mr ,
h 18
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THE PITT3BURQ- DISPATCH SUNDAY.
-j : -. "
litre Joved him had he been a cripple, poor,
ignorant, despised, instead of being what
lie was the grandest, noblest man God ever
made. Tor I did not love him tor hia face,
nor for Ais courtly trays, nor for such gifts
as other men might have, but for himself
end for hU" heartdo you understand?"
"For his- goodness," said Sister Paul,
sodding in approval, "I understand."
"No," Beatrice answered, half impa
tiently. "Hot lor his goodness, either.
Many men are good, and so was he, he
must have bee-n, of course. No matter, I
loved him. That is enough. He loTed me,
too. And one da y we were alone, in the
broad spring enn,, upon a terrace. There
'were lemon trees tiiere I can seo the place.
Then we told each ather that we loved but
neither of us could find the words they'
must be somewhere, those strong, beautiful
word that could te 11 how we loved. "We
told each other "
"Without your fa.ther's consent?" asked
the nut.', almost severely. Beatrice's eyes
flashed.
"Is ss woman's hes-rt a dog that must fol
low at heel?" she asked, fiercely. "We
loved. That was er. ough. My father had
the power, but not the heart, to come be
tween us. "We told him then, for we were
not cowards. "We to'i'd him boldly it must
be. He was a thoug htful man, who spoke
little. He said that -we must part at once,
before we loved each other better and that
we should soon forget. We looked at each
other, the man I loved and L We knew
that we should love betier yet, parted or to
gether, though we could not till how that
could be. But we knew also that such love
as there was between us was enough. My
father gave no reasons, but I knew that he
hated the name of my mother' nation. Of
course, we met again. I remember that I
could cry in those day. My f ther had not
I learned to part us then. Perpa ps he was not
quite sure himself; at all events the parting
did not come so soon. "We told him that we
would wait, forever if it must be. He may
have been touched, tho ach little touched
him at the best. Then, one day
suddenly and without warning, he
toot me ownv to another city. 'And
what of him?' I asked,, He told me
that there was an evil fever in the city and
that had seized him the m:m I loved. "He
is free te follow us if he pleases,' said my
father. But he never came, xnen lollowea
a journev, and another and soother, until I
knew tht my father was traveling to avoid
him. When I saw that, I gre-w silent and
never spoke his name again. Farther and
farther, longer and longer, to the ends of
the earth. We saw many people, many
asked for my hand. Sometimes I heard of
him, from men who had seen him lately. I
waned patientlv for I knew that he was on
our track and sometimes X felt that he was
near."
Beatrice paused.
"It is a strange story," said Sister Paul,
-who had rarely heard a tale of love.
"The strange thing is this," Beatrice an
swered. "That woman what is her name?
TJnorna? She loves him and she knowi
where he is."
"Unorna?" repeated the nun in-bewilder-ment
"Yes. She met me after Compline to
night. I could not but speak to her, and
then I was deceived. I cannot tell whether
she knew what I am to him, but she de
ceived me utterly. She told me a strange
Etory of her own life. I was lonely. In all
these Tears I have never cpoken of what has
filled me. I cannot tell how it was. I be
gan to speak, and then I forgot she was
there, and told all."
"She made you tell her by her secret
arts," said Sister Paul, in a low voice.
"No; I was lonely, and I believed that
she was good, and I telt that J must speak.
Then I cannot think how I could have
been so mad; but I thought we should never
meet again, and I showed her a likeness of
him. She turned on me. I shall not forget
her face. I heard her say that she knew
him, and loved him, too. When I awnte,
I was lying on the altar. That is all I
know."
"Her evil arts, her evil arts," repeated
the nun, shaking her head. "Come, my
dear child, let us see if all is in order there,
upon the altar. If these things are to be
known, tbey must be told in the right
Quarter. The sacristan must not see that
anyone has been in the church."
Sister Paul took up the lamp, but Beat
rice laid a hand upon her arm.
"You must help me to find him," she
said firmly. "He is not far away."
Her companion looked at her in astonish
ment. "Help you to find him ?" she stammered.
"But I cannot I do not know I am afraid
it is not right an affair of love "
"An affair of life, Sister Paul, and of
death, too, perhaps. This woman lives in
Prague. She is rich and must be well
known "
"Well known, indeed. Too well known
the Witch, they call her."
"Then there are those who know her.
Tell me the name of one person only it is
impossible that you should not remember
some one who i& acquainted with her, who
has talked with you of her perhaps one of
the ladies who have been here in retreat."
The nun was silent for a moment, gather
ing her recollections.
"There is one, at least, who knows her,"
she said at leugth. "A great lady here it
is said that she, too, meddles with forbidden
practices, and that TJnorna has often been
with her that together Kiey have called up
the spirits of the dead with strange rappings
and writings. She knows her, I am sure,
for I have talked with her and she says it is
all natural, and that there is a learned man
with them sometimes, who explains how all
such things may happen in. the course of
nature a man let me see he has a god
less name, too, half heathen, and half
Christian let me see, let rue see it is
George, I think, but not as we call it, not
Jirgi, nor Jegor do it sounds harder
Ke Keyrgi no, Keyork Keyork
Arabi "
v "Keyork Arabian!" exclaimed Beatrice.
"Is f.e here?"
"You know him?" Sister Paul looked
almost suspiciously at the young girl.
'Indeed I do. He was with ns in Egypt
once. He showed us wonderful things
among the tombs. A strange little man,
who knew everything, but very amusing."
"I do not know. But that is his name.
He lives in Prague."
"How can I find him? I must seo him at
once he will help me."
Tne nun shook her head in disapproval.
"I should be sorry that you should talk
with him," she said. "I fear he is no better
than TJnorna, and perhaps worse."
"You need not fear," Beatrice answered,
with ascornlul smile. "I am not in the
least afraid. Only tell me how I am to find
him. He lives here, you say is there no
directory in the convent?"
"I believe the portress keeps such a
book," said Sister Paul, still shaking her
head uneasily. "But you must wait until
themornmg, my dear child, if you will do
this thing. Of the two, I should say that
you would do better to write to the lady.
Come, we must be going. It is very late."
She had taken the lamp again and was
moving slowly toward the door. Beatrice
had co choice but to submit. It was evi
dent that nothing more could be done at
present. The two women went back into
the church, and going around the high al
tar, began to examine everything carefully.
