t Rush Travers' Caprice.
? BT Br LI. IIT.OHSO.M.
"Thirty years of age, possessor of a
handsome fortune and a handsome
face, and already become cynical! Se
riously, Rush, I would advise you to
become a hermit. I think a few
months so spent would raise you to
the appreciation of your blessings.
Take it into consideration, old fel
low. Au revoir!"
And Harry Withers, touching his
hat, hurried oft at the corner of the
street the two friends had approached
together.
Rush Travers walked on alone. The
words to which he had just listened
had been lightly, jestingly spoken, but
somehow they had hurt. Was it true
that he was ungrateful? - Did the heart
never cry out, in its emptiness, even
when filled with the favor of fortune,
the good will of men, the caressing
smiles of women? Did not the two
latter hang upon the former? What
man, what woman cared for the man
and not the outward surroundings
which he owed to chance? The one
true heart on which he might have
leaned was stilled forever.
Ten years before, in the first flush
of his young manhood he had lost his
mother. There now remained for him
but a cherished, idolized memory. His
father had died in his infancy. He
bad neither brother nor sister.
At 25 he had fallen in love with a
woman whose falseness he had dis
covered in time to save the wreck of
his life, though scarcely of his happi
ness.
He stood alone in the world—alone
an his richly-freighted bark. Could
all its treasures atone for t'he realiz
ing sense of desolation the world im
parted ?
"Will you buy my violets, please,
sir? Oniy a dime, sir."
It was a sweet, pitiful, pleading
roice—a sweet, little pitiful face, look
ing at him from beneath the brim < 112
a tattered hat. thrust onto a mass
of bright, chestnut curls.
Children were Rush Travers' weak
ness. At any time he could take into
his arms a crying child and hush its
sorrow.
He thrust his hand into his pocket
and drew therefrom a piece of silver,
which he placed in tue tiny, out
stretched palm; then, from very idle
ness, he walked 011, questioning the
little girl, who ran beside him.
"Poor little waif. How singularly
pretty she is," he thought.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Pansy, sir," she answered. "Mamma
used to say it was the color of my
eyes."
He looked down with a sniije '
purple depths, half shaded by the long
lashes, upraised from the brown
cheeks.
"Where is your mother?" he asked.
"In heaven, sir."
"And your father:'
"He is dead, too."
"With whom do you live?"
"With a woman who is kind to me,
and whom I pay by selling my flow
ers. I am all alone in the world."
Alone in the world! Who can real
ize as he, the pathetic eloquence held
in the simple avowal? But if to him
the word meant so much —to him in
the pride and strength of manhood,
and position, and wealth—what new
meaning did it gather when it includ
-3d dependence, and poverty, and wom
anhood?
A sudden thought came to him. It
was almost an inspiration. He looked
once more, earnestly, searchingly, into
the little, upturned face.
The child was beautiful; the eyes
were large and the mouth
showed character, which might be
molded for good or evil.
"Pansy," he said, scarcely conscious
uf his own intention until the words
had escaped him, "you say that you
are alone in the world. So am 1. Sup
pose 1 make you my little girl? Do
you think that you would be happier?"
"Do you mean that I am to live with
you, and bring you the money for my
flowers? 08, I should like that very,
very much."
"I mean that you should live with
me, yes; but you will not sell flowers
:hen, though you shall have all that
you want."
The enfld looked up in wondering
amazement. She could not compre
hend the words, but Rush Travers had
not uttered them lightly.
What he should make of the little
waif's future he had not determined.
It. should greatly depend upon herself;
but while he lived she should never
again be friendless.
It was an easy matter to gain the
consent of the woman with whom she
she lodged. The sum he put into her
hands would more than requite her
for any loss she might suffer through
Pansy's flower selling. From the
woman, too, he learned something
more about the child's history. Her
parents were artists; the mother had
eked out a scanty living by painting
flower pictures on wood, after her hus
band's death, which had occurred be
fore Pansy's birth. Then, when the
little girl was about six years of age.
two short years before, she, too, had
laid down the weary burden of life,
and the child was loft alone.
Of his new whim Rush Travers said
nothing. It leaked out, however,
among his fashionable acquaintances
that he was interested in a little child,
but all supposed it some relative, and
looked upon it as a passing caprice.
He wished Chat it should be so. He
did not want curious eyes prying into
the past of one whose future he in
tended to make his care.
The world saw little of him in these
days. It almost seemed to him like
coming home, now that he knew little
feet would run to welcome him, little
arms clasp themselves about his neck;
or later, a little curly head rest on
his shoulder, while the lids drooped
over the pansy eyes, in happy, care
less slumber.
The old housekeeper alone shared
his secret. She had abused him round
ly at first, as was her privilege. Was
he not to her as her own boy? Pansy
had crept into the kind old heart; and
in the night she had risen from her
own bed, and stolen into the room ad
joining hers, to see that the clothes
were carefully tucked about the little
form.
It was a new thing to the child, this
watchful care, but she grew and ex
panded under it like some beautiful
flower.
No one detected her in an untruth.
She avowed her faults boldly. She
laughed, she sang, she cried, as other
children; yet about her was a singular
charm, a half-sadness, strangely un
like the carelessness of childhood.
Thus two years rolled away, and
again Rush Travers determined togo
abroad. Pansy must be educated, too;
but he knew now what he meant to
do with her future. The child was
dear to him as his own, and his own
she should be. He would give her
such an education as his own daugh
ter should have had, had he possessed
one. He would make her a brilliant
woman. She should be worthy of some
man whom he would choose for her
husband. She would never know lone
liness more, and in the fullness of her
life's promise he would forget the
emptiness of his own.
"Uncle Rush," she called him. The
past was already to her like a dream.
She parted from him in bitter tears
when he left her at her new home, the
school at which she was to be edu
cated.
Little did Mme. Arnaud dream that
she was receiving among her select
and fashionable pupils a street flower
girl. Was this girl not the niece and
ward of the aristocrat? She had
never welcomed a pupil with greater
pride, nor did the years, as they came
and went, lead her for wpe moment te
suspect the truth.
Among all this fair of girls
none so fair as she owed the
smooth outer curren<*\i9f her life to
Rush Travers' Pa«9(ng The
>'t* e P lijrtie e>es liad borrowed 6V«Tintfl> _
of tiie pansy's purple t'int; the bright
rose flush of health was on her cheeks;
the rich carmine nature's brush alone ;
can paint was upon her lips. In the ;
sunny waves of the chestnut hair
played gleams of rippling gold. Her
hands and feet were sniail and dainty.
Her figure had developed into exquisite
grace.
The eight years of study had marked
themselves upon the lovely face in
its bright expression and sparkling in
telligence. Rush Travers might well
be proud of her to whom be had given
his proud old name. In all this time
he had seen her but once —but once
he had returned to his native land.
In the twilight he stood awaiting
her in tome. Arnaud's private room:
but, when the door opened he started
at the radiant vision which entered.
She threw herself upon his breast,
with a glad sob, then started back.
"Uncle Hush," she said questioning
ly, "you are not glad to see me?"
He had recovered himself by then,
and welcomed her warmly; but some
thing had arisen between them her
womanly perception was first to recog
nize. Already this meeting, to which
she had looked forward with such glad
ness, was marred.
From all sides, that night, Mr.
Travers was met with congratulations
on the beauty and brilliance of his
ward, who had received the first hon
ors of her class. Was the old cyni
cism growing on him, that he turned
from it all as though weary?
For the first time, glancing casually
in a mirror, he discovered that the
thick, brown hair was streaked with
gray, and the sight hurt him. Why?
He neither asked the question nor
answered it.
There was no doubt now of Pansy's
future, he told himself, as, having
thrown open his hospitable doors, the
world flocked there to welcome this
new aspirant to its honors; but, al
most to his surprise, he found that
he could not remain quietly in the
background, a spectator. Women still
smiled upon him, still murmured sweet
nothings in his ear, or uttered gentle
reproaches at his obduracy.
Was he never to be lured from his
• solitude? Some one soon would steal
from him the bright new star which
now lighted him home. Would he be
content to leave it in darkness? Thus
they whispered in his ear.
Why should he resent it. rather than
welcome it? Had he not planned for
her a brilliant marriuge? Already it
w : as assured to her if she would ac
cept it. Why. then, did he rejoice as
one and another retired, heavy-heart
ed, from the lists?
He grew to hate the world anew.
Now and then would come a quiet
evening, when, sitting alone in his li
brary. she would steal softly in. as she
had done so often in t'.ie old, childish
days, and sitting on a stool at Ills feet,
lay her soft, velvet cheek upon hit
hand.
Would she come to him thus, one
day, and tell him that at last she had
given away her heart? And would he
; be strong enough to give her his bless
! ing?
Ah, he had learned his own secret
now.
One evening they went together te
a brilliant gathering. A murmur ol
admiration ran through the room as
she entered it, but something in it all
wearied her tonight.
She refused the many eager claim
ants for the dance, and stood watch
ing the gay scene, surrounded by a
little court, when, looking up, she saw
Rush Travers' eyes fixed on her face.
With a sudden impulse she moved
swiftly to his side.
"I am tired, Uncle Rush," she said.
"The garden is thrown open. Will
you take me there with you for a lit
tle while?"
He drew the liftle gloved hand in
his arm and together they passed
through tRe French window into th«
| lantern-lighted space beyond. Neither
! spoke, when, as they were in the shad
i ow, voices reached them.
"A beautiful girl—yes. 'Rush Trav
i ers' caprice' they call her. There is
! some mystery about her. For my part,
I don't believe she's any relation, and
j 1 think the man's in love with her.
: You know the old story about him?"
But they heard no more. Pansy felt
j the strong quiver which ran through
: him as he drew her away.
"Oh, Uncle Rush," she murmured, "I
am so, so sorry."
"Sorry for what?" he answered, al
most harshly. "For keeping my secret
so poorly that it is a football for the
world? For selfishly gloating when
other men were unsuccessful in gain
ing the treasure I so madly covet for
tny own? It is true what they Bay,
Pansy—true; but it shall be so no
longer!"
"True, Uncle Rush! "i'ou mean that
you love me?"
"Yes, my darling. But do not let it
frighten you. 1 have not forgotten
that I am almost an old man, while
you are on the threshold of your young
life. You shall marry some good,
noble man. Pansy, and 1 shall be happy
in your happiness."
"I shall never marry," the girl an
swered. softly, "unless —unless—oh,
Uncle Rush! 1 never guessed my own
secret, but I know it now. Whom could
I love but you? When other men have
wooed me. I have thonght of you; and
beside you they seem so powerless to
win ene beat of my heart. How could
they, when belonged to yon?
Was the gift so small that you would
not claim it?"
But he sealed the sweet, questioning
lips with the first lover's kiss which
had ever rested there.
" 'Rush Travers' caprice," they called
it, darlingT" he whispered. they
were wrong—it was Rush Travers' in
spiration!"— Saturday Night.
QUAINT AND CURIOUS.
A curious criminal law exists in
Greece. A man who is there sen
tenced to death waits two years be
fore the execution of the sentence.
Saddles, in some form, are of the
greatest antiquity. Under Tiglath-
Pileser 111., the Assyrian cavalry was
provided with them and the eaj-ly
Romans used a cloth, hide or skin,
which was, no doubt, very similar.
The largest tree in the state of New
Jersey is a white oak situated three
miles north of Mickelton, Gloucester
county. Its dimensions are: Height,
95 feet; diameter of trunk three feet
above the ground. 7 feet 10 inches;
spread of branches, 118 feet. This
tree antedates the settlement of the
colony.
A monster lathe has just been maw*,
in Philadelphia, It is 86 feet long, and
its total weight is 135 tons. It has
been constructed for preparing the 32
huge granite pillars to be used in
building a new cathedral, each pillar
weighing ICO tons. It has eight cut
ters, and the granite block is reduced
24 inches in diameter at one pass
over its length.
A new hotel which is to be built In
New York City will have many inter
esting electrical features, among
which will be a system of electric ser
vice elevators, or movable pantries,
fitted - with electric heating tables.
They will lie run through every apart
ment. thereby insuring rapid service
and hot food to guests taking their
meals in their rooms.
A remarkable contrast to the map
in precious stones which lately aston
ished Paris is the railway map on
tiles put up at York station by the
Northwestern company. It is made
of white tiles, the lines being marked
in black and burnt sienna. It is about
six feet square, and each tile is eight
inches square. The company intends
to have similar maps at all important
stations on its own system.
A curious instance of the way In
i which two or three long lives can
: bridge over the chasm of several cen
! turies is given by Muller himself in
his lately published autobiography
He there relates that he met at Ox
-1 ford the centenarian scholar. Dr.
Routh of Magdalen college, who had
known a lady who had seen Charle*
I. walking in the "Parks," which de
rive their name from the disposition
of tiia royal artillery during the civil
war of Ifi4o. Three lives thus served
! to connect two periods separated by
some "00 years.
New York City.—The fancy blouse
with accessories of lace and the like
is essential to correct formal dress and
fills an Important place in the well
womam's faxcy blouse.
kept wardrobe. This charming and
stylish May Manton model has the
merit of suiting both the entire cos
tume and the odd bodice. As shown,
it is of white batiste with cream
Cluny lace and black velvet ribbon
held by small jeweled buttons, but
the ctesign lends itself to silk and soft
wool fabrics as well as to all the
dainty cottons and linens with equal
success.
The foundation is a fitted lining that
closes at the centre front. On it are
arranged the round yoke, the full tin
der proportion and the graceful ber
tha. The yoke closing at the left
shoulder extends to form a narrow
GIRL'S DRiCSS.
vest that closes under the left front.
The sleeves are in elbow length, ter
minating with flaring cuffs, but can
be extended to the hands, as shown in
the small sketch.
To cut this blouse for a woman of
medium size one and a half yards of
material twenty-one Inches wide, one
and a half yards twenty-seven inches
wide, one and a quarter yards thirty
two inches wide, or one and a quarter
yards forty-four inches wide, will be
required, with three and seven-eighth
yards of all-over lace and ten yards of
velvet ribbon to trim as illustrated.
l)r«n For a Girl.
Dainty frocks with many tucks are
as much in style for little girls as for
their elders. The charming little May
Manton model illustrated in the large
drawing is suited to many materials,
and has the merit of being childish
and simple at the same time that it is
effective in the extreme. The original
is of fine, sheer mull with Valencien
nes lace threaded with narrow black
velvet ribbon; but lawn, batiste and
all the long list of white and colored
washable fabrics might be substituted
or any one of the simple silks and
wools.
The waist is tucked to yoke depth
and falls in soft folds below, and the
novel sleeves show tucked caps that
harmonize to a nicety. The skirt is
simply straight gathered at the waist,
and can lie made with the flounce or
plain as preferred. The trimming of
lace insertion is applied to form Van
Dyke points and to cross the yoke
in becoming fashion.
To cut this dress for a girl eight
years of age, eight and a quarter yards
of material twenty-one inches wide,
five and a quarter yards twenty-seven
inches wide, four and a half yards
thirty-two inches wide, or three aud
three-quarter yards forty-four inches
wide, will be required, with seventeen
yards of insertion aud two pieces of
velvet ribbon to trim as illustrated.
Millinery Noveltlen.
For veiling floral trails a very fine
gossainerlikecliantilly is employed and
Is undeniably effective, the while It
Lints at an importance somewhat lack
ing in tulle. An all white tulle illusion
toque is sweet veiled in this same
tine black cliantilly, worn well tilted
over the eyes with a great jet butter
fly serving as a specific of cache pn-igne
at the back. This is the very airiest,
fairiest piece of millinery conceivable
and eminently before the hat decked
wth many feathers in the affections
of the smart woman. Bizarre wings,
wtien found, should be made an imme
diate possession. That those mostly
figure on the best and most exclusive
French models accounts for the long
price asked for such creations. But
now and again—the fates alone know
how or why—out of a boxful of medio
crity there may be turned tip some
thing out of the ordinary happily
passed over by hundreds of unseeing
eyes.
Kxqnisite Hair Ornaments.
Butterflies of Chantilly lace .studded
with sapphires and brilliants are in
cluded among the costly and exquisite
hair ornaments.
Storkii and Belts.
No woman ever yet possessed a suffi
cient number of stocks, ties and belts.
No matter how large her collection,
there is always room, and even need,
for the additional one that is novel
and takes her fancy. The very com
plete assortment here given includes
the soft bow, four-in-hand and butter
fly ties, plain, draped and bodice belts,
and will enable any deft needlewoman
to make half a dozen for the cost cf
one ready made. The materials for
tlic originals are dotted silk, louisinc
silