SEAR MOTHER'S GROWING OLD. a TAIT Her eyo 1s not so lustrous, Her voice has less of cheer, While in her hair, once dark as night, The threads of grey appear, And ah! I am reminded, When 1 her face behold, “That, though she still 18 beautiful, Dear mother's growing old. Her checks have lost their glory, So like the blash of morn ; Her smiles are flown that used to bless The heart when sorrow-worn, And when I mark her step that Was buoyant once and bold, § cannot help the thought, so sad, ‘That mother's growing old, ~Furn back the years, O Father! And make her young once more, Just as my soul remembers her In happy days of yore ; When at her side my life in Full gladness did unfold, And I. alittle child, dreamed not Dear mother would grow old. Beyond these hours so fleeting, Hevond earth's toils and tears, In that sweet land I hope to gain Beyond these mortal years, Nothing shall waste her pure life, But beauty manifold, With happinesy, shall crown her lot, And mother'll ne'er grow old. CER WWOOING BY PROXY. She is leaning back in a deep crimson chair. with a white dress sweeping in long, shining folds about her. She i3 talking to two or three men with that rather weary grace he has grown accus- tomed to see in her, and which is so different from the joyous smiles of the Jeanne de Beaujen whom he loved so long ago. He is watching her from the opposite side of the saloon, as he stands besides his hostess, and he tells himself that it is for the last time. Hes going to her preseasly, and he knows just how coldly she will raise the dark eyes that never once met his without confessing that she loved him. He knows just what he will say and what she will an- swer, and there is no need fof haste in this last scene of his tragedy. ““A man should know when he is beaten,’ he is thinking, while he smiles vaguely in reply to Mme, deSoule’s com- monplaces. “There is more stupidly than courage in not accepting a defeat while there is yet time to retreat with some dignity. For six weeks I have shown her, with a directpess that has, I dare say, been amusing to our mutual friends, that after ten years’ absence my only object in returning to Paris is her society, S,e cannot avoid meeting me in public, but she has steaily refused to receive me when I eall upon her, or to permit me a word with her alone. I have been a fool to forget that all these years in which I regretted her she has naturally despised me, but at least it is not just of her to refuse me a hear- ing.”” The moment he has been wait. ing for is come The little court about her disperses, until there is but one man beside her, and she glances around with a look of mild appeal against the con- tinnance of his society. De. Palissier has escaped from his hostess in an instant, and the next heis murmuring, with the faintest suspicion of a tremor in lis voice. “Vill Mme. de Miramon permit me a dance?” “Thanks, M. de Palissier, but I am not dancing this evening,’ she replies, with exactly the glance and tone he expects, “Will madame give me a few mo- ments’ serious conversation?’ and this time the tremor is distinct, for even the nineteenth century horror of melodra- ma cannot keep a man's nerve quite steady when he is asking a question on which his whole future depends, “One does not come to balls for se- rious conversation—"’ she begins, light- iy. “Where may I come, then?" he in- terrupts, eagerly. “Nowhere, There is no need for serious conversation between us, M. de Palissier,”’ she replies haughtily, and rising she takes the arm of the much- edfied gentleman beside her, and moves Away. ft is all he has prophesied to himseif, and yet for a moment, the lights swim dizzily before him, and the passionate sweetness of that Strauss, waltz the band is playing stabs his heart like a knife. For a moment he does not realize that he is standing quite motionless, gazing, with despair in hus eyes, after Mme de Miramon’s slender white-clad figure, and two or thres people, who have seen and heard, are looking at him with that amused pity which sentimental ecatas. trophe always inspires in the spectators. Some one touches his arm presently with a fan, and with a start he comes to himself and recognizes Lucille de Beaujen, the young sister of Mme, de Miramon, whom he remembers years ago as a child, and with whom he has danced seyeral times this winter. “ And our waltz, monsieur?’’ she asks gayly. -“Donot tell me you have for- gotten it. That is evident enough, but you should not admit it.” “Mille pardons, mademoiselle,’’ he multers hurriedly. “1 am very good to-night,” she says, putting her hand on his ically extended arm. ‘Though waitz is half over there is still time for you to get me an ice.” # © Bo they make their way through the saloon, shoe talking lightly and without pausing for a reply, while he, vaguely grateful to her for extraeting him from an awkward position, wonders also that sha should care to be so kind to a man whom her sister has treated with such marked dislike, The refreshment room is aliwost emp- ty, and she seats herself and motions him to a chair beside her when he has brought her an ice. “Do you think, M. leo Marquis, that it was only to tat ices with you that I have forced my society so resolntely upon you?'' she asks, with a look of earnestness very rare on her bright, co- quettish face. “I think you an angel of compasion to an old friend of your childhood, Mlle. Lucille—" “It was compassion but more for my sister than for you,’ she says, gravely. “Your sister!” he echoes bitterly. “It has occcurred to me that Mme. de Miramon is in no need of compassion, and yours is too sweet to be wasted—"’ “Chut monsieur, she interrupted. “Forget that I am as fond of pretty speeches as most young women, and think of me only as Jeanne de Mira- mon’s sister, who believes that, much as he loves her, vou love her even more-—"'" : For the second time this evening De Palissier forgets possible observers, and clasping both the girl's slender hands in his he murmurs, unsteadily: “God bless youl" **You forget that we have an audi- ence, monsieur,’”’ she says, withdrawing her hands quickly, but with a smile of frank comradship. *‘I have a story to tell you, apd not much time to tellit in, Years ago, when Jeanne left her con- vent on becoming fiance to M. de Mira- mon, she met you at her first ball, and you loved each other, It was very fool- ish, for you were a cadet of your house, and only a sous-lieutenant, and Jeanne had not a sou: so both the families were rurious; but all would bave ended as well as a fairy tale if you had been rea. sonable, Jeanne met you time after time in secret, and promised any amount of patience, but she would not run away and marry you in deflance of her parents; so you tormented her with doubts, and shamed with suspicions until she dreaded those secret meetings almost as much as she longed for them. At last, after making a more violent quarrel than usual, you exehanged from your regiment at] Versailles to one stationedgin Algiers, and left her no refuge from the reproaches of our father and mother but to marry M. de Miramon., He might have refused to marry her after hearing her confess, as she did, that she had given her heart to you, and that only your desertion had induced her to consent to their mar riage. Bat he did not; he had a better revenge than that. He married her, and for eight years he tortured her in every way that a jealous and cruel man can torment a proud, pure woman. He opened all her letters, he made spies of her servants, and day passed that he did not insult her with some mention of your name, Our parents died within a few months of the Fringe. and I was at the convent. Ther? was nothing to be done with her misery but to endure it, knowing that she owed it all to your impatience, Can you wonder that she is unforgiving?” He 1s leaning on the small table be- tween them with folded arms and down- bent eyes, and he is very pale, even through the bronze of ten African sum- mers, “I loved her always—'"' he says, al- most inaudibly; then pauses; nor does he finish Lis sentence, though she wails for him to do so. “You love her? You could not have wrecked her life more utterly if you had hated her. Can you wonder that she has grown to fear the thought of love that has been so cruel to her as yours and her husband’s? Monsieur, my brother-in-law died two years ago—God is good!" continues Lucille, fiercely. *Since then Jeanne has been at peace, and she shrinks with absolute horror from disturbing the calm which has pome to her after such storms. She fears you, she avoids you, because shall I tell you why?” She can see his lip quiver, even under the heavy moustache, but he neither speaks nor raises his eyes. “She loves you,”” murmurs Lucille, just aloud. He lifts his eyes now and looks at her dumbly for an instant; then, rising, abruptly walks away. He comes back presently. “My child,” he says, very gently, ‘‘do not try to make me believe that, unless you are very sure, for if I once believe it again, II" “I am as sure as that I live that Je- anie has never ceased to love you, and that you can force her to confess it if you will make love to me." “1? You? You are laughing at we!” with a rush of color into his dark face. i “Do you think so ill of Jeanne’s sis- ter?" she asked, softly. . “Pardon, Iam scarcely myself, and 1 cannot imagine how" “Jeanne will not receive you because she knows her own heart and is afraid of it. She ifafraid you will destroy the hard-won peace she values so highly. But you are wealthy, distinguished, the head of your family-—a very different person from what you were ten yeas ago, and she ean find no reason for re- and, as my chaperone, must be present nt all our meetings. You begin to vn. derstand? Make her see that your love * is not all jealousy; make her remember ~make her regret,” “But, forgive me, when®ne has loved a woman for ten years,”’ with a faint smile, ‘there is no room in one’s heart for even a pretense at loving another.” “If there were, monsieur, I should never have proposed my plot,” she re- plies with dignity. “It is because 1 have watched you all these weeks and know that your love is worthy of my sister that I trust you. But it 15 not with one’s heart that one pretends. En- fin, it is with you to consent or de- cline,” “Decline?” he echoes, with a passion none the less intense for its quietness. “Does a dying ‘man decline his last chance of life, however desperate it may be?” The nekt week is full of bitter sur- prises to the proud and patient woman, whose pathetic clinging to her newly- found peace{Lucille so well understands. Though it is long since she has permit- ted herself to remember anything of the lover of her youth except his jealousy, she has believed mm his faithfulness as utterly as she dreamed if, and when she receives De Palissier’s note asking the consent of his old friend {o kis love for her sister the pain she feels bewilders and dismays her. With a smile whose cynicism is as much for hersell as for him, she gives the note to Lucille, ex- peeting an stant rejection of the man whose motiver in pursuing them they had both so misusderstood. But with a gay laugh, “Then my sympathy has not been all without cause,” the girl cries. ‘By all means let him come, my Jeanne. It cannot wound you, who have long ago ceased to regret him, and ke is the best parti in Paris, and tres bel homme for his age."’ It is true there can be no objection to the wealthy and distinguished Mar- quis de Palissier if Lucille is willing— none but the pain at her heart, which is too eshamed even to confess to herself. 80 a note is written, fixingTan hour for his first visit, and Mme. de Miramon prepares herself to meet the man whom she last saw alone in all the passionate anger of a lover’s quarrel. There is the sound of wheels in the court-yard, and she rises with a hasty glance at her reflection in the mirror. “His old friend!” she murmers, scorn- filly. “I dare say I look an old wo- man beside Lucille.” Then she {urns with a look of grace- ful welcome, for the door is thrown open and a servant announces: “M. le Marquis de Palissier.”’ “Nothing could give me greater pleasure than to receive as my sister's suitor the old friend of whom the world tells me such noble things!’ She ut- ters her little speech as naturally as though she had not rehearsed it a doz- en times, and holds out her pretty hand to him, “You are too good, madam.” he re- plies, very low; and she reflects that he “wy those days so long ago, Hut time, I trust, has changed me.’ give us wisdom and coldness in ex- change for all it takes from ns’, she says, with a quick thrill of pain that he speak of ten years as if it were an eter- nity. “Not coldness,’ he exclaims, coming nearer, and looking at her with eyes that make her feel a girl again. “If you could see my heart, you" “May I enter, my sister,’’ asks the gay voice of Lucille as she’appears from behind the portiers at so fortunate a moment for the success of her plot that itis to be feared that she had been eavesdropping. De Palissier turns ationce and presses her hands to his lips, “Mademoiselle,” he says tenderly, “I am at your feet.” Then begins a charming littie comedy of love-making, in which Lucille plays her role with - pretly coquetry and he with infinite zeal. And the chaperone bends over her lace-work and hears the caressing tones she thought she had forgotten, and sees the tenddr glances she imagined she had ceased to regret, all given to her young sister in her unregarded presence, She is very patient and used to suffering, but at length she can endure no longer, and not daring to leave the room she moves away to a distant writing4able, where she is at least beyond hearing. There is an instant pause between the conspirators, and while De Palis. sler's eyes wistfully follow Mme, de Miramon, Lucille seizes her opportuni. ty with a promptness that would have done credit to a Richelieu or a Tally- rand, or any other prince, “Courage, monsieur!” she murmers “She has been cold to me ever since your note came. You would make a charming jeune premier at the Fran- cals, only when you do say anything very tender, do you remember to look at me instead of Jeanne.” And she breaks into a laugh so utterly amused that he presently laughs too, and the sound of their mirth causes an odd blot in the poor believe that in surrendering ikhe must give the bittersweet of Jeanne's daily presence, which even In its serene in- I difference had become the one charm of life to hin. Mme, de Miramon and her sister ap spending a week at her villa near Pagis, and De Palissier, who is to accompany them on a riding party, has arrived a little late, and finds both sis- ters already in the court-yard, with some horses and grooms, when he en- ters, Lucille comes to him at once as he disuounts, with a look of alarm jn- stead of her usual coquetry. “Donot let Jeanne ride Etole,” she said anxiously. “She has thrown Guil- laume this moming.” Mms. de Miramon is standing beside an old groom, who is holding the horse in question, and she does not look at her sister De Palissier as they apnoach. “Ta me ride Etolle, and take my horse to-day, madame,” De Palissier says, sagerly. “I should like to master a horse that has thrown so excellent a groom as Guillaume. ”’ “8 should 1,” she says, with a hard little laugh, as she steps on the block, ‘Jeanne!’ cries Lucille. “‘T entreat you for your sister's sake. She will betersibly alarmed,” De Palis- sier says, hurriedly. “Then you must console her. The greater her alarm the greater your de- ligitful task, monsieur,”’ and she looks at Bim with a defliant pain in her eyes, like a stag at bay. “I shall ride Etoile.” “Then I say that you shall not,’ he answers, putting his arm across the sad- dle, and meeting her eyes with a sudden blaze in his, For an instant they gaze at each othe: in utter forgetfulness of any other pres- ence than their own, Then she springs from the block and comes close fo him. “1 hate you!" she gasps, and turning gathers up her habit in one hand and runs into the house, swiftly followed by De Palissier. In the saloon she faces him with a gesture of passionate pride. “I eave me!” she says. *‘I forbid you to speak to me!” “He is very pale, but the light of tri- umph 18 in his eyes, and like most men, being triumphant, he is cruel. “Why do you hate me?’ he asked 1mperiously “1 beg your pardon,’’ she stammers, dropping the eyes which she knows are betraying her, “I should have said—" “You should have said ‘I love you,’"” he murmers, coming ciose to her and holding out his arms. “Does it hurt you that I should know it at last—1 who have loved you for all these years?"’ “But, Lucille,” she falters, moving away from him, but with eyes that shine and lips that quiver with bewildered Joy. “Never mind, Lucille,” cries that young lady very cheerfully from the doorway. “It bas been all a plot for your happiness, which would never bave succeeded if you bad known your sister as well as she knew you, To think that I would be content with the wreck of any man’s heart! —f1 done! When my day eomes, “Jake Alexander, I will reign, And I will reign alone,’ ”’ TRI Female Detectives, “ Are female detectives ever regularly employed in the detection of crime?" “ We don’t employ women," a sup- erintendent of detectives replied, ** be- cause it Is our firm conviction that women cannot be relied on. We have tried them and found them wonderfully quick at divining the source of a mys terious crime, patient in testing a plan for capturing a suspected person, and —yes, and uncommunicative, There is just one reason, and only one reason, why they are not to be trusted-no one can tell who has the most influence over them. Anyhow, we can’t afford to take the risk of employing them and being betrayed by them.” Another experienced manager of de- tectives sald : “Sometimes persons ap- ply for a female detective to act as an attendant to take care of wraps at fashionable receptions, They are well known in society, who have had trouble after receptions in getting the wraps, over-shoes, and umbrellas to the owners, Sometimes they get so mixed up that an owner of an old overcoat, or shawl, or umbrella, saunters innocently off with a new and more expenmve over. coat, shawl, or umbrella.” Winking with a wicked expression : ** Hats, you know, are notoriously successtul in eluding their owner’s search-if they are good hats, If the occasion is a fitting one for a detective, we send one, It is not generally understood that fe- male detectives are employed only at these large receptions, and then only in the waiting room and in the room set apart for the ladies’ especial use. Some persons imagine that female detectives go to the reception as guests. That would be an insult to the genuine guests, Desides, in society here