The only trace of disorder they could dis
cover was the fallen candlestick, so massive
and strong that it was not even bent or in
jured. They climbed the short wooden
Fteps, and, nniting their strength, set it up
again carelully aud in its place, restoring
the thick cankle to the socket. Though
broken in the middle by the fall, the heavy
wax supported itself easily enough. Then
they got down again and Sister Paul took
away the steps. For a few moments both
women knelt down before the altar.
They lclt the church by the nuns' stair
case, bolting tbe door behind tbem, and as
cended to the corridors and reached Beat
rice's room. Ujiorna's door was open, as
the nun had left- it, and the yellow light
streamed upon the pavement, bhe went in
and extinguished the lamp, and then came
back to Beatrice.
"Are you cot afraid to be alone after what
has happened?" she asked.
"Afraid? Of what? No, indeed." Then
she thanked her companion again, and
kissed Sister Paul's waxen cheek.
"Say a prayer, my daughter and may all
be well with you, now and ever," said the
good'sister, as she went away through the
darkness. She needed no light in the
familiar way to her cell.
Beatrice searched among her numerous
belongings, and at last brought out a writ
ing case. Then she sat down to heritable
by the light of the lamp that had illumin
ated so many strange sights that night.
She wrote the came of the convent clearly
upon the paper, and then wrote a plain
message in the fewest possible words. Some
thing of her. strong, devoted nature allowed
itself in her handwriting.
"Beatrice Varanger begs thatKeyork Ara
bian will meet her in the parlor of the con
vent as soon after receiving this as possible.
The matter is very important"
She had reasons of her own for believing
that Keyork had not forgotten her in tbe
five years or more since they had been in
Egypt together. Apart from, the fact that
his memory had .always been surprisingly
good, he had at that time professed tbe most
unbounded admiration for her, and she re
membered with a smile his quaint devotion,
his fantastio "courtesy and his gnome-like
attempts at grace.
She folded the note, to wait for the ad
dress which she could not ascertain until
the morning. She could do nothing more.
It was nearly 2 o'clock, and there was evi
dently nothing to be done but to sleep.
As 'she laid her head upon her pillow a
few minutes later she was amazed at her
own calm. Strong natures, in great tests,
often surprise themselves more than they
surprise others. Others see the results, al
ways simpler in proportion as they are
greater. But the actors themselves alone
know how hard the great and simple can
seem.
Beatrice's calmness was cot only of the
outward kind at tbe present moment She
felt that she was alone in the world, and that
she had taken her life into her own hands.
Fate had lent her the elew of her happiness
at last, and she would hold it firmly to the
end. It would he time enough, then, to
open tbe floodgates. It would have been
unlike her to dwell long upon the thought
of TJnorna, or to give way to any passionate
outbreak of hatred. Why should cot
TJnorna love him? The whole world loved
him, and small wonder. She feared no
rival.
But he was near her cow. Her heart
leaped as she realized how very near he
might well be, then sank again to its calm
beating.
He had been near her a score of times in
the last years, and yet they had not met
But she had not been free, then, as she was
h
Keyork and Beatri&i.
now. There was more hope than before,
but she would not delude herself with any
beliet in a certainty.
So thinking, and so saying to herself, she
fell asleep and slept soundly without dream
ing, as most people do who are young and
strong, and who are clear-headed and active
when tbey are awake.
It was late when she opened her eyes, and
the broad, cold light filled tbe room. She
lost no time in thinking over the events of
the night, for everything was fresh in her
memory. Half dressed, she wrapped about
her a cloak that came down to her feet, and
throwing a black veil over her hair she went
down to tbe portress' lodge. In five minutes
she had found Keyork's address and bad
dispatched one of the convent gardener's with
the note. Then she leisurely returned to her
room, and set about completing her toilet
She naturally supposed that an hour or two
must elapse before she received an answer,
certainly before Keyork appeared in person.
a fact which showed that sh had forgotten
something of the man's characteristics.
Twenty minutes had scarcely passed, and
she had cot finished dressing when Sister
Paul entered the room, evidently in a state
of considerable anxiety. As has been seen,
it chanced to be her turn to superintend tbe
guests' quarters at that time, and the portress
had, of course, informed her immediately of
Keyork's coming, in order that she might
tell Beatrice.
"He is thcrel" she said, as she came in.
Beatrice was standing before the little
mirror that hnng upon the wall, trying
under no small difficulties to arrange her
hair. She turned her head quickly.
"Who is there? Keyork Arabian?"
Sister Paul nodded, glad that she was not
obliged to pronounce the name that had for
her such an unchristian sound.
"Where is he? I did not think he could
come so soon. Oh, Sister Paul, do help me
with my hairl I cannot make it stay."
"He is in the parlor, down stairs," an
swered the nun, coming to her assistance.
"Indeed, child, I do not see how I can help
vou." She touched the black coils ineffect
ually. "There! Is that better?" she asked in
a timid way. "I do not know how to do
it "
"No, no!" Beatrice exclaimed. "Hold
that end so now turn it that way no, the
other way it is in the glass so now keep
it there while I put in a pin no, do in the
same place, but the other way oh, Sister
Paul I Did you never do your hair when
you were a girl?"
"That was so long ago," answered the
nun meekly. "Bet us try again."
The result was passably satisfactory at
last, and assuredly not wanting in the ele
ment of novelty.
"Are you cot afraid to go alone?" asked
Sister Paul, with evident preoccupation, tas
Beatrice put a few more touches to her
toilet
Bat the young girl only laughed and
made the more haste. Sister Paul walked
with her to the head of the stairs, wishing
that the rules would allow her to accom
pany Beatrice into the parlor. Then as the
latter went down tbe nun stood at tbe top
looking after her and audibly repeating
prayers lor her preservation.
The convent parlor was a large, bare room
lighted by a high and grated window. Plain
straight, modern chairs were ranged against
the wall at regular intervals. There was no
table, but a square piece of green carpet lay
upon tbe middle of tbe pavement A richly
ornamented glazed earthenware stove, in
which a fire had just been lighted, occupied
one corner, a, remnant of former esthetic
taste and strangely out of place since the
old carved furniture was gone. A crucifix
of inferior workmanship and realistically
pointed hung opposite the door. The place
was reserved for the use of ladies in retreat
and was situated outside the constantly
closed door which shut off the cloistered
part ot the convent from the small portion
accessible to outsiders.
Keyork Arabian was standing in tbe mid
dle of the parlor, 'waiting for Beatrice.
When she entered at last, he made two steps
forward, bowing profoundly, and then
smiled in a deferential manner.
"My dear lady," he said, "I am here. I
have lost co time. It so happened that I
received your note just as I was leaving
my carriage after a morning drive. I had
co idea that you were in Bohemia."
"Thanks. It was good of you to come so
soon."
She sat down upon one of tbe stiff
chairs and motioned to him to follow her
example.
"And yourdemr father how is he?" in
quired Keyork, with suave politeness, as he
took his Beat
"My father died a week ago," laid Beat
rice, gravely.
Keyork's face assumed all the expression
of which it was capable.
"I am deeply grieved," he said, moder
ating his huge voice to a soft and purring
sub-bass. "He was an old and valued
friend."
There was a moment's silence. Keyork,
who knew many things, was well aware that
aailent feud, of which he also knew tbe
cause, had existed between father and
daughter when he had last been with them,
and he rightly judged irom his knowledge
of their obstinate characters that it had
lasted to the end. He thought, therefore,
that his expression of sympathy had been
sufficient and could pass master.
"I asked you to come," said Beatrice at
last, "because I wanted your help in a mat
ter of imnortance to myself. I understand
that you Know a person who call herself
TT f J 1 1 ... I. "
unorna, hqu wuu uy umw.
Keyork's bright blue eyes scrutinized her
face. He wondered how mtsch she knew.
"Very well, indeed," he answered, as
thongh not at all surprised.
"You know something of her life, then.
I suppose you see her very olten, do you
not?"
"Daily, I can almost say." -
"Have you any objection to answering
one question about her?"
"Twenty if -you nik them, and if I know
the answers," said Keyork, wondering what
form the question would take, and preparing
to meet a surprise with indifference.
"But will you answer me truly?"
"My dear lady, I pledge you my sacred
word of honor," Keyork answered with im
mense gravity, meeting her eyes and laying
his hand upon his heart
"Does she love that man or not?" -Beatrice
asked, suddenly showing him the little
miniature of the Wanderer, which she had
taken from its case aud had hitherto con
cealed in her hand. '
' She watched every line of his face, for she
knew something of him, and, in reality, put
Tery little more faith in his word of honor
than he did himself, which was 'not saying
much. But she had counted upon surpris
ing him, and she succeeded, to a certain
extent His answer did not corns as glibly
sb he could have wished, though his plan
was soon formed.
Who is it?" Ah, dear me! mybld friend.
We call bun the Wanderer. 'Well, TJnorna
certainly knew him when he was here."
"Then he is gone?"
"Indeed, I am not quite sure," said Key
ork, regaining all his self-posession. "Of
course, I can find out for you, if you wish
to know. But as regards TJnorna, I can
tell vou nothing. They were a good deal
together at one time. I fancy he was con
uniting her. You have heard that "she is a
clairvoyant, I dare say."
He made the last remark quite carelessly,
as though he attached co importance to the
fact
"Then yon do not know whether she loves
him?"
Keyork indulged himself with a little dis
creet laughter, deep and musical.
"Love is such a very yagne word," he said,
presently.
"Is it?" Beatrice asked, with some cold
ness.
"To me. 'at least," Keyork hastened to say,
as though somewhat confused. "But of
course, I can know very little about it in
myself, and nothing abont it in others."
Not knowing how matters might turn out
he was willing to leave Beatrice with a
suspicion of the truth; while denying all
knowledge of it
"You know him yourself, of course," Bea
trice suggested.
"I have known hl for years oh, yes,
for him, I can answer. He was not in the
least in love."
"I did not ask that question," said Bea
trice, rather haughtily. "I knew he was
not."
"Of course, of course. I beg your par
don." Keyork was learning more from her than
she was from bim. It was true that she
toot no tronble to conceal her interest in the
"Wanderer and his doings.
"Are you sure that he has left the city?"
Beatrice asked. ,
"No, I am not poitive. I oould est say
with certainty.
"When did you see him last?"
"Within the week, I am quite sure,"
Keyork answered, with alacrity.
"Do you Know where he was staving?"
"I have not the least idea," the little man
reclied, without the slightest hesitation.
"We met at first by chance in the Teyn
Church one afternoon it was Sunday, I re
member, about a montn ago."
"A montn ago on a Sunday," Beatrice
repeated thoughtfully.
"Yes, I think it was New Tear's Day,
too."
"Strange." she said. "I was in the
church that very morning, with my maid.
I had been ill for several days I remember
how odd it was. Strange-thesame day."
'Yes," said. Keyork, noting the words,
but appearing to take no notice of them.
"I was looking at Tycho Brahe's monument.
You know how it annoy me to forget any
thing there was a word in tbe inscription
which I could cot recall. I turned round
and saw him Bitting justattheend of the
pew nearest to the monument
"The old red slab with a figure on it, by
the last pillar?" Beatrice asked eagerly.
"Exactly. I dare say you know the
church very well. You remember that the
pew runs very near the monument, so that
there is hardly room to pass."
"I Know yes."
She was thinking that it could hardly
have been a mere accident which had led
the Wanderer to take tbe very seat she had
occupied on the morning of that day. He
must have seen her during the mass, but she
could not imagine how he could have missed
her.. They had been very near then. And
cow, a wbole months had passed, and Ke
york Arabian professed not to know whether
tbe Wanderer were still in tbe city or cot
"Then 30a wish to bo informed of our
friend's movements, as I understand it,"
said Keyork going bacK to the main point
"Yes what happened on that day?" Be
atrice asked, for she wisded to hear more.
"On, on that day? Yes. Well, nothing
happened worth mentioning. We talked a
little andwent out of the church and walked
a little way together. I forget when we met
next, but I have seen him at least a dozen
times since then, I am sure."
Beatrice began to understand that Keyork
had no intention of giving her any further
information. She reflected that she had
learned much in this interview. The Wan
derer had been, and perhaps still was, in
Prague. TJnorna loved him and they had
been frequently together. He had been in
the Teyn Church on the day she had last
been there herself, and in all probability he
had seen her, since he had chosen the very
seat in which she had sat Further, she
gathered that Keyork had some interest in
cotspeakingmore frankly. She gave up
the idea of examining him any further. He
was a man not easily surprised, and it was
only by means of a surprise that he could
be induced to betray even by a passing ex
pression what be meant to conceal. Her
means of attack were exhausted for the
present She determined at least to repeat
her request clearly before dismissing him,
in the hope that it might suit his plans to
fulfil it, but without the least trust in His
sincerity.
"Will you be co kind as to make some in
quiry, and let me know tho result to-day?"
she asked.
"I will do evervthing to give you anearlv
answer," said Keyork. "And I shall be the
more anxious to obtain one without delay,
in order that I may have the very great
pleasure or visiting you again. There is
much that I would like to ask you, if you
will allow me. For old friends, as I trust I
may say that we are, you must admit that
we have exchanged few very few confi
dences this morniog. May I come again
to-day? It would be an immense privilege
to talk of old times with vou of our friends
Jn Egypt aud of our many journeys. For
vuu uaic 110 aouoi traveled mucn since
then. Your dear father," he lowered his
voice reverentially, "was a great traveler,
as well as a very learned man. Ah, well,
my dear lady, we must all mate up our
minds to undertake that great journey' one
ot these days. ButI pain you. Iwasvery
much attached to your dear father. Com
mand all my service. I will come again In
the course of the day."
With many sympathetic smiles and half
comic inclinations of his short, broad body,
the little man bowed himself out
(To 6e continued next toeei.)
Stylish Suitings,
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ODD FUNERAL RITES.
Sobert Louis Stevenson Tells of tho
Burial of a Paumotnan.
THE EOUTH SEA FULL OF GHOSTS.
IatuglMs fishermen Whs Bring; Lnek to
the KeU of Mortals. .
CAK5IBALIBK IX THE SPIRIT LAUD
rwxiTTZx ro th sisMTcm.1
better No. 0.. '
LITTLE apart in
the main avenue of
Botoava, a a low
hut of leaves that
opened on a small
enclosure, like a
pigsty on its pen, an
old man dwelt soli-
' tary with his aged
wife. Perhaps they
were too old to mi
grate with the others; perhaps they were
too poor, and had no possessions to dispute.
At least tbey remained behind; and it thus
befell they were invited to my feast I dare
say it was quite a piece of politics in the
pigsty whether to come or cot to come, and
tbe husband long swithered between curiosi- j
' ' ' .'tgUtr TWiWCS?.
ONE OF THE LARGEST DJLNCE
ty and age, till curiosity conquered, and
they came, and in the midst of that last
merry-making death tapped him on tbe
shoulder.
For some days, when the sky was bright
and the wind cool, his mat would be spread'
'in the main highway of the village, and he
was to be seen lying there inert, a mere
handful of man, h(s wife inertly seated by
his bead. They seemed to have outgrown
alike our needs and faculties; they neither
spoke flor listened: they suffered us to pass
withont a glance; the wife did not fan, and
seemed not to attend upon her husband, and
the two poor antiques sat juxtaposed under
the high canopy of palms; the human trage
dy reduced to its bare elements, a Bight be
yond pathos, stirring a thrill of enriosity.
And yet there was one tonch of the pathetio
haunted me that so much youth and ex
pectation should have run in these starved
veins, and the man should have squandered
all his lees of life upon a pleasure party, f,
Sled and Burled la a Day.
On the morning of September 17 the suf
ferer died, and, time pressing, he wasburied
the same day at 4. The cemetery lies to
seaward behind Government House, a
dreary, small enclosure; broken coral, like
so much road metal, forms the surface; a
few wooden crosses, a few inconsiderable
upright stones, designate graves; a mortared,
wall high enough to lean on, rings it about;
a clustering shrub surrounds it with pale
leaves. Here was the grave dng that morn
ing, doubtless by uneasy diggers, to the
sound of the nigh sea and the cries of sea
birds. Meanwhile the dead man waited in
his house, and the widow and another aged
woman leaned on tbe lence before the door,
no speech upon their lips, co speculation in
their eyes.
Sharp at tbe hour tbe procession was In
march, tbe coffin wrapped in white and car
ried by four bearers; mourners behind not
many, for not many remained, in Botoava,
and not many in black, for these were poor;
the men in straw hats, white coats and blue
trousers, or the gorgeous parti-colored pariu
tho Tahitian kilt; the women, with a few
exceptions, brightly habited. Tbe presence
of Mr. Donat and the white strangers gave
a note more serious. Far in tbe rear came
the widow, painfully carrying tbe dead
man's mat; a creature aged, beyond human
ity, to the likeness of some missing link.
Almost a Christian Burial.
Tbe dead man, had been a Mormon, bnt
tbe Mormon clergyman was gone with the
rest to wrangle over boundaries in the ad
jacent isle, and a layman took his office.
Standing at the bead of the open grave, in a
white coat and pariu, his Tahitian Bible in
hia hnnri nrifl nnA vn Timing until n wA
handkerchief, he read solemnly that chapter
in Job which has been read and heard over
the bones of so many of our fathers, and
with a good voice offered up two prayers.
Tne wind and the surf bore a burthen. By
the cemetery gate a mother in crimson
suckled an infant rolled in blue. lu the
midst the widow sat upon tbe ground and
polished one of the coffin stretchers with a
piece of coral; a little later she had turned
her back to the grave and was playing with
a leaf. Did she understand? God knows.
The preacher paused a moment, stooped
and gathered and threw reverently on the
coffin a handful of rattling coral. 'Dust to
dust; but tbo grains of this dust were gross
like cherries, and the, true dust that was to
follow sat near by, still cohering (as by
miracle) in tbe tragio semblance of a lemale
ape. The eternal roar of the surf mocked
the while at the whole transitory race of
the mourned and the mourners. So far,
Mormon or not, it was a Christian funeral.
Tho well-known passage had ben read from
Job, the prayers had been rehearsed, the
grave was filled, the mourners straggled
homeward.
Some Native Customs Overlooked.
And by rights it should have been much
otherwise. The mat should have been
buried with its owner; but the family being
poor, it was thriitily reserved for a Iresh
service. The widow shouli have flung her
self upon the grave and raised tho VQice of
official grief, the .neighbors have chimed in,
and the narrow isle rung for -a space with
lamentation. But the widow was old; per
haps she had forgotten perhaps never un
derstood, and she played like n child with
leaves and coffin-stretchers. In nil wsys my
guest was buried with maimed rites.
Strange to think that his last conscious
pleasure was the Casco and my feast; strange
to think that ho had limped, there, an old
child, looking for some new good. And the
good thing, rest, had been alloted him.
But though tbe widow had. neglected
much, there was one part she must liot ut
terly neglect She came away with the dis
severing funeral; but the dead man's mat
was lett behind upon the grave, and I
learned that by set of. sun she must return
to sleep there. This vigil is imperative.
From sundown till the rising of the morning'
star the Paumotuan must hold his watch
above the ashes of his kindred. Many
friends, if the dead have been a man of
mark, will keep the watchers company;
they will be well supplied with coverings
against the weather; I believe they bring
food, and the rite is persevered in for two
weeks. Our poor survivor, if. indeed, thn
properly (survived, had little to cover, and 1
few to sit with her; on the night of the fa
neral a strong squall chased her irom her
place of watch; for day 'the. weather held
uncertain and outrageous, and ere seven
nights were up she had desisted and returned
to sleep in her low roof.
-MM Why She-Abandoned Her Vigil.
That she should be at the pains of return
ing for so short a visit to a solitary house
that this borderer of tbe grave should fear a
little wind and a wet blanket filled me at
the time with musings. Leonid not say she
was indifferent; she was so far beyond me in
experience that the court of my criticism
waived jurisdiction; but I forged excuses,
telling myself she had perhaps little to
lament, perhaps suffered much, perhaps un
derstood nothing. And lo! in the whole
affair there was no qnestion whether of ten
derness or piety, and tbe sturdy return of
this old remnant was' a mark either of un
common sense or of uncommon fortitude.
Yet one thing had occurred that partly set
me on the trail. I have said the funeral
passed much as at home. But when all was
over, when we were trooping in decent
silence from the graveyard gate and down
the path to tbe settlement, a sudden inbreak
of a different spirit startled and perhaps dis
mayed us. Two people walked not far apart
in our procession, my iriend, Mr Donat
Donat-Bimara-u. "Donat the much handed"
acting Vice-Besident, present ruler of the
archipelago, by far the man of chief im
portance ou the scene, but known besides
tor one of an unshakable good temper; and
a certain comely, strapping young Paumo
tuan woman1, tbe comeliest on the isle not
(let us hope) tbe bravest or tbe most polite.
Of a sudden, ere yet the gravest silence of
tbe funeral was broken, she made a leap at
the Resident, with pointed finger, shrieked
a few words, and fell back again with laugh
ter, not a natural mirtn. "What did she
say to you?" I asked. "She did not speak
HOUSES OK THE ISLANDS.
to me," said Donat, a shade perturbed, "she
spoke to the ghost of the dead man." And
the purport of her speech was this: "See
there! Donat will be a "fine feast for you
to-night" .
Diverting the Ghost's Attention. -
"M. Donat called it a jest," I wrote at the
time in my diary. "It seemed to me more in
the nature of a terrified conjuration, as
ttiongh she would divert the ghost's attention
from herself. Acannibalrace may well have
cannibal phantoms." The guesses of the
traveler appear foredoomed to be erroneous;
yet in these I was precisely right The
woman had stood by in terror at the
fnneral, being then in a dread spot tbe
graveyard. She looked on in terror to the
coming night, with that ogre, a new spirit
loosed upon the isle, and tho words she had
cried in Donat's face were indeed a terrified
conjuration, basely to shield herself, basely
to dedicate another in her stead. One thing
is to be said in her excuse. Doubtless she
partly chose Donat because he was a man of
great, good nature, but partly, too, because
ha was a man of the half caste, for I be
lieve all natives regard the white blood as a
kind of talisman against the powers of hell.
In no other way ean they explain the un
punished recklessness of Europeans.
With my superstitious friends, the
islander, I fear I am not wholly frank, often
leading the way with stories of my own, and
being always a grave and vsometimes an ex
cited hearer. But the deceit isscarce mor
tal, since I am as pleased to- hear as be to
tell, as pleased with the story as he is with
the belief; and, besides, it is extremely
needful. For it is scarce possible to exag
gerate the extent and empire of his supersti
tions; they mold his life, they color his
thinking; aud when he does not speak to
me of ghosts, and gods, and devils, he is
playing the dissembler and talking only
with his lips.
The Spirits In the Bosh.
I will give but a few instances at random,
chiefly from my own own doorstep inTJpolu,
during the past month (Octobr, 1890).
One of my workmen was sent the other day
to the banana patch, there to dig; this is a
hollow of the mountain, buried in the woods,
out of all sight and cry of mankind; and
long before dusk Lafaeie was back again
beside the cookhouse with embarrassed
looks; he dared not longer stay alone, he
was afraid ot "spirits in tbe bush." It
seems these are tbe souls of the unburied
dead, haunting where they fell, and wear
ing woodland shapes of -pig, or bird, or in
sect; the bush is full of them, they seem to
eat nothing, slay solitary wanderers appar
ently in spite, and 'at times, in human form,
go,down into the villages and oonsort with
the inhabitants undetected.
I once lived in a village, the name of
which I do not mean to tell. The chief and
his sister were .persons perfectly intelligent;
gentlefolk, apt of speech. The sister was
very religious, a great cuurcngoer, one mat
used to reprove me if I stayed away. I
found afterward that she privately wor
shiped a shark. ' The chief himself was
somewhat of a freethinker; at the least, a
latitudmarian; he was a man besides filled
with'Europeau knowledge and accomplish
ments; of an- impassive, ironical habit; and
I should as soon have expected superstition
in Mr. Herbert Spencer.
Hear the sequel. I had discovered by un
mistakable signs that they buried too
shallow in the village graveyard, and I
took my friend, as the responsible authority
to task. "There is something wrong about
your graveyard," said I, "which you must
attend to or it may have very bad results."
"Something wrong? What is it?" he
atilced. with an emotion that surprised me.
"If you care to go along there any evening
about 9 o'clock you can see for yourself,"
said I. He stepped backward. X"A ghost!"
he cried.
Stick to the Old Island Doltles. 1
In short, in the whole field 'of tbe South
Seas, there is not one to blame another.
Half blood aud wbole.pious and debauched,
intelligent and dull, all men believe in
ghosts, all men combine with their recent
Christianity fear, and a lingering- faith in
the old island deities. So, in Europe, the
gods of Olympus slowly dwindled into
village bogies; so to-day, tbe theological
Highlander speaks from under the eye of
the Free Church divine to lay an offering by
a sacred we'll.
It is from sundown to about 4 in the
morning that the kinsfolk camp upon the
grave, and these are the hours of tbe spirits'
wanderings. At any' time of the night it
may be earlier, it may be later a sound is
to be heard below, which is the noise of- his
liberation; at 4 sharp, another and a louder
marks tbe instant of the reimprisonment;
between whiles, he goes his malignant
rounds.
"Did you ever see an evil spirit?" was
once asked of a" Paumotuao. "Once."
"Under what form?" "It was the rorm of a
crane." "And how did you know that
crane to be a spirit?" was .asked. "I will
tell you," he answered; and this was the
purport of bis inconclusive narrative. His
father had been dead nearly a fortnight;
others had wearied of tbe watch, and a the
sun was setting, he found himself by the
grave alone.' It was ntit yet dark, rather
the hour of the afterglow, when he was
aware of a snow-white crane upon tbe coral
mound; presently more craues came, some
white, some black; then the cranes
vanished, and he saw in their place
a white cat, to which there' was
silently Joined a great company of
eats of every hue conceivable; then
these also disappeared, and he was left
astonished.,
, no Waa Saved by Prayer. '
This was an anodyne appearance. Take,
instead, tbe experience of Bua-a-Marite-rang!
on the Isle of Katiu. He had a need
for some pandanus, and crossed the isle to
the sea beacb, where it chiefly flourishes.
The day was still, and Bna was surprised
to hear a crashing sound among the
thickets and then the fall of a considerable
tree. Here must be some one building a
canoe, and he entered the margin of tbe
wood to find and pass the time of day with
this chance neighbor.
The crashing sounded more at hand, and
then he was aware of something drawing
swiftly near among tbe treetops. It swung
by its heels downward, like an ape, so that
its hands were free for murder; it depended
safely by the slightest twigs; the speed of its
coming was incredible, and soon Bua recog
nized it for a corpse, horrible with age, its
bowels hanging as it came. Prayer was the
weapon of Christian in the Valley of the
Shadow, and it is to prayer that Eua-a-Mariterangi
attributes his escape. No
merely human expedition had availed. This
demon was plainly from the grave, yet you
will observe he was abroad by day. And
inconsistent as it may seem with the hours
of the night watch and the many references
to tne rising 01 tne morning star, it is no
singular exception, I could never find a case
of another who had seen this ghost, diurnal
and arboreal in iti habits, but others have
heard the fall of tbe tree, which seems the
signal of his coming.
But whether by day or night, the purpose
of the dead iu these attained activities is
still the same. In Samoa, my informant
had no idea of the food ot the bush spirits;
no such ambiguity would exist in tbe mind
ot a Paumotuan. in that hungry archi
pelago, living and dead must alike toil for
nutriment, and tbe race having b:en canni
bal in tbe past, tbe spirits are so still.
Where the living ate the dead, horrified
nocturnal imagination drew the shocking in
ference that the dead might eat the living.
Doubtless they slay men, doubtless even
mutilate tbem, in mere malice. Marquesan
spirits sometimes tear out the eyes of travel
ers; but even that mav be more practical
than appears, for the eye is a cannibal
daiofy.
And certainly the root idea of the dead, at
least in the far eastern islands, is to prowl
for food. It was as a dainty morsel for a
meal that the woman denounced Donat at
the tuner al. Nor is it only the dead who
eat tbe living; there are spirits besides who
prey in particular on the souls of tne newlv
dead. The point is clearly made iu a Tahi
tian story. A child fell sick, grew swiftly
worse, and at last showed signs of death.
The mother hastened to tbe house of a
sorcerer, who lived hard by. "You are yet
in time," said he; "a spirit has just run past
my door carrying the soul of your child
wrapped in the leaf of a purao; but I have a
spirit stronger and swifter who will run him
down ere be has time to eat it," Wrapped,
you see, in a leaf like other things edible
and corruptible. .
Experience With the Bird of Death.
Or take an experience of Mr. Donat's ou
the island of Anaa. It was a night of a
high wind, with violent squalls; his child
was very sick, and the lather, though he
had gone to bed, lay wakeful, hearkening to
the gale. All at once a fowl was violently
dashed on the house wall. Supposing he
bad forgot to put it in shelter with the rest,
Donat arose, lound the bird (a cock) lying
on the veranda, and pn( it in the henbonse,
the door of which he securely fastened.
Fifteen minutes later the business was re
peated, only this time, as it was being
dashed against the wall, the bird crew.
Again Donat replaced it, examining the hen
house thoroughly and finding it quite per
fect; as he was so engaged the wind puffed
out his light, and be must grope back to the
door a good deal shaken. .Yet a third time
the bird was dashed upon the wall; a third
time Donat set it, now near dead, beside its
mate, and be was scarce returned before
there came a rush, like that j of a furious
strong man, against the door, and a whistle
as lond as that of a railway engine rang
about tne.couse.
The skeptical reader may here detect the
finger of the tempest, but the woman gave
up all for lost, and 'clustered on the 'beds
.lamenting. Nothing followed, .and I must
suppose the gale somewhat abated, for
presently after a chief came visiting. He
was a bold man to be abroad so late,-but
doubtless carried a bright lantern. And he
was certainly a man of counsel, for as soon
as he heard the details of these disturbances
be was in a-position to explain their nature.
"Your child," said he, "must certainly die.
This is the evil spirit of an island who lies
iu wait to eat the spirits of the newly dead."
And then he went on to expatiate on the
strangeness of the spirit's conduct He was
not usually, he explained so open of assault,
but sat silent on tne housetop waiting in
the guise of a bird.
A Fisherman From Spirit Land.
But the dead are not exclusive in their
diet They carry with them to the grave,
iu particular, the Polynesian taste Jbr fish,
and enter at times with the living into a
partnership In fishery. Bua-a-Mariterangi
is again my authority. As Baa grew up
he was called at last to go a-fishing with bis
parent They rowed into tbe iagoouat dusk,
to an unlikely place, and tho boy lay down
in the stern, and the father began vainly to
cast his line over the bows. It is to be sup
posed that Bua slept, and when he awoke
there was the fignre of another beside his
father, and his father was pulling in the
fish hand over hand. "Who is that man,
father?'' Bua asked. "It is none of your
business," said the father; and Bua sup
posed the strauger had swam off, to them
from shore.
Night -after night they fared into the
lagoon, often to the most unlikely places;
night after night the stranger would sud
denly be seen ou board, and as suddenly be
missed; and morning after morning the
canoe returned laden with fish. "My father
is a very lucky man," thought Bua. At
last one fine day there came first one boat
party and then another, who must be enter
tained; father and son put off later than
usual into tbe lagoon; and before the canoe
was loaded it was4o'clook, and the morn
ing star was close on tbe horizon. Then tbe
stranger showed symptoms of distress,
turned about, showing for the first time his
face, which was that of one long dead, with
binning eyes, stared into the east, set tbe
tips of his fingers to his mouth like one
a-cold, uttered a strange, shuddering sound
between a whistle and a moan a thing to
freeze the. blood; and, the day star just ris
ing trom the sea, he suddenly was not. Then
Bua was aware of why his father prospered,
why his fishes always rotted early in the
day, and why some were alwfiys carried to
the cemetery and laid upon the graves.
BOBEET C0UIS StEVENSOU.
"fZELINO IK AH AMPUTATED -J0QT.
The Old Story Has a Sufficient Foundation
In Scientific Fact.
Many consider the idea that a man can
feel paiu in an amputated limb as a super
stitious absurdity, says Dr. William Waldo
in the St. Louis QIobf-Democrat, but this
opinion is a mistake. Ail the sensations
that an injury to a foot Would occasion, for
instance, may be felt by one whose foot is
amputated. There is a good" physiological
reason for this in the fact that mafy of the
nerves that furnish communication between
tbe brain are not injured in their activity
by the amputation of their lower portion,
and convey sensation as readily as ever.
The brain fails to recognize the fact that
the function ot the nerve has changed, and
that tbe part in which it formerly termi
nated exists no longer. Therefore, when a
sensation is felt conveyed by a nerve that
in the unmaimed body led to the foot, the
fcoliug is the same at if the foot was still in
place. If certain heryes in an amputated
leg be touched tho feeling is exactly the
same as it the foot watoucbed, and tbe sen
sation of pain is felt, not where it is ap
plied, bnt where the mind has been in the
habit of receiving communication from the
nerve in question.
THE GRIP MICROBE.
Bred at First From Poisoned Soil
It Gains Malignity From
GEBMS OF FEYEE AND' CHOLEEA.
PrBTention ia Fortifrln-- the System and
in Disinfectants.
GEEMICIDE8 THAT ARE A6EEEABLE
rwHrmcr i-on tot: msro.TCir.1
Metropolitan papers by direct inspiration
suggest the propriety of a commission to in
quire into the causes of tbe present and pre
vailing epidemic While the doctors are
beginning to think about taking steps to
open their inquiry, there is nothing in the
world to hinder any person from consti
tuting himself a committee ofone to investi
gate the reasons for the grip. It is much to
be feared he will not go far before the ques
tion takes the shape, "Is there any reason
why there shouldn't be grip?" It looks as
if it had come to stay, permanent and perni
cious, and it will be harder to dislodge the
plague than any one imagines.
Of course the average citizen will not see
any use in getting uneasy on the subject
any more than he did about the war the
day before the guns were pounding Fort
Sumter, or than he will about the coast
defenses till the day some third-rate power,
which puts all its money in steel cruisers,
Blockades New York harbor and stuns busi
ness for a season before we can pull our
selves together to realize the case. He hates
smelling committees' as disturbers of tbe
public peace. He thinks people ought to
leave their health to tbe doctors his phrase
is, to "trust themselves implicitly in the
hands of the physician and suffer him to
lead tbem by the hand." It is best cot to
invite the average citizen to take part in
our health commission.
What the Doctors Say of It,-
Come to think, the doctors need not all be
left behind. I am not at all sure'that many
of tbem serious, thinking, bard working
physicians, too closely run with the de
mands of large practice to write for the
papers have not a shrewd theory as to the
origin of la grippe and its kindred disorders.
Some of them protest it is no new disease,
but a concentrated and virulent form of
various respectable ailments, caused by pol
luted air and fermenting food.
They say that it reminds them of the out
break of meningitis ten years ago, that it
has much in common with the depressing
effects of typhoid, modified by tbe cleaner
habits of the people. Men bathe more' than
they used to, preparatory to putting on olean
shirts and collars, and find their account
in it.
Tbey have only to reckon with bad air,
want of sunlight and injudicious food. You
can call it malaria or not, as you please,
there's no denying that the air in New York
and several other cities we might name is
well, not exactly bad, but not as good as it
might be. We are all agreed on the safe
ground that grip is caused by a microbe.
"Culled by the Microbe Theory.
The average citizen gets a deal of comfort
out of the idea.and is content to leave things
there. You can't catch a microbe and put
him in a bottle, or kill him with fly poison.
So .what's tbe use of bothering about him.
Only that " microbes spring from bad air,
flourish in it, increase by billions in it, and
if you get rid of bad air, the microba goes
with it. What makes bad air? Dirt has
something to do with it, animal and vege
table waste have much to do in making it,
tho crowding of human beings lu ill venti
lated, sunless houses, or close vehicles
makes it
Do not let your imagination wander to the
slurps at once. I do not speak, 'of the
crowded tenement streets, but of eligible
quarters of the city where high rents are the
rule. It will be enough for most persons to
go through certain well-known blocks to as
certain reason for bad air, microbes and the
.grip. Take one block scented with half a
dozen stables, the foul dust lying in a wind
row by each curbstone, irritating nostrils,
eyes and throat as the air raises it, and you
will wonder that any one can live there.
These sickly days of April past the odors
of musty stable dust have pervaded the
cross streets and penetrated to bed cham
bers. What carriage owner of tbe whole
city would build his country house cheek by
jowl with his stable, or what villager would
cot be outraged If his neighbor .ect horses
tbe otber side of his parlor wall, even with
acres of free wind blowing about them?
The Test of Delfcata Senses.
Yet, in close streets, well-to-do families
live contentedly beside stable, and restau
rants open adjoining where the hay and
litter flavor the air under the smell of clam
chowder and Hamburg steak. These stables
are a constant menace to human life and
health so long as they are not absolutely in
odorous to the most delicate senses. It is
tbe persons of refined senses Who are the
best judges of sanitary conditions. Tneir
smell and taste are valued at high prices in
tea-tasting or judging of wines and pro
visions. Why are they not just as compe
tent testers of air and water?
When hygiene and the conditions of the
preservation of life are understood, these
people of sensitive nerves, who detect the
earliest pollution of air, will be looked to
lije Bensine"
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.fiBaidost.
JOHANNHOFF'S
ilAJ.T EXTRACT
For sale by
JOS." FLEMING 4 SON,
113 Market strret,
"ap . Pittsburg.
as public safeguards and depended upon aa
experts of very signal service to the world.
Before the Medical Library Association'
of New York in 1871 Dr. J. C. Nott laid
down as conclusions to which 40 years, .of
experience led him that "epidemic diseases
produce a peculiar constitution of atraos
tphere which influences all current diseases."
Atmospheric Causes of Disease.
In this be followed the illustrious Syden
ham, who thought and wrote deeply on the
influence of atmospheric causes of 'disease,
and who declared that "there are various
constitutions of tbe year which come neither
from heat, cold, drought nor humidity, bat
rather from a concealed and inexpicable
alteration which occurs in the bowels of the
earth. Then tbe air is affected with per
nicious exhalations which cause special dis
eases as long as tbe same constitution is pre
dominant" Dr. Nott after long practice in the South,
wrote that "yellow fever creates a peculiar
atmospheric constitution which never diet
out and manifests itself in the types of re
mittent levers even in the absence of yellow
fever," and fnrther says that "no disease if
more influenced by atmospheric constitu
tions than epidemic pneumonia. Oar best
directed efforts," he says, "may never reach
any satisfactory explanation ot so-called at
mospheric constitutions, but it cot unreason
able to hope ihe microscope may someday
discover living germs as causes of certaist'
zymotic diseases," which it has since done.
These germs. Dr. Nott thinks, may hybri
dize like other forms of animal life, so that'
the virus or yellow fever, transported by at
mospheric currents, may add malignanoy to
the usual run of winter and spring diseases
a theory which so fits all symptoms of
present epidemics that it deserves most
searching study.
One Kind of Needed Coast Defenses.
It is hardly 20 years since-ihe outbreak
of yellow fever among the troops at Gover
nors Island, N. Y.j and how many times
since it has knocked at the gates only tbe
health officers know, and are careful not to
tell. We are warned of the defenseless con
dition of our harbors, in case of war.but tbey
is ten times more exposed to the assaults of
malignant epidemics, hardly more from
foreign vagrants than trom theirown unsani
tary condition. Sydenham has caught the
idea of the origin of zymotic disease as one
groping catches an animal in the dart.
The death dealing constitution or condi
tion of tbe atmosphere of which he wrote
comes, indeed, from tbe concealed but not
inexplicable alteration in the soil saturated
by filth of every nature. Given years of in
filtration by gaseous liquid and solid decay,
at certain temperatures and rate of humidity,
the soil will develop a concentrated miasma
which stealthily saps tbe strength till some
overdoing, some sudden change of cold and
heat tilts the balance. Then come the
symptoms we know so well the chill, the
ache of limbs which doctors name the bone
breaking leaver, then diarrhea and the
prostration which seems utterly out of pro
portion to the short run of sickness which
preceded it But not to the long, gradual
poisoning of which the illness was only a
sign .that the point of resistance had bees
passed.
Fortifying Against the Germs.
What does it matter if you catch the vary
bacillus ofla grippe? Isolate him. puthimin
cabinets on microscopio slides, raise colonies
of bim in gelatine lor tbe delight of every
schoolboy nay, have competitive exhibi
tions of the finest specimens raised under
glass. Microscopists tell us disease does not
depend ou the germ, but on tbe weakness of
the system which receives it We every one
of us dispose of a thousand germs daily, any
one of which is enough to destroy us if our
systems were not able to kill them off, as the
gastric jnice tills mites eaten on lettuce
generally.
If we breathe and eat and drink impurity
365 days in a year, how long are health and
vitality to resist? How long will it be till
the white blood offers the very "culture"
needed for the dreaded germs to develop,
turning it to depravity and decay?
So much for tbe origin of la grippe.
The idea nearest home has the most like
lihood of truth namely, that it is bred
from concentrated virus rising from poisoned
soil, which may gain malignity from fevir
and cholera germs transported by atmos
pheric currents like those which drive the
dust of Krakatoa across the globe. It be
comes us more to study means of resistance,
to put our frames in the
Boat Possible Condition ot Defease
by all natural tonics of clean living la
every sense, of due rest, checking the rush
of o'verwork in money-making or social
ambition, eating food which least taxes
digestion and keeps all the outlets of tbe
bo'dy open, admitting the sun to our houses
and living directly in the earliest and
latest lifegiving beams.
Happilv, science puts iu reach a new or
der ot air purifiers, no longer confining us
to chloride of lime, carbolie acid, sulphur
and various commercial stenches. The
germicides of the year are grateful, fra
grant, filling houses with odors of field and
lorest, aroma of pine and fir, eucalyptus and
thyme, delightful for bath and toilet, invig
orating, calming and safe in all ways.
They are even stainless to linen, purging il
of all smells of sickness or ill health. Wa
can have offices, balls and homes pure With
the breath of mountain meadows by spray
ing tbem daily and plentifully with these
new sanitary agents. They will never equal
the purity of clean air, but they are a boon
to those who must stay iu towns as unclean
as New York, of which a lady coming from
Washington said, "I was ashamed to see
how dirty our town is."
But New York is not tbe only dirty city
which makes tbe matter worse.
Shiklet Dabs.
awnJ:-
TL v rr
teaajJ&
fligfi&aiai
IthrougfeSA
IfiM
C'uiilizlj&i
lb SitE3urt Cf
foTht u
WW
1 "t
9
miMJ
f TOHANN HOFF-B
For sale by
JOS. FLEMING fc SON.
U2 Market street
seat ' f ltttb)t
IS mimmi S.fCS!!
$
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