang aboat her chair, and Sead slowly, till everybody was wrapped n it. Then Evey protested. She wanted to know why Cornelia allowed their evenings to be blighted thus. *“Why ask Mrs. Wilk- inson?”’ “I wouldn't,” said Cornelia, *‘if there was any other way of gesting him.” *‘Well,” said Evey, ‘‘he’s nice enough, but iv's rather a large price to have to pay.’ “And is he,” cried Cornelia passionately, ‘‘to be out off from everything becanse of that one terrible mistake?’ Evey said nothing. If Cornelia was going to take him that way, there was nothing to be said! ' | So Mm. Norman went on drawing Wilk- | inson out more and more, till one Sanday afternoon, sitting beside her on the sofa, he emerged positively splendid. There were moments when he forgot about his wife. They had been talking together about his blessed Troubadours. (It was wonder- fal, the interest Mis. Norman took in them!) Saddenly his gentleness and sad- ness fell from him, a flame sprang up be- hind his spectacles, and the something that slept or dreamed in Wilkinson awoke. He was away with Mrs. Norman in a lovely land, in Provence of the thirteenth cen- tury. A strange chant broke from him; it startled Evey, where she sas at the other end of the room. He was reciting his own translation of a love-song of Provence. At the first words of the refrain, his wife, who had never ceased staring at him, got up and came across the room. She touched his shoulder just as be was going to say ‘‘ Ma mie.” “Come, Peter,” she said, “‘it's time to he going home.” Wilkinson rose on his long legs ‘Ma mie,” he said, looking down at her; and the flaming dream was still in his eyes be- hind his spectacles. He took the little cloak she held out to him, a pitifal and rather vulgar thing. He raised it with the air of a courtier handling a roval robe; then he put it on her,amooth- ing it tenderly about her shoulders, Mrs. Forman Iallowed them to the porch. As he turned to her on the step, she saw that his eyes were sad, and that his face, as she pat is, bad gone 10 sleep again. When she came hack to her sister, her own eyes shone and her face was rosy. “Oh, Evey,” she said, ‘isn’t it beauti- ful?” “Isn’t what beantiful?"’ “Mr. Wilkinson's behavior to his wife.” II It was not an easy problem that Mm. Norman faced. She wished to save Wil- kinson ; she also wished to save the charao- ter of her Fridays, which Wilkinson's wife had already done her best to destroy. Mrs, Norman could not think why the woman came, #inoe she didn’t enjoy herself, since she was impenetrable to the intimate, pe- ouliar charm. You could only suppose that her ohjeot was to prevent its penetrat— ing Wilkinson, to keep she other women off. Her eyes never left him. It was all very well for Evey to talk. She might, of course, have heen wiser in the he ginning. She might have confined the creatore to their big monthly crushes, where, as Evey bad suggested, she would easily have been mislaid and lost. Bus so, unfortunately, would Wilkinson; and the whole point was how not to lose him. Evey said she was tired of being told off to entertain Mis. Wilkinson, She was be- ginning to be rather disagreeable about it. She said Cornelia was getting to care too wuch aboat that Wilkineon man. She wouldn’t have minded playing op to her if she bad approved of the game; bus Mrs. Wilkinson was, after all, you know, Mr. Wilkinson's wife. Mis. Norman cried a little. She told Evey she ought to have known it was his spirit that she cared about. But she owned that it wasn't nght to sacrifice poor Evey. Neither, since he had a wife, was it al- together right for her to care about Wil- kinson’s spirit to the exclusion of her other friends. Then, one Friday, Mis. Normao, reliev- ing her sister for once, made a discovery while Evey, who was a fine masioian, play ed. Mm. Wilkinson did, after all, take interest in something: she was accessible to the throbbing of Kvey’s bow across the strings. She had started; her eyes bad torned fromm Wilkinson and fastened on the play- er. There wee a light in them, beautiful and piercing, as if her sole had suddenly heen released from some bidivg-place in its anlovely house. Her face softened, her mouth relaxed, her eyes closed. She lay hack in her chair, at peace, withdrawn from them, positively lost. Mrs. Norman slipped across the room to the corner where Wilkinson sat alone. His face lightened as she came. “It’s extraordivary,”’ he said, “her love of music.” Mrs. Norman assented. It was extraordi- nary, if you cawe to think of is. Mrs. Wil- kinsen bad no understanding of the ars. What did it mean to her? You could see she wae transported, presnmably to some place of charactered stupidity, of condoned oblivion, where nobody could challenge her right to enter and remain. **So =oothing,”’ said Wilkinson, ‘‘to the nerves,’’ Mrs. Norman smiled at him. She felt that, onder cover of the music, his spirit was seeking communion with hers. He thanked her at parting; the slight hush and mystery of his manner intimated thas she bad found a way. “I hope,” she said, ‘‘you’ll come often —often.”’ “May we? May we?’ He seemed to leap at is—as if they badu’s come often enough before! ~ Certainly she had found the way—the way to deliver him, the way to pacify his wife, to remove her gently to place and keep her there. The dreadful lady thus creditably dis- posed of, Wilkinson was no longer back- ward io she courting of his opportunity. He proved punctual to the first minute of the golden hour. Hampstead was immensely interested in bis blossoming forth. It found a touching simplicity in the way he lent himself so the sympathetic eye. All the world was at liberty to observe his intimacy with Mrs. Norman. It endured for nine weeks. Then sud- denly, to Mrs. Norman's bewilderment, 1t ceased. The Wilkinsons left off coming to her Friday evenings. They refused her in- vitasions. Their vior was so abro and so mysterions that Mrs. Norman felt that something must have bappened to ac- count for it. Somebody, she had no dou bad been talking. She was much anno; with Wilkinson in uence, and, w she met him accidentally in the High Street, her manner conveyed to him ber just resentment. He called in Fi n’s Avenue the next Sunday. For the first time, be was with- out his wile, He was so downcast, and so penitent,and 80 ashamed of himself that Mre. Norman met him balf-way with a little rush of af- fection. “Why have you not been to see us all this time?’ she said. He looked at her unsteadily; his whole manner betrayed an extreme einbarrass- ment. “I’ve come,’”’ he said, ‘on purpose to explain. You mustn’t thivk I dean's ap- preciate your kindness, but, the fact is, my poor wife—'' (She knew that woman was at the bottom of it!) ‘‘—is no longer—up to is.” ‘What ie the wretch up to, I should like to know?"’ thought Mrs. Norman. steady eyes. He seemed to be endeavoring He held her with his melancholy, an- | her to approach a subject intimately and yet abstrasely painfol. “She fi the music—jast at present—a little too much fer her; the vibrations, vou know. It's exsraordinary how they affect her. She [eels them-—most unpleasaotly —just here.” Wilkinson laid two deli- cate fingers on the middle buttons of his waistooat. Mrs. Norman was very kind to him. He was not expect, poor fellow, in the fabrica- tion of excuses. His look seemed to im- plore her pardon for the shifts he bad heen driven to; is appealed to her to belp him out, tostand by him iv bis uuvspeakable situation. “I see,” she said. He smiled, in charming gratitade to her for seeing it. That smile raised the devil in her. Why, after all, should she help him out? “And are you susceptible to music—in the same unpleasant way ?"’ “Me ? Oh, no—no. I like it ; it gives me the very greatest pleasure” He stared at ber in bewilderment and distress. “Then why,’ said Mr«. Norman sweet- ly, “il it gives you pleasure, should you cut youself off from is?" “My dear Mrs. Norman, we have to cat ourselves off from a great many things— that give ns pleasure. It can’t be helped.” She meditated. **Would it do any good” she #aid, if [ were to call on Mrs. Wilkin- son?’ Wilkinson looked grave ‘‘It is most kind of you, but—jast as present—|[ think it might be wiser not. She really, yon koow, isn't very fis.” Mrs. Norman's silence neither accepted nor rejected the preposterous pretext. Wil- kinson went on belping himself out as best be conid. “‘I can’t talk about it ; but I thoaght I ought to let yon know, We've just got to give everything np ”’ She held heiself in. A terrible impulse was upou her to tell him straight ont that she did not see it; that it was too bad; that there wae no reason why she should be cali- ed upon to give everything. “So, if we don't come,’’ he said, ‘‘yon’ll understand? It’s better—it really is better not." His voice moved her, and her heart cried to him *‘Poor Peter!” “Yes’' she said; *'I understand.” Of course she understood. Poor Peter! #0 it had come to that? “*Can’t you stay for tea?"’ she said. ‘No; I must be going back so her.” He rose. His hand found hers. Its slight pressure told her that he gave and took the sadness of renunciation. That winter Mrs. Wilkinson fell ill in good earnest, and Wilkinson became the prey of a pitiful remorse that kept bim a prisouer by his wife's bedxide. He had alwaya been a good man; it was now understood that he avoided Mrs. Nor- man heocause he desired to remain what he had always been, III There was also au understanding, conse. orated by the piety of thei. renunciation, that Wilkinson was only waiting for his wife's death to marry Mrs. Norman. Aud Wilkinsou's wife was a long time ic dying. It was uot to be supposed that she would die quickly, as long as she could interfere with his happiness by living. With her genius for frustrating and tor- menting, she kept the poor man on tender- hooks with perpetual relapses and 1ecov- eries. She jerked bim on the chain. He was always a prisoner on the verge of his release. She was at degth’s door in Mareh. In April she was to be seen, convalescent, in a bath-chair, being wheeled slowly up and down the Spaniard’s Road. And Wilkinson walked by the chair, his shoul- ders bent, his eyes fixed on the ground, his face set in an expression of illimitable patience. Iu the summer she gave up and died ; and io the following spring Wilkinson re- sumed his converse with Mrs. Norman. All things considered, he bad left a decent it- terval. By antumn Mrs. Norman's friends were all on tiptoe and oraning their vecks with expectation. It was assumed among them that Wilkinson would propose to her the following eammer, when the firsts year of his widowhood should be ended. When summer came, there was nothing between them, that anybody could see, but it by no means followed shat there was nothing to be seen. Mrs. Norman seemed perfectly sure of him. In her in- tense sympathy for Wilkinson, she knew how to account for all his hesitations and delays. She could not look for any pas- sionate, decisive step from the broken crea tare be had become ; she was prepared t- accept him as he was, with all bis humilia- ting fears and waverings. The tragio shings his wife bad done to him could not be undone in a day. Another year divided Wilkinson from his tragedy, and still be stood trembling weak- ly on the verge. Mrs. Norman began to grow thin. She lost her bright air of de- fiance, and showed hersell vuinerable by ey the band of time. And nothing, positive. r nothing, stood between them, exoeps ilkinson’s morbid diffidence. So abasurd- ly mavifess was their case that somebody the (Troubadour man, in fact )inserposed discreetly. In the most delicate manner possible, he gave Wilkinson to understand that he would not necessarily make bim- self obnoxious to Mrs. Norman were he to approach her with—well, witha view to securing their joint bappiness—happiness which they had both earned by their admir- able behavior. That was all that was needed ; a tactful friend of both parties to put it to Wilkin. son simply and io the right . Wilkin- eon rose from his abasement, ere was a light in his eye that rejoiced the tactful friend ; hie face had a look of sudden, virile determination. ‘I will go to ker,” he said, ‘‘now.”’ It was a dark, unpleasant evening, full of cold and sleet. Wilkinson thrust his arms into an over- coat, jammed a cap down on his forehead, and strode into the weather. He strode into Mrs. Norman's room. When Mrs. Norman saw that look on his face, she knew that is was all righe. Her youth rose in her again to meet it. ha ve me,” said Wilkinson ; *'I bad to come.” “Why oot ?'’ she said. “It's so inte.” ‘Not too late for me.” He sat down, still with his air of deter- mination, in the chair she indicated. He waved away, with unconcealed impatience, the trivialities she used to soften the vio- lence of his invasion. “I've come,” he said, because I've had something on my mind. It strikes me that I've never really thanked you.” “Thanked me ?"* “For your great kinduess to my wile.” Mrs. Norman looked away. “I shall always he grateful to you,” *aid Wilkinsoo. “You were very good to “Oh, vo, no," she moaned. “I assure you,’ he insisted, ‘‘she felt it very much. I thought you would like to know that.”’ “Oh, yes.”” Mrs. Norman's voice went very low with the sinking of ber heart. “She used to say you did more for her— you and your sister, with ber beautiful music—than all the doctors. You found the thing that eased her. I suppose you kuew how ill she was—all the time? I mean before her last illness.” “I don’t think"’ said she, ‘I did know.” His face, which bad grown grave, bright- ened. “No ? Well, you see, she was so plucky. Nobody conld have known ; I didu’s al- ways realize it myself.” Then be told her that for five years his wife bad suffered from a nervous malady that made her subject tostrange exocite- ments and depressions. “We fought it,”” he said, ‘‘together. Through it all, even on her worst days, she was always the same to me.” H» sank deeper into memory. “Nobody knows what she was to me. She wasn’t one much for society. She went into it’ his(his manner implied that she had adorned it) ‘‘to please me, because | thought it might do her good. It was one of the things we tried.” Mrs. Norman stared at him. She stared throngh him and hevond him, and saw a strange man. She had listened to a strange voice that sounded far off, from somewhere beyond forgetfulness, “There were times.’ she heard him say- ing, ‘when we could not go out and see any one. All we wanted was to he alone together. We conld «it, she and I, a whole evening withoat sayvinga word, We each knew what the other wanted to say with- out saving it. [| was always sare of her; she understood me as nohodv else ever can '’ He pansed. ‘All that's gone.” “Oh, no." Mrs, Norman said, ‘‘is isn’s.”’ “Te is.’" He illominated himself with a faint flame of passion, “Don’t say that, when you have friends who nnderstand.” *“They don’t. They can’t. And.” said Wilkineon, “I don’t want them to.” Mrs. Norman sat silent. as in the pres. ence of something sacred and supreme, She confessed afterward that what had attracted her to Peter Wilkinson was his tremendons capacity for devotion. Ounly (this she did not confess) she never dream- ed that it had been given to his wile.—By May Sinclair, in MeClures Magazine. Snow-Bilindness, Soow-blindoess is an affliction little kuown through description, though not very difficult to describe, for here the strongest adjectives need few qualifications, writes V. Stefaneson in Harper's Magazine. The pain does not follow immediately upon the strainiog whioh seems to be its cause, After a long day of haze the traveler finds when he gets into camp that his eyes are a listle itchy.and thas they water if he comes too near a fire or any source of heats. Later they feel as if there were a trace of smoke in the tent, then asif a grain or two of sand had gotten ander the eyelids, and finally as if the eye sockets were lined with savdpaper. Every movement of the eye canses pain, and then the pains hegin to come without a provoking roll of the eyeball. At first there is a dull ache, grow- ing gradually sharper, until toward morn- ing of a sleepless night it throbs throogh the eyes every few seconds, with twioges comparable to, but not equaled by, the shooting pains of toothache. It is the only affliction with the pain of which the ordinary E