spo Beware fac, hi Beiiefonte, Pa., May |, 1908. Now 1 Lay Me Down to Sleep. “Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep.” So the baby learned her prayer, Kneeling by her mother's chair In her little bed-gown white; Said it over every night, Learning in her childish way How a little child could pray. “Now I luy me down to sleep,” Said the child » maiden grown; Thinking, wit’. a backward glance, How the happy past had flown Since beside her mother's knee, With a child's humility, She had said her simple prayer, Feeling sale in Jesus’ care, “I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep” — Yet the words were careless said, Lightly had the hand of time Laid his fingers on her head; In lite’s guiden afternoon Gay the belis and sweet the tune, And upon her wedding-day She had half forgot to pray. “Now I lay me down to sleep — How the words come back again, With a measure that was born Half of pleasure, half of pais; Kneeling by a cradle bed, With a hand upon each head Rose the old prayer soft and low As a brooklet in its flow, All along, with bended head, She had nothing but her dead; Yet with heart so full of care, Still her lips repeat the prayer. Rest at last, O storm-tossed soul, Safe beyond the breakers’ roll; He, the Lord, her soul shall keep; Now she lays her down sleep, ~Truth in Life. THE OLD WOMAN'S STORY. Bebind the hedge, the lawn spread like a park. The grass was as close and fine ar a green plush; the uundolations of the ground were padded and upholstered with it; theeun and shadow lay upon is iu a figured design of leaves. Great trees stood about it, in their ordered places, as stolid and dignified as if they bad been set oat by a butler—oaks, full-leaved and rounded maples, chestnuts loaded with blossoms, and elms that upheld a green lacery of festooned branches, femininely slim. And in she midst of it all, surrounded by formal beds of flowers and bushes, a huge build- ing of ruddy sandstone, with innumerable windows, lifted beavily a square, squab tower. It was the almshounse. On this million- aire’s lawn, ander these pompous trees, groups of old women in diesses of blue denim, with gingham aprous, sat gossiping over their sewing, smoking olay pipes, counting the beads of their rosaries, or doz- ing io she heat of the sun, as wrinkled as lizards, and blinking against the blaze of light shat gave au almost repsilian sparkle to their puckered eyes. Veterans iu the unending battle of life, no longer able to stroggle for the food to keep them strug- gling, they bad been brought here to die in peace. Amoug them was a Mrs. Judd, an old English woman who had impressed the nurses with her patience avd oapabilisy. They did not have to use any stratagems to draw her to her weekly bath. She kept her room neat with her own hands. She did not hide between her mattresses any of the useless trifles whioh she others misered up in a sevile acquisitiveness shat went even to the rubbish heap for tins, and stole cutlery from the tables, and made a hoard of moldy crusts. She did not cvmplain of her meals. She quarrelel with uobody. She sat alone, placid, white-haired, and frail; and her skin that bad evidently once been beautiful, «till preserved on her old cheeks the soft whiteness of a dried peach. When a nurse joined her on her bench under a magnolia tree, her eyelids flattered —a¢ they do when one is wakened from the bhlinduaze of a day dream —bat she did not turn to greet the astendant. ‘Lonely ?’ the girl asked. “NJ, miss,” she sad. The nurse was a dark-haired, dark-eyed youog woman with a deep voice. She had irregular features of more charm than beanty. “I’m going to leave you next week.” “Yes, miss.” She showed no interest; and the girl ex- plained, importantly : “I'm going to be married.” **Yes. miss,” she replied in the same tone. She added, in 4 moment : “When the men want you, there's no denying them. It has to be, miss.” The girl smiled at this recigued view of ber fate, ‘‘You know what is is to be war- ried.” “Yes, miss, I've been married swice." She had kept her eyes on the empty level of the lawn, and the narse wondered what she saw there to hold her thoughts—what memories, what faces, what ghosts of old events. ‘““Had you any children 2” “Children ? Yes, miss.” She folded her hands on her checked apron. ‘‘Children are the great thing while they lass, but they go off an’ leave you, an’ have ohil- dren o’ their own; an’ you wouldn’t know them if yon met them on the street. Some of them die, hut you ferget which ones it was. Youn ferget their names. An’ when you try to remember, you have them all ssixed up, children an’ grandobildren to- gether.” “They don’t come to see you here ?"’ “No, miss.”” The tone in which she an- ewered was not merely indifferent ; it was even absent-minded. She nodded at the view befors her. ‘‘It’s like the bit of crop. ped paddock that was between the house an’ the beck." ‘A stream, miss— with big stones in it. An’ in the ‘‘floodtime it makessuoh a noise as you never 'eard, all night long when you would be sleeping. My room, up the stairs, looked out a window, over the kitchen garden an’ the stone wall an’ the bit o’ paddock an’ she beck. . . The beck! . . . Ah, miss, when we left Liverpool, an’ I sat on the deck watching which way we went so I could know the way back again, the noise o' the water wade me ory for the beck ! An’ in my slee at night, with the ship tossing, I dream o’ the heck ! An’ all day long the olonds went by high over ’ead, back to Old Cua- iston an’ she meadows an’ ghe beok.”’ The girl waited until this emotion should pass. “Were you all alone?’ she asked Zeutly. “No, miss. Ele was with me. away together.”'—'‘Why ?”’ She shook her head. ‘It's a long story, miss. It began before we ever knew it, - We ran when we went to school sogether. An’ uot soch schools as you have ’ere, miss. The floor was all stone like a sidewalk; an’ there was no stove hut a fireplace that harned peat; ao’ iu the big pot that hung there we pus the potatoes we brought fer our dinners—hoys an’ girls—an’ marked them so we'd know our own, an’ put the peat on the top o’ the pot lid, redhot, an’ roasted them all together. There's no such potatoes now, mis« none so hig an’ mealy —though Cousin William used always to bave the higgest 0’ mine—till Harry fought with him an’ pus him to shame.” *‘Was that in England ?” “Yes, miss. In Camberlaund. **You see, miss, I was horn in London, hat thev brought me to Camberland when I was a little thing, because my mother was dead an’ my father gone off with his regiment. An’ when von come to the fields so. from the choke of houses an’ streets, it’s the wonder of life, an’ vou never ferget it. I remember to this day driviug across the fells with Uncle Wilson the first time I come to the house, an’ how red the sky was over the hills “It must have been beantifnl.”’ “It was, miss. It was a great large farm with a stove house as big as an inn, with slates on the roof an’ slates down she front. An’ in the side, there was a gate, like yoo'd see to a prison, an’ it opened into the yard where the carts were an’ the doors to the barn. An’ the barn was ail stone like the house, an’ the house an’ the barn were joined into one by the wall and she gate. Bat to come in the house by the front door, you went through a gate in the garden wall, an’ smelled the sweet briar, an’ lifred the knocker. An’ downstairs the floors were slate, miss, an’ they washed them with milk.” “How quaint I" “Yes, miss. It was all a great marvel to me. [ osed to wake up in the mornings with joy, the air was so sweet ip my lungs. An’ I would lie an’ listen to the beck an’ the birds together, till I thought my heart would barst, wise, with just nothing at al| but ’appiness. That’s the way it is some- times wheo you're young. Bus to be young on the Beok Farm was to be so the whole day long, miss.” She paused to tura over in her memory, wistfully, those treasured recollections. “There was Uncle Wilson, a red-faced man as big as a giant. He worked the men all day in the fields, or be was away at market at three o'clock of a morning an’ not back agaio till night, eo I saw bat little of him. Av’ there was my aunt that was tall, too, but spare, an’ with a long face like you see oun an old ewe—an’ a good housekeeper, but #0 saving that when she sewed she would make me pick up her basting threads an’ wind thew on a spool to 'em dish-towels with. Au’ there was my Cousin Willian an’ the baby. An’ that was all 0’ shem— except the servants that were ’ired by Uncle Wilson at the fairs on Michaelmas an’ Candlemas, twice a vear,men an’ wom- en, the women t0 work in the fields as well as she men. ‘“They ali treated me the same as if I was one o' their own—though my aunt held is against me that my mother had ron away with a soldier before I was horn— an’ made me work, $00, a8 soon as I was old enough to mind she bahy an’ belp in the kitchen an’ sweep the floors. Bat is was Cousin William that made trouble, plaguing me the way boys plague their sixtess an’ teasing me abouts my red bair, aotil Harry faoght with him at school about the potatoes. That's the way it is with some boys, miss, Because they like you, they plague you an’ drive you about; an’ when you turn against them fer is, they almost hate you because they like you still an’ you don’t like them.” The nurse nodded and smiled. Yes. I know.” “At first it was just that we went to school with Harry when he would come down the road from his father’s farm—an’ walk back with us when school was over, an’ go berrying with us, an’ nutting—all children sogether, an’ vo shought of ’arm —riding in the carts 10 the hayfields or 'elping pile the peat when they out it in the spring to dry. He was a strange lad. Harry, miss. He hated his books an’ he wouldn't learn in them, because at nights he conldn’s sleep like the others that work- ed on the farm an’ tired themselves ons an’ snorted when he wold be awake, staring at the dark. But then he found picture hovks at ‘ome an’ began to be always reading them an’ bringing them to read to us, an’ his father woald buy them in town when be went to markets, an’ pat them ander the pillow fer Harry so find when be waked —‘Rohinson Crusoe,’ I remember —fer it was after he read us from ‘Robinson Crasoe’ that we played it among the rocks up the beck, an’ killed a lamb, an’ bad to bury it in the peat bog so Uncle Wilson woanlduo’t know—an’ stories aboot America an’ In- dians. An’ that was how Harry began to be a scholar. “Those were the good daye, miss, when we were all young. We played ‘jacks’ with pebbles, an’ hop-scotch on the stones of the walk, an’ bad games up the beck, an’ went pickin’ wild apples an’ all such. My Uncle Wilson had an oatmeal mill with an ugly big water-wheel that made a great noise—an 'orrid big wheel that splashed an’ rattled iv a box; an’ Harry played is was a giant turning the wheel, an’ frighten- ed us so [ dreamed of it as nights, an’ woke with my legs trembling.” “Yes. And wo?” ‘‘Well, miss, to tell the truth, before we were big enough to leave schoo! I was mad about the boy, an’ he would be nowhere without me. He was as lean an’ quick as a bound, an’ he would do things to make me soream—like leaping across the rocks o' the beok when it wes in flood or jomp- ing from the eaves o’ the barn into the hay- carts as they drove in. An’ Cousin Wil- liam was ’eavy like his father, an’ slow like his father, an’ though be could throw Harrylin a wrestle he pever dared fight. But it was him that carried stories to my aunt, an’ she said Harry was a wild young ruffiau. An’ at last she ordered him awa from the house one day that Cousin Wil- liam fell from the haylofs because he tried to follow Harry in some pranks—an’ I was told to play no more with him. ‘“You know how such things grow, miss. There was a sheep stole, an’ Cousin Wil- liam told how Harry’d killed the lamb an’ buried it in the peat bog—though ’twas a ear gone sinoe—an’ then there was bicker- ng between the farms ; fer Harry’s father took the boy's part an’ guarreled. An’ all the farmers roundabout had shares in meadows where they cut ’ay, an’ there started a dispute about our share an’ theirs, miss—an’ #0 it went on, till Harry had to pass me without looking aside when we were coming to church o’ Sundays, an’ we only met up the beok when I could steal away from the others an’ have our- selves alone, “That was near the end o' the good days, miss. Cousin William grew to a strong lad, so fat his cheeks shook when ke walked; fer he walked ’eavy on his heels. An’ he talked ‘shee’ an’ ‘thon.’ like the rest, with their way o’ speaking without ending the words, as if they got the month “Yes, open on a broad ‘oo’ an’ had their jaws stock. An’ he ed me now with his calf’s eyes an’ his ribands bought on mark- et days; an’ his mother plagued me because she saw how it was with him,an’ she would not have ber son marry a girl with nanghs. Au’ Harry went away to town to study to be a scholar, just when they were mowing the bracken on the fells fer the winter's kiodlings—an’ my schooldays were over- an’ I thought shere would be no more 'appiness fer me in this world, miss.” “Didn't you write to him ?