every one knows her neighbor, and the female detective would herself be detected as a stranger. Then introductions would necessarily follow under an assumed name, and the subsequent explanations the hostess would be compelled to make in accounting for the disappearance of the Mrs, So-and-8o would make her life aburden. see no good reason, though, why female detectives should not be employed in the ladies’ room. It is a convenience to have a skilled eye on the property, instead of one liable to meke mistakes or to be out of the way when wpnted.” «It is stated that Arkansas bas 151 different native grasses, : One of the most spaclous and com- plete photographic establisments on Broadway New, York, is owned and directed by a woman, “1 have more than I can attend to,” she sald to a reporter, ‘‘and my patrons, most of whom are ladies and children, are constantly increasing in number, 1 assure myself she added with a quiet smile, “that I fill a long-felt want. Many women are afraid of men photo- graphers; they never feel at ease in their presence as they do when only their own sex is represented. This is true especially of cripples and people whose faces are in any way disfigured, The studio is elaborately furnished, Aside from the richness imparted by heavy hangings, soft carpets, and costly upholstery, there was a certain air of femininity about the place which was distinctive. The photographer, a tall, fair woman, with a clear cut and hand- some face and graceful figure, moved about rapidly, attending to the details of her work as she chatted with the reporter, “It required nine years of incessant lator for a man on Sixth avenue to she said. “I am the only lady photo- grapher in New York, I think. I took up photography from choice a good many years ago, studying under the man of whom I spoke. After I bad worked for him a couple of years he placed more and more responsibility head of the businéss, him like a galley slave for nine years, and then told him I was going to start a gallery of my own, He looked shocked, but recovered himself shortly, and made me a proposal of marriage. Nine years of him was quite enongh. I was idle for a year, and then bought this place. A man can never realize how delightful it is for a woman to be absolute mistress of her own affairs. 1 ally to everything.” are women and children?” prietor, with a slightly culpable smile, “that clergymen should be included in the category.” “They're fond of coming here, are they?” “Oh, yes. They like to be treated been with nervous and excitable subjects. Last week a lady brought her son and daughter to me. She had tried several of the leading photograph- ers, and none of them had succeeded in making even a passable picture. I appointed a morning for the sitting, and it took just five hours to photograph those two children. The girl had a twitching eve, and at first she could not sit still two consecutive minutes to save her. I looked at that twitching with so much professional gentle- ness, and treated her with such a vast eye gave up completely, sat still, and was photographed with thorough success, I had just as much of a struggle with the boy. After they bad gone I was fagged. To-day I received these flowers from the children’s mother.” “You spoke about cripples just now?" “Yes. Next to dead subjects the unfortunate deformed are the least desirable subjects we have to handle, Nobody knows so well as a photographer how sensitive criples are regarding their. infirmities, They are always anxious that their particular defects should not appear in their pictures, and yet they reserve a studious silence con- cerning the very features about which they are the most anxious, “Some years ago I was struck with the repulsive look which all photo- graphers gave their pictures of the dead. The majority of these pictures of dead people were simply dreadfui, and this was particularly the case when the subjects were children. bad often seen little ones who had recently died, and I was often struck with their patural and lifelike appearance. Chil. dren dead frequently look like children asleep. I resolved, as soon as I started in for myself, that I would make a success of the first dead subjecd which came under my notice. I had only been established a few days when a sweet-faced woman In deep mourning came in and told me her only child had died the day before, after an illness of only two days. I went that afternoon with my apparatus and my scsistants and took the photograph. I have kept a copy of it ever since Here it is.” The picture showed a child lying as though asleep in its crib. Une chubby little hand was pressed against a round- those features,” said the photographer, turning the leaves with some pride. “Don’t the clergymen ever arrange their features before {hey come here?” “No, I do all that,” she answered. “It is part of the business, We arrange features just as we do drapery.’’ “Do actresses come here much?’ “They come occasionally, but only a few of the leading ones. The actress who comes here expecting to break the camera by the exposure of her charms makes a great mistake. simply won't take the portrait of any woman whose attire verges even to the smallest degree upon the indelicate. I may lose one class of customers this way, but I am a gainer otherwise, “Do you know that, after all, my success 15 mainly due to the fact that I am a woman, Every woman has little points about her face and figure which she knows all women observe, but which, she has learned by experience, men seldom notice, When women are chattihg together they refer to any un- fortunate blemish in quite an ordinary way, bnt they never mention them to men, for fear of drawing attention Lo the defect. They even dread men They take a woman into their confidence at once, and the two chat about the effect of a cast in the eve, a crooked nose, a big ear, large teeth. or a scrawny neck, as though they had been cronies for life, This renders a'satisfactory photograph ease to accomplish. sommes AGI MOA Tricks in Unislepsy. Mr. Kennedy, a mesmerist, who is giv- atre, held a private seance al truy's , in the presence of a number of invited guests, Among those present were the three well-known comedians, Stuart, Hobson, W. I. Crane and Nate Salsbury, be- | sides several members of their dramatic | company and representatives of the | press The mesmeric powers of Mr. Ken- | nedy were exhibited in a manne: that astonished and amused every one pres. t ent. A waiter at the hotel was first called | into requisition and after him two other | subjects were selected whose ludicrous | hallucinations and marvellous suspen- of sensation were the cause of | boundless surprise. | Bion | Oneof these subjects devoured a tal- | low candle, believing it was candy; he lalso got the impression that Stuart | Robson had changed shoes with him, | pulled his own off and bad gotten one | of the distinguished comedian’s half on lhis own foot when Mr, Kennedy re- | stored him to consciousness, He | awoke with surprise depicted on his { countenance, and stumbled when be at- | tempted to walk with the shoe half on | and half off his foot. He was then put into a cataleptic condition. Each and {all of kis limbs were rendered rigid at i the will of the manipulator, and he was | placed with his head and heels resting on two chairs like a bridge across a chasin. in which position be remained for five or six minutes without a change of countenance. Many other equally wonderful things were done, and at each exhibition some one of the specta- tors plunged a needle into the flesh of the mesmefized man without producing the least sign of pain or annoyance. — I oi — Tae Wrong Trade Mark. A miserable, ragged fellow was scat. ed on the low wall of St. Paul’s church- yard. Suspended from his neck was the familiar sign, “Please Help the Blind." A young merchant passing by looked at the beggar, paused, looked again, and then walked up to him and pretended to strike Libs with the cane he carried. The mendicant dodged the blow. “Ha! ha! the youug man ale most screamed ; *‘you dodged that just as I expected. You humbug! you frand | you scoundrel! Now will you go about your Lusines, or shall 1 call the police?’ The mendicant’s face showed alarm, but be uitered not a sound. The angry merchant bade him speak quickly. A crowd gathered, The beggar went into a paroxysw of earnes:, most frantic gesticulation. The meor- chant grew furiously angry, and as he stormed, and the beggar made paulo- minic gestures, —a policeinan came up. “What's the matter here?’ the officer inquired. The mendicant made signs that he didn’t know, and that bo was ignorant apparently of everything. “Why, the villain is ne more blind than I am,” 8h wi aierchant. “1 saw him turn his head to look at we as 1 was passing by, 1 pretended I was going to strike him, and be dodged the blow.” At this the mendicant’s face worked as if he were in mortal agony. “Och, bad cess to it, | must sphake or I'll bur- rt] he said ; “I'm not bloind at all, at all. And bsve 1 the bloind soign on? Sure it's all a mistake entirely. I thought T had the dif<and-domb soign on me, so [ did. Plase let me go, gin- tlemin, that 1 may beafter foinding my grace on the family. Upon me word, sor, we brother is blind completely, and wheres wid me difand-domb soign out: “Plase help the blind." Umnnn APAIAIIO
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers