FAILURE AND SUCUESS. Boast not because you never fail The most unworthy ship, With favoring tide and favoring gale, ‘Will seldom miss a trip. Theres little merit in success Where no disasters rise; But he who wins against distress Is worthy of the prize. No favared ones way peans sing, When safe on fortune’s track-—~ No foes to heed, no cares to sting, No bar to set him back. But he who has to fight his way With firm, undaunted wille Whose fortunes vary day by day-— Who fails but rises still He is the one to whom the meed Of praise is justly dae— The type of effort, grand indeed — The hero tried and true. He whe can fall and rise again, 'Gainst fortune’s hardest gales, Is greater in the eyes of man Than ne who never fails TuE OLD BLACK MILL, Qur tale opens in New Jersey, during the Revolution, in the year 1776, It was a bleak, wintry day in Decem- ber, of that memorable year in our pation’s history; with snow falling fast and furious, and covering the country with a spotless shroud of white, while ing thro' the skeleton country. The hour was near noon, and in a miles {rom any other habitation—an T the smal the coming of another person, who had not vel arrived. safety!” man, need direct does | As if quick foolal turning her gray head in the : of the cottage window. “Why not return?” opening the front gate, and running up quick heavy rap, rap, and a breathless voice outside exclaimed: “*Mother—mother, open your door!” The mother, with a glad cry, drop- ped her knitting, ran to the door, drop- ped the wooden bolt and threw open the cottage door, to give entrance to asnow covered youth of nineteen years of age, partly deformed in the left limb, with a hunch on his back, thin features, of a mild, yet sickly expression and hue, and dressed in well worn homespun gar- ments, now white with the falling snow through which he had come, apparently in great haste, “Lock the door, motl bolt iraw the cw dow er; put up the tain of the win the deformed youth, as, ente g the cottage, he fell with ing breath and a sigh of exhaustion into the old arm chair near the roaring fire. When the mother bad barred the door and the window curtain down, she came Yo her son's side and anxious- ly ir red: Your errand, Richard? Have you icceedead or have you failed, my sou?’ “I have succeeded dear mother. But,” he gloomily added, “I fear at the cost of my own life! “Great heavens!" rio US SPORE CPR Las aie cried the mot clasp ber old hands in alarm, ard. what do you mean?” “Listen, dear mother. You know that [ departed on a secret mission the night before last to warn the regiment ~—of which my father is a member— that the British were in this neighbor hood and intended to attack them at dawn the next day. I reached the en- campment of father’s regiment, warned them in the nick of time and they were far fro: w place when the tories made their appearance,” Thank God for that. Oh, | you have saved your father's life, you have ed hundreds of lives, force the British were thrice Americans’ number, Defeat and death would have been their fate.” **Motber,” cried the patriot’s son, het . + Fy Asch vichard, LN looking over at the darkened windows, **] have something tells me so. been followed I am convinced for ever gince I passed the old black mill, two miles below, somebody has followed me. never stopped. What's that?” in sud- den alarm. He started to his feet and listened, as did his mother, The tramp of many feet coming through the snow, and in upon their ears, A moment later and a loud, heavy, thundering knock came to their door and a burley voice cried: *‘Here, you people, let us in.” “Father in heaven, it is the British soldiers. whispered the mother in terror. “No. mother,” firmly answered the patriot’s son; *“let them enter, I do not fear them." The mother sank into a chair near by, unable to do her gon’s bidding, but he limped up to the door, threw down the wooden bar and cried in a careless tone, as be walked to his mother’s side: “Come in."’ The invitation was obeyed. A troop of ten men entered the cottage, all at- tired in the British uniform, headed by a rough wicked man of middle age named Dick Amroyd, a sergeant in € English army. “Here, you young fellar,” insolently sald Dik Amroyd, “your name’s Rich- ard Walton, eh?” “Well, what is your business, pray?”’ answered Richard Walton, “Why do you come here.”’ “Tu ent a long story short, young fel- low, you ure our prisoner, Come, now, we know you are the meddling scamp that made us lose a little victory, a day ago, by warning the Americans of our coming ’* “Great heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Waiton, as she comprehended the peril that was weaving around her only son. snarled the leader, ‘but it won’t do— no sir ee.” “I deny nothing, I did warn my countrymen of your coming, and, were it necessary for their safety, I would do 50 again.” “My son, my son, in heaven's name, be careful what you say,” cried the agonized mother, in alarmed distress, “1 do not fear them, dear mother,” meaning the soldiers. *‘I am a patriot’s son, and fear neither them nor the com- mander they serve,” “You insolent, insulting hound!” cried the officer in a rage; ‘‘take him off, my men, and hang him to the near- est tree, as we have received orders to do.” “Don’t come uear me,” cried the { hunchback youth, *‘or, deformed and cripple though I am, you shall learn my those I love!” and pleadingly held him back. “You infernal snakes,” hissed the patriot’s son in passionate tones of hate and scorn; **you cowardly dogs, to seek to murder, not fight; but to murder your enemies while they slept, and while your numbers where thrice theirs, I repeat, I warned them, and to your teeth 1 say I would do it again, My father was among the patriot band I warned, I saved his life, and twenty with it, and now, burning with revenge because balked in your murderous plan, you seek to cast your ill-nature and ven- geance upon the heads of { will repent this visit, if it be a mercen- ary one, you cowardly pack of curs” “Out with him, boys—out to the | nearest tree. His fate shall be an ex- ample to those who meddle with us and our plans. Upon him, men, our time is precious!’ eried out Dick Amroyd, his face red with anger. Three men advanced toward the { youth, attempted to grasp him, but two were felled to the floor by the strong arms of the patriot’s son, while three more, on the instant, rushed on him, and held him tight and firm, Mis, | Walton uttered a shriek and cast her- self at the Tory leader's feet, “Oh, sir, in heaven’s name, spare my boy!" she pleaded; ‘do not deal harshly » life, he is my only protector. I haven’t | a friend in all the my husband, and death—cruel death— {may rob me of him at any instant, { Don’t think of what poor Dick says, of the instant. Oh, spare his life; his mercy.” “Oh, mother, mother, arise from your ‘knees! You, an American soldier's wife, to kneel to him-—oh, shame, shame, mother, to beg of that cowardly dog!” At a signal from the bold, brave youth was hurried out of cottage and down the snow-clad road, to where a huge tree stood, and here they halted, produced a rope, and i it over one of the and ready Lo receive ‘Up with him, men, hang.” patriot’s son saw the rope and knew what was coming. A tremor passed over him but be showed no signs, They grasped him fimer; they bore him to the fatal noose, while Dick Am- royd laughed and jeered, despite the prayer 3, entreaties and supplications of the distracted mother, who knelt at the tory's feet, and gr g in the snow, besought the life of her crippled son. But all in vain. The noose was around his neck; his mother toltered to him and cast Lerself upon bosom: kissed her aged forehead again and again, and r moment the brave youth was between earth and heaven, § Lory tha leader, th he branches, orders, the insulting spy Oyen His he dangling and his poor, ehi wiih speechless horror at spectacle of her dying on, With curses at the now lifeless body of Richard Walton, the tory leader, sig- naling his men, went to the poor wo man's cottage, and with Sendish mirth and jeers tired the humble cottage, and it went to ashes, As the red flames her burning home burst befors her eyes, the poo: woman came fo a full Knowledge of what had been done, and while the red her burning cotlage fell upon é e 4 A » light of | tories were preparing to depart, she ut- tered in a prophetic tone these words: “Murderers and fiends, may the curse of a broken hearted woman follow you | you even beyond the grave. | killed my boy—my darling, patriot son. You have desolated my heart and given the wide world; for this may you all devil's deed.’ their ears the tories and their leader departed while the lonely, homeless mother lay at her dead son’s side—she { having cut his body down-—and wept as lard Walton was hung by the tories The snow falling very heavy at ten o'clock that night, the wind was keen and bitter, the snow deep and dry, and the night silent and bleak. That afternoon Mrs, Walton had set out through the cold and storm to where her husband was encamped with his companion patriots, who were wait ing for the dawn to wend their way to the camp of General Washington and join his forces, At six oclock thal evening the poor woman, broken-hearted and cold and weary, arrived at her husband’s quar- ters, and there told her piteous tale, how her son had been murdered! how her poor had been given to the flames. The fury, sorrow and rage of the father cannot here be described, enough, that he swore instant ven- géance on the leader of the tories, The patriots readily joined him, and having a knowledge of where the tory leader and his band of ten would iy the night, they set out as darkness fell upon the earth to ferret out the assassins and avenge the patriot’s son. Aud so, at ten o'clock at night, in the fierce snow we see the forms of many men and one woman, wading in silence through the deep snow up a wide pass, that leads to a dark building, since known as a thriving mill, The mill rats, which were its usual occupants now, But to-night it sheltered from the heavy storm Dick Amroyd and his fol- lewers on their way to the English lines, Silently come the avengers up the snowy pass that leads to the mill door, which is closed but not barred. The tories have left no sentinel either without or within the mill, Asuno fear of attack had entered their minds, they in this state they were when the band of Americans came silently toward the old Black Mill door. The patriots now reach the door, and preparing their rifles, they cluster whispers inga low, hushed voice to his i pale wife at his side. ‘Sally, darling, don’t stay near the { mill; go hide in yonder barn till the | fight is over. You're almost frozen, old gal, and ye may get hurt.” “1 shall not leave your side, John!" Mrs. Walton replies in a low tone. “I do not fear; I, too, wish tostrike a blow care of myself.” “(God protect us alll” was John Wal- firm in her resolve to stay by his side | and his followers, The door of the Black Mill was not locked, and the front men, dashing their feet suddenly against It, made it royd's band. unable to comprehend the cause of the and the wintry sky, the falling snow, and the white country that lay outside in the desolate night, Before they could grasp thelr pons, a heavy volley was fired into the | the floor, never to rise to life.” { the remaining six—including Amrovd | —as they grasped their rifles and aimed at the crowd of forms that barred the doofway, butere they could fire, another volley was crushing among them, and all the remaining fell in death, savejone, { and that was Dick Amroyd. A shout of satisfaction issued from | the victorious patriots and a volee cried ! out: “Thank God, Richard, my son, your death has been avenged!” It was Mr. Walton that spoke, *“No. not until he dies,” cned out Mrs, Watson, brandishing on high a long, sharp, glittering knife, and point- iz into the mill, **not until I have killed Dick Amroyd, who set the devils to hang my poor, poor boy. His wart's blood will pay for that act!” Before her husband’s arm could re- strain her, the determined mother had rushed into the darkness of the mill, and the next moment had grasped the cowering trembling form of Dick Am- and iY ETASD. was, beat her face ith , and tried to free—but he might as well hope escape the power of death! Her son’s fate was before her, and his murder she would avenge. She baffled at freedom — ashe raised her fearful knife aloft, and drove it deep, again and again, into his and then through is black and cruel heart. He never spoke, but dropped, bleed- at i woman's f ympanions lay in death shard Walton. ny and irents $ fry te im } ravd, in hes ny dead He, coward that he with his clencl flat CH 3 1 iv ¥ is &3 v5 “bulldog’ Hroat, i i yryrnl ing and lifeless, he eel, where his dead c And so the murder of BR the patriot’s son, had 1 fearfully avenged by the brave | in that wild and snowy night in ber, at the old Black Mill. \ wirny Lerrid . Decem- ———— —— Jim Fisk's Door Boy, fat Peter Donohue has been made assist. Erie and Western Railroad in place of Fred, Wright, resigned. When Colonel Fisk was at the head of the Erie, Peter was his messenger and door boy. One lay Peter had instructions from Fisk to let no one in to see him. During the day wid asked, in a peculiar falsetto voice, to see Colonel Fisk, Peter tol visitor said it was highly important as necessary that he should have Fisk's ear tor a few minutes, the boss of Erie. The man persisted | and seeing that the youthful guardian {of Prince Erie's door was not to be | changed in his determination, put the boy impatiently aside and said: “Here, boy; I'm John Morrissey, and must see Colonel Fisk.” He then pushed by and passed toward | the door, there to be used in that way. “I don't care if you are John Morris. sey!” he exclaimed, as the broad back can’t go in therel”’ With these words Peter jumped for- ward, and, with a spring ike a cat, lit | square on Mornssey's back, He'climb- a up 1 like a squirrel, threw both arms around the Congressman’s neck, and hung on for dear hfe, shutti Morrissey’s wind and fetching him up with a turn. Morrissey shook the boy off with difficulty, and at first seemed incli- ned to pulverize him, but as he looked down at the pugnacious little fellow standing in a determined attitude be- tween him and Colonel Fisk's door, the humor of the situation struck him, and he burst out laughing. “All right have it your own way. I'll call again to-morrow,” said he, and he walked out of the office. He had been gone but a few minutes when Fisk called Peter, and told him to let John Morrissey in if he called. “He's here.” said Peter. “Where 1s he?” asked Fisk, “Well, he was bound to come in against orders, and I put him out,” said Peter. Morrissey told Fisk the story of his encounter with the door boy next day and several bottles of wine were ordered on the strength of it., An ounce of cheerfulness is worth a pound of sadness, The best preachers are those that preach by example, A rm —— A SHB Conuor O'Connor, Connor O'Connor was really a true- born Irishman; his walk his merry blue | eyes, as large as nature could make | them, and above all his rich mellow | voice, with just a suspicion of broeue, | betrayed his nationality at once, Hav- | ing come to America a few months be- | fore the opening of my narrative and | given his recommendations as a gentle- man, society had received with open arms this son of Erin. As this parti- { cular society happened to be located in Boston, and, as Connor was making a rather precarious living as a journalist, | the worthy damnes of the “Hub” had | opened their houses and hearts to this i shiming hght without demanding his | grandfather's pedigree, Now at the same time there was | dwelling in the “modern Athens’ a { bright, misehievous young lady known | drew around her. Papa and Mamma { Bertrand having gone to Europe had left the little lady in charge of a mal- | out of harm’s way. { The little blind god with his bow and | arrows came along and with the aid i deep into Theo's unsuspecting heart, Her pride revolted against this, Why { should she care for a poor young anthor of whom she knew nothing, who had { only his talent for his fortune—she, the pride and pet of a fond old father?” nor with his coaxing voice and | ance of legendary poetry was always in { her thoughts; of course all ended by her | falling desperately in love w our Celtic hero, Naturally this state of affairs could not continue long, and fimally things Hh ALi aunt, like the restof her friends, shipped every literary star that apg on the horizon, She had welcomed young O'Connor, and he, taking advan- tage of this, used every opportunity of presenting himself before his idol, and there we find him, drawn up to the open grate, the firelight playing with her brown hair and sha- dow after shadow chasing each other across her piquant face, as she turned over the pages of a magazine, who was at the piano playing melodies, occasionally glanced over his shoulders at the little figure by the arm- chair, Once their eyes met, and both blushed furiously. Presently she found someth seeped to interest her very she left the cozy nook and came « the gaslight to read it, “Mr. O'Connor, poem, ‘Hearts' Lough “It is, Miss Theo. Do you like it?" “Very much,” she answered, at his tall form. Ter came quickly to i rt rit 127 she ask or = He er Castit pe i w“* caught it, side, “Do you know t it?" be said in a meaning. For answer her bead dropped, and holding one little hand toward him, she put the other his shoulder. He clasped her Lo his heart ina tight em- brace; a burning torrent of words rush- ed from his Jong closed lips that sur- prised him, and as he pressed passionate kisses on her trembling lips.he wonder- ed at his boldness. How long they talk ed they never stopped to think, Miss Dremond came in wrapped in her sealskin and seeing Connor pressed him stay for dinper, but he declined, greatly to Theo's surpris», on the plea of a previous engagement, “We must be cautious,” said, at parting. “If your aunt suspects any- { thing, alas for us!” But **the best laid men oft gang agley,”’ and those of Lhe southful lovers followed the path of many others of the same Kind: for that terrible Miss Dremond did suspect, and without any discovered the true f } outcome of stale of allairs, th w hie lowing cablegram y ris OVINE Kia AL } y whi vn I address 14 ’ fill LF VOuoe, PU on h sired il unl to he lans o' mice and difficulty hh was that the fi was sent to Cans i Brorner RICHARD ter 3s unmanageable eS. daugh- 1 at ance, ELINE. To this the answer came as follows: Keep cool. Explain things and 1°11 seltie matters without anv fuss, Rican BERTRAND, A few weeks jater Theo received a her that after reading it she inclosed and sent it to Connor, Emeline had not forbidden him the {of the letter: Dear Davonren—I bear from a very good source that you are keeping coming storm. This was the beneath you in society, and if this not stopped 1°ll take means to stop it. You shall never marry him with my I intend to return in the | next steamer, and when you receive | this will be on my way, Sailing with | me are two friends of mine, the Count { and Countess of DD, whose ron, the purser tells me, 15 a remarkably fine young man. R. BEgrraxy. Counor at his earliest opportunity { called at the Bertrand mansion. He found Theo very much worried, though, with assumed calmness, she informed him “she didn't care one bit!” Bel with the quick eyes of love he detected the artifice, nnd at once proceeded to quiet her fears, “But, Connor, darling,’ she persist- ed, “remember the Earl s son; he seems to overpower papa-—all the biue blood does, you know--and that eertain “in dividual’ will be just nowhere!" “Never mind the peers, sweet; the ‘individual’ will stand up for his own, no matter how many dozens of boy bar- onets dare to oppose him!’ replied Con- nor, The steamer was at last due that car ried the dread paterfamilias and the no- bility, whose arrival caused » profound sensation in the circle the Dertrands moved in. But it disturbed no one's sace of mind 86 much as it did Theo's. hough she never lost faith: in her lov- er's prowess, yet she knew hor father's strong will; then, besides, there was that everlasting son of the Count and Countess! The Imorming of the arrival of the Ocean Queen Mt. Bertrand called Theo | consent, into the library and had a long conver- sation, which ended in her coming out in tears, Later in the day there was to be a grand dinner in honor of the Count and Countess, to which Connor was invited, His “*individualship” made his ap- pearance and was met in the vestibule by Theo. ‘‘Iie wants to see you at once, dear, and you are looking irremstible,’’ she said, conducting him to the library door. “Are you afradr”’ “Not a bit!” he answered, patiently. The door opened. “Mr. O'Connor, papa.” “Very well; you may go. Take a seat, sir,” gaid Mr. Bertrand, not look- ing up from his desk, When he did look up he was quite unprepared for the genteel style of the young Irishman, but mustered an ugly scowl on his | never remarkably handsome face, “You are young O'Connor, eh?" he growled, “Connor O'Connor, sir.’ “What is your trade or occupation?” glance toward the half open door. “Journalism, ”’ door.” Connor arose to obey, put it pushed rushed | ing: “Connor, my dear, darling boy! | James! James! corne here,” and in came was in, wreathed in smiles; secing how matters | stood he embraced both the mother and the son. “Pon my honor! I’m completely stag- | gered!" muttered Mr. Bertrand, staring | stupidly at the scene. “You, you ji anapes! you young Duncannon! Ble my soul!” and he collapsed intoa chair. **Yes, sir; it’s not so strange though; { 1 can explain ail in a few moments” commenced Connor, “Confound it all, not a word!’’ blus- tered the old gentleman, “Stop peep- ing and come in here, you monkey!” This to Theo: “Take her, Conno welcome, You're a fine boy, t are, yon rascal,” added he, first ing Connor's tall figure and then pretty, blushing daughter. *‘Suppose | we go to dinner.” iis r—— A APs Love at Seventy-five, A dispatch from Birmingham, Conn. says: For seventy-five years Mrs, Char- lotte Canfield lived in the village Derby, half a mile from Birmingham, respected by all who knew her, 5iX vears ago she lost her i, and since then has lived alone in cottage overlooking the Her bh i 8 fing aiid ¥ hus. 4 n BEY bank 1 sband left her and a good i death ut ten months ago she has not society of men, the church About juainted with Henry Bald. , a clerk in the village store, ver. i cared not even of to which en nd weighed codfish infatu. dow, and she invited } H oe thus formed ripened into love, and a few weeks ago Derby was astounded with the report that they weuld soon be married. At about 8B o’clok to-night they called at the parsonage of the Rev, Dr. Roberts of Christ Chiurch, Ansonia, iand in the presence of the minister's relatives were made man and wife’ When it became known in the town the excitement was intense, and cow bells were brought forth, and {at about 10 o'clock 200 men and boys, headed by a drum corps, marched to | the house of the newly wedded couple, where, in the presence of 500 more per- sone, a serenade was given them. The band played “Old Hundred” in honor of the bride. Call after call was made for the groom, and when he appeared im to ase, ‘3 wie in the door three cheers were given. The bride, who hung bashfully in the shadow of the door, was also cheered. Mr. Baldwin attired in his garments, stepped on the veranda in the glare of a hundred torchlights, i thanked the crowd for the visit, In boring saloon to drink to the health of his bride. Mrs. Baldwin informed the { Sun correspondent that she loved ber hushand and married him because she | was tired of living alone and unprotect- | ed, love with his wife, not with her ducats. i I ——— The Bird of Freedom. Israel Platt and Henry Conklin of Conklin discovered an eagle sitting ina { tree, He succeeded in getting within gunshot and fired at the bird. {lin fired the other barrel. When | shot struck the eagle it arose in the air, | shot like an arrow directly at Conklin. | It had been only been slightly wounded {and it meant fight, ( Jonklin aimed a i blow at the bird with his gun, { The bird dodged 2nd shot past him. | Hastily wheeling. it again attacked | Conkling, who, as he struck at it with his gun, slipped and fell, and in his fall | he flung his gun fully ten feet from him. | With a scream the eagle swiftly turned | and came down on the form of the pros- panions to come to his ald. scratched his legs with its talons, and | commenced to peck Conklin on the back and side, Conklin grasped the bird by the neck, and it then scratched his hands severely with its talons, Iie lot go, and 1t again rose-in thewr and then swooped down upon him, and, landing on his back. tore his clothes and flesl:, Platt came up about this time, and, picking up the gun, dealt the eagle a low on the and knocked it sense less. Then, running back to the wagon, be procured ropes, with which both men firmly bound it, and tying it to the bottom of the wagon, they carried it home, where it was chained in the barn, Leta auly slightly wounded, ad was eagle ever taken alive on Long lsland. It measures 7 feel 6 inches from Lip to tip, Conklin was not seriously injured, Seek not to please the world, but your own conscience, | | Miss Olney’s Valentine, “A beautiful morning,”’ Miss Olney thought, as she carried her bird cage to the window and threw open the shut- ters to let in the full ood of light, Old memories were stirring her heart as she went about her work to-day. for this sunshiny 14th of February seemed so like another in the long ago, Bhe was oply sixteen then—*‘sweet sixteen” Jack Brown called her—and they often called her a ‘little flirt’ in those days, “he had never meant to jit him—never and when, on that might, at the valen- tine party, she had allowed Alfy Brim mer to take her home, leaving Jack, who had escorted her there, to find out al his leisure that she was gone, she fulls expected he would come over the next day and make it all up. But Jack did not come the next day, nor the next day after that, And then she heard he had gone away. But though her own folly and Jack’s rash haste had marred the lives of both, Miss Olney grew into Doing “‘with all her i found herself at 50, if not positively happy, at least content. To-day her landlord and his wife She, too, was keeping Sitting with idle and letting tender and true.” “Poor Only dust and ashes now; and He married his wife allin one day—married in mad haste and “‘repented at leisure,” though no human soul ever heard from his manly either t or regret. The civil war brought Naturally pa~ Douglas, Jack!” compan to him a gleam of hope. served his country well, and in a regiment known for its bravery he stood among the first. So far he had escaped with slight wounds; but he was not always thus {0 escape— he was wounded and taken prisoner. long, dreary months, ah | ¥ Then after sonville and “Libby,” such months of guish to the loving hearts at home he “dead,” mourned loudly and mourning for six 16 was married again; an Was reporiea Mrs. Brown the deepest Then sl some years of misery the wo- man who was once Jack Brown's wife was laid to rest, That was all of the past that Miss Ol. ney reviewed to-day, as she sat in her lonely room; but, oh, how it filled her heart, till her eyes overflowed in tears, The day that had been so bright in the morning grew overcast as the afternoon wore on, and ere night snow and sleet filled the air. Miss Olney lighted her lamp, but she did not close the shutters, So she set oul ber supper, with “snowy demask’’ and dainty china and the sil- ver that had been in the family for more than a generation, Just then she was rather startled by a heavy rap al the door, “Only some to admit the applicant. The wind blew in with its attendant threshold stepped in with it, peither waiting for an invitation. A gentle- his dress, but Miss Olney, though not given to fear, felt a sudden chill as she saw that he was a stranger, “Excuse me, Madam.” besaid, 1u a I am chilled through, If you'll allow But before the words were fairly spoken Miss Olney had drawn her own easy chair to the fire, and the stranger dropped into it evidently entirely ex- Lada forgot her fears in com- passion for the stranger, and when his trembling fingers tried in vain to un- loose his muffler she offered her assist. ance in tones she found trembled too, The next moment she fairly blushed as the face, clear of its wrappings, looked upat her. The pale and hair tinged with gray, and the eyes! He looked he fain would speak. but nosound came, Only the tears welled up and fell over pallid cheek. Lida stood mute, transfixed by thatlook., “What does it mean?’’ she sald atl last, in an awe- struck whisper. Then the stranger stretched forth his He had no strength for further ye “Lida,” he whispered, “Lida, don’t ‘Is it really you, Jack? ® she said at last, “Are you sure it’s you?” “Yes, quite sure,” he answered, with a laugh that, if be had been a woman, “Bat I thought you were dead, Jack.® “And were you sorry?” Such a look as she gave him, “How But tell me how it was.” And then he told her of the long ob- livion, from which he woke to find hime self reported as dead. The terrible prison life had driven him mall. He was taken and cared for by good Sama- ntans for three jong years, and then when he was himself again, he found that every one supposed him dead. “And,” be said, “knowing my wife had remarried and my other friends given me up, I thought it best not to ago, that she was dead, I conld no lone was entirely forgotten. 1 amved here but a little while ago, and found on in- quiry that you were still Mss Olney and lived alone, or at least had an es- tablishment of your own.” “Al, Jack, do you know what day it is? Youaremy valentine, sir And so the wonderful news of Jack's return became an old story in Loraine, and Mrs, Brown, ovce little Miss Olney, ells het children the story of her ‘vale entine, AAI 51 A debt is adorned by payment, It is sometimes well to forget what we Know, Be whatever all, be yourself, Mortvied pride often takes the nse and guise of un broker heart, Aappiness is like an econo; it answers 1 your call, bat does an. LL you wiil, but, frst o
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