*’ ‘No, miss. There was no way to get the letters. But when he come ‘ome fer Christmas, we met agaiv down by the bridge an’ told each other everything there was to tell. He called me ‘Little Miss Mufles’ an’ teased me hecause I was so small, but I knew he liked me small an’ clumsy. An’ when be kissed me good-hy, I knew it was the same with him that it was with me, an’ I went singing aboat the kitchen till Isaw Aunts Wileon looking as me out o’ the corner of her eye; an’ after that I only sung, soft in my own room, sit. ting at the window, an’ looking out at the frosty beck.” She wax smiling the smile of memory and soft thoughts, her eyes ses and vacant. The girl beside her bad the same expres sion and the same gaze. But the girl's smile was clear-cut and sparkling, freshly. minted ; aud the old woman's was as blar- red as the face on au old silver coin. The girl sighed. ‘‘And so you ran away ” “No, miss. Nos shen. Not till after. Not till Harry's father apprenticed him to a lawyer, an’ Uncle Wilson went agains: my aunt. an’ said I'd make a good wife fer Cousin William, an’ [ began to plot an’ plan how I should do. ““Harry would come ome Suudays, au’ we would meet unknown to any one un less my aunt—an’ I think she kuew, miss, fer she found ways to let me ran off an- known to Cousin William, though she said nothing. Sbe would sooner I had Harry than her sou. An’ if Courin William knew of Harry, be hid it fer the sake ©’ being right with me —an’ from what he said, I knew he thoughts Harry would ferget we in town—an’ so I wens to church with him Sundays, an’ pulled the wool over his eves. An' there we were, all playing double, miss, the one with the other, an’ Harry deceiving his family the way [ did mine. “What troubled me most was that Har- ry chafed at his apprenticeship an’ was all fer running away to London—or to Ameri- oa to make his fortune, if I'd come ; fer he wouldn't go so far away sn’ leave me to Cousin William, though I swore I would as 8000 be wed to an ox. We had no mon- ey. Ieaw never a penny from year's end to year’s end on the farm, miss ; an’ Harry was not much better. Bat we used to meet an’ talk plane—the way women folks will —an’ make love as if money fer marrying was no matter. *“Then one Sunday he didn’t come, an’ the sun set on me as if it was never to rise again. I was afeard shat what Cousin Wil- liam said was coming true about Harry, an’ this the beginning of is. But that night there was a tap on wy window an’ the case- ment rastied, an’ I saw it was Harry, dark against she sky that was full 0’ moonlighs, He was standing on a ladder that he'd oar- ried from she barnyard, an’ he langhed an’ kissed me an’ said it was because his father bad found him ous an’ forbade him to he wasting his time raonoing after a girl when he should be thinking of his studies. An’ now he would have to see me Sanday nights, after all were abed.” The girl bad turned, her lips parted, as it she were about to speak. The old woman hurried on : ‘It was his nature to do such things, miss, an’ to take more delight in them because o' the daring. I was afeard fer him an’ fer my- self ; but that wore off with his coming again an’ again. He was a dear lad, an’ made love like a book. We mes at the win- dow or sat on the big window seat, with scarce light enongh to see each other’s faces when we kissed—whisperiog an’ making our promises an’ namiog each other fond names—an’ the guilt of it made is all the sweeter.” She lingered on it, smiling. Her smile faltered and changed slowly. She said : ‘An’ shen, of asudden, the end came." **Yon were—They found ont?’ “Yes, miss. Cousin William—he must have gaessed what was going on, though Harry was careful to put the ladder back where he found it an’ leave no footprints in the mold o' the garden under my window. Cousin William— We never knew how it was. But one black night when the sam- wer was just warming, an’ Harry had no more than reached the top o’ the ladder an’ put bis arms up to me, some ove rushed around the side o’ the house from the kitchen an’ Harry jumped.” She stopped. She dropped ber voice. “It was dark, miss. He didn't do it o’ purpose. Bat he came down on my Cousin William--avd- there wasn’t so much as a gioan . . . He was all in a heap with his ’at crushed down on his face and his chin on his chest, his neck broke, dead, miss, I saw him when I come down the ladder an’ clung to Harry an’ told him to run fer his life.”? ‘Good Heavens !"’ the nurse gasped. She made the gesture of a fataliss. “It was done,” she said. ‘‘There was no un. doing it, an’ Harry would not go without me, an’ he bad to go, mies. It would be found out. It would be said they’d quar- reled about me. So I olimbed back an’ made a bundle o’ my clothes, an’ when I came to the window Harry called to me to get all Cousin William's clothes, too ; an’ I didn’t know why he wanted them, but I orept to his room an’ got them, an’ I was shaking so my teeth chattered in the dark.” ‘“Yoa—"' ‘‘I bad but the one thought; thas Harry’d be hanged fer murder, an’ I'd have to help him gest away. He told me what to do, an’ Idid is. I've often wondered since, miss, where I found the strength, bat I was like a mad woman with fear, an’ I breathed so hoarse that Harry put his band over my mouth fer fear I'd be heard indoors.” “Good Heavens !” ‘‘He shut my window, an’ took down the ladder, an’ smoothed over the marks in the loam with bie 'and, an’ laid Cousin Wil. liam on the ladder covered up with the ex- tra clothes I'd brought ; an’ then he took one end an’ bade me take the other, an’ we stumbled down the paths to the back door o’ the kitchen, an’ out into the ook an’ 80 over the fields to the peat . I tell once, miss. An’ after it was all over, my teeth were sore to the roots with the way I'd clenched them. But it had to be done. ‘‘ ‘We must 'ide him somewhere,’ Harry said, 'till we ges away.’ ‘An’ so we come to the place where they’d been digging peats an’ left their es fer the morrow ; an’ there was a pile o' the peats already stacked to dry, an’ Harry went at them with his ’ands to shift them an’ I helped. I was oryi miss, whimpering with fright; an’ we to wait every now an’ then the moon to break out of a cloud, an’ I don’t know whether I was more feared o' the dark that hindered as or the moon that showed us what we had to hide. An’ Harry said never a word. but worked slow an’ careful, with only a glance about him—when the moon came out clear ~—80 see that no one watched, ‘‘An’ then we bad the pile moved. An’ then be dag into she bog with a spade, An’ then be told me to go away au’ turn my back; avn’ I tarned an’ fell on my koees an’ stopped my ears with my bands au’ prayed, m yed fer Harry to get away sale— till I thooght is was nos my prayers bus my bands that'd aid him, an’ came hack to help him put back she peats, praying to myself, but working, too, till it was all as we'd found it, an’ no sign of anything hid. Av’ then Harry wens to pot the ladder back in the haruyard. an’ I fainted. miss,” ‘“Horrible I’ the girl said with her face in ber hands, thinking of she nnforsunate man throst into shat hole in the swamp. The old woman shook her head sadly. “It was the only way, miss. We've gone over ita hundred times since, and it was the only way that'd saved ws. “They'll think he’s run off with yoo,” Harry said. That's why he wanted the clothes from his room, miss. An’ when [ go,’ he said, ‘they'll think I've followed to try an’ find you. We'll ger to Liverpool. An’ long hefore they know where he is, we'll be hid- den away in America.” **Bat yon hadn’t murdered him !"’ she oried. “Yon conld have told them that— and let hin: he haried like— ‘Hush, child. Huh." She canght the naree’s hand in a trembling cluteh. “He was dead at oor feet an’ Harry had killed him I" The girl made an effort to rise, hut sank back again on the hench, freeing her hand hat unable to do more. She was pale and nauseated. “It all tarned out as he said. He hid me in his father’s haro, in a hiding place he’d used as a boy, hetween the joists of the hayloft an’ the roof. where there was old harness an’ broken tools—an' brooght me food in the morning an’ told me my uncle was out an’ off to town, an’ the news was abroad that I'd ran away with Coasin Wil. liam. He wens over to the Beck Farm, then, like a wan crazed with jealonsy, an’ my aunt railed out on me, an’ there was no one workin’ in the peat hog, an’ he saw that everything was sale. His father, out 0’ pity fer him, said nothing ahous going back to his studies that day. Au’ in the night he came to me with clothes of bis own an’ a sheep sbears to cut my hair an’ money in hie pocket fer our passage ; an’ when I was dressed likea lad av’ our closhes in a bundle together, we fled away across the moors.” The nurse, stiff and silent, her vy averted, sat as if in judgment npon gaily, not knowing what to say, what to dou, or how to receive this confession which she had beard. And the old woman went oo : ‘At first it was all ’orror an’ grief to me, like a had dream ; an’ my feet blistered with the heavy clogs I wore, an’ my legs were wrung with pain, miss, But when I thought that we'd done nothing wrong— unless the money that Harry took an’ I'd made him promise he'd send shat back from Amerioa—an’ there we were, all alone in the world together, an’ him loving me an’ carrying me in his arms when I could walk no further—why, miss, I said to my- self : ‘He'll be caught an’ taken from me some day, an’ I'll be bappy now while I have him. An’ so we were. We hid by day in the hedges an’ waste places, an’ walked by night barefooted with our bun- dles ; an’ it was swees to bave him with his arm about me, an’ sweet to lie on bis shoalder sleeping in the grass. ‘‘Happiness hides in strange places, miss ; we found is there in the mides 0’ fear. We were like she wild things o’ she wood thas knew nothing o' this world, but what we saw passing us on she roads when we were 'id. We bad clap-bread from his father’s kitoben—the kind they make of oatmeal an’ store in barrels ; an’ be would leave me hidden an’ go alone to buy food from the houses, though we did not dare do this till we were far away. An’ we were wetted by the rains an’ burned by she sun, an’ hungry an’ footsore, but as’appy as never was, It was our 'oneymoon, miss-—-such as it was— an’ I was wishing is would never end. I could’ve gone on with him fer all time, wandering like gipsies, with none to plague us. I made a five figure of a boy ; an’ once when we were canght among the trees at a brookside, he named me as his yoang brother come down with him from the North to work on the farms ; an’ I was so brown an’ handy no one wouid saspeos. Just to be free o’ skirts an’ petticoats an’ able to run an’ olimb fences like a boy was a joy of itsell, miss ; an’ when we came at lass outside Liverpeol, an’ I bad to put on my own olothes again, I felt as if my winge were clipped to go back to a cage. “Down amid the big ware houses, built in stone the color o' smoke, we found a waterside lodgiog house an’ stayed there till Harry learned about the ships an’ bought an old chest an’ some oluthes Zor us hoth an’ went aboard with me at night. We were away pext morning over the wa- ter, an’ shen I cried, miss, fer the hills an’ the beck, an’ promised myself that some day when all was forgotten I'd come back. An’ even now, miss, when I sit at my win. dow upstairs, I think what it'd be to be in my own little room over the garden at ‘ome, with children, perhaps, an’ grand- chil"ren about me, instead o' what is is.” She selapecd into the silence from which the noree first roused ber, and thers was no change in her expression except for the tears that brightened her eyes. ‘What became of Aim ?’ the girl asked. ‘‘He died, miss, in the West, where he went, under a new name.’ ‘‘And you married again ?" ‘Yes, miss,an’ my second husband never came back from the war, an’ my boys wens farther west, an’ I thought to make my way to Cumberland, maybe, 20 I came to New York an’ worked ’ere, but I got my- self no farther, an’ never ’eard word o’ the Jari, ter I was gles 2 fk bat ; preserve a ly, m e mummies in gust, oo 1 4 nt not Hey found him at an m | “What a life !”’ “Yes, miss. It bas its own way with you—life. Iocan’ complain. It all bad to be. An’ now I can sit ’ere an’ see is all {2% a plaia aa I could with ny ld eyes it was 'ere betore me. Your body grows old, mies, bus not yourself. You'll see, mies.” —By Harvey J. O'Higgins, in Col- lier's. Winner of the Collier's $1,000 Prize in the I never yet heard man or woman much I was not inclined to think the better of them and to transfer any suspicion or dislike to the person who appeared to take delight in pointing ous . of a fellow creature says a writer, — Raw grated puts applied on barn scalds will relieve the pain PD lian SU The Catholic Marriage Law. Which Went Into Effect at Saturday 18th. Midnight on The drastic new marriage law of the Roman Catholic church went into effect at widoight April 18sh. For the iuforma- tiou of the laity of shat church as well as for Protestants, who will find the papal decree of interest, as it makes special re- ference to them under certain conditions the WATCHMAN publishes a brief a dozen fragile water klasses en by rapping on the thin rim 0 break shem i hv... hy PB oiop rik Dusde used fine heavy linen nner napkine for wi medicine s, which left indelible ois Pov While at the druggist’s one can buy ready-to-use mustard plasters and com- pounds that are even bester than home. wade poultices, itis well to have some- thing on band for immediate use, even if circumstances never bring is into use. A quart cau of flaxseed meal closely sealed will give material for good poultices, A few dry red pepper pods, also kept in a jar make 2 stimulating hot tea, usefal for a cough or overcoming a chill. Is is a pure red pepper, whioh cannos alwaye be said of the ground article. To make flaxseed meal poultice pour rapidly boiling water onto she meal sod beat bard, for this brings out the oil in the meal. Spread ona square of cheesecloth, leaving a clean margin of two inches. Fold this edge over on the mixture, lay on another square, which comes shree or four inches all ronod beyond she poultice. Lay iton a hos plate, place a pan over and carry at once to the sickroom. No sick person should be compelled to step out of bed without slipping on sofs wool bed shoes, for the chill shat would vot effect a well person may be dangerous to the weak one. A loose robe of flannel- ette or eiderdown is also needed when a patient is able to sit op for a few minutes, as to have the bed made. Maoy of the new season’ frocks for cbildren bave she skirts finished with two or three broad tucks a few inches above the bem. It is curicus how constantly this fashion recare. It is very orvamental and yet se- vere, and is particularly aweful on short skirts, whioh is is always diffionls to trim saitably. For more elaborate gowns we appear to be returniug to the days of draped skirts, and although we are nos likely to tie up our knees in oloth sashes, the new Directoire frocks, when made of soft materials such as muslin and chiffon, bave quantities of stuff looped up, and sucked and gathered all the way down from waist to hem. Those who are strong on hygiene dislike these skirts because they are such dust-traps. Batcher’s blue linen is an extraordi- nurily useful material nice and color. It is not included in she liss of dingy, dark colors, yes it is a long while before it looks dirty. It is very hecoming, exceedingly durable, and, of course, a most excellent washing material. In some households, indeed, the obildren begin to crawl in batoher’s blue and they leave school in butcher's blue, Itisa mistake however, to les them ges tired of it, but an occasional frock will prove a lasting boou. It requires very little trimming save that of some emart stitching round the bem and on the bodice, and a stitebed baud of is will serve excellently as a belts. An excellent idea uot onlyfor those in the | room, hus also domestic people who discharge household duties is the over-all. Not she loose and ~hapeless pinafore, but a really well-ont garment. Althongh made in one piece it has a belt which fastens neatly ronnd she waist. The skirt is only a couple of inches shorter shan the skirt of the dress, and is quite as full. It bas no collar, bat is prettily ornamented with stitching, of bands of ite own material at the base of the throat. The large sleeves are drawn into long and olose-fitsing onfls, which are made tight enongh not to slip down over the hand. The over-all! can either fasten at the back or have a double front. ‘‘Have you noticed that many hostesses are serving rock candy orystals instead of sugar with after dinner coffee ?'’ inquired an observing woman. ‘‘I've tried it my- self and have found that the prestiest ef- fect is gained by buying an equal amount each of red and white rock candy and mix- ing the irregular shaped crystals in a low glass bonbon dish. *‘These are served with a bonbon spoon. There's an especial advantage in this plan for those who want very little sugar, as the smallest quantity pussible may be taken, lees than the ordinary piece of cut sugar. This rook candy is absolutely pure, very cheap, and gives a particularly deli- cious flavor to black coffee. ‘Another new kink I noticed at a lunch- eon was the passing of swo little glass dishes with she salad course. One dish held finely minced green peppers and the other tiny slices of little new onions. The ruests took what they wanted and eprink- led it on the salad, which was a combina- tion of lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers, ‘‘At the same luncheon a fancy omelet with burning ram was served instead of the usual sweet course. Instead of the ordivary river of fire running placidly around the plaster the effect was quite spectacular and reminded ove of miniature volcanoes. I found thas this effect was the result of stacking lumps of sugar in heaps at intervals round the platter.” —New York Sun. An idea which has been followed out b a number of girls for sleeve linke for their morning waists of the tailor-made variet in the flannel is to get the plain mote peat! buttons, which are sold for men’s evening wear. They are flat buttons, just like those which are sewed on shirtwaists, only finer and of a more attractive design. They are small in size, and when used in the tailored shirtwaists, they are exoeed- ingly neat, aod at the same time smart looking. With them are warn scarf pin and belt buckle to match. The Cameo. —It has been revived entha. siastically. It is the same delicately flashed and skillfully carved thing worn by our grand. mothers. A large one set around with rhinestones is often used for a belt buckle. A row of four of these medallions set on a gold band forms one of the most popular bracelets, Cameo necklaces, too, bear witness to the revival of the style. Even cameo earrings are noted in the shop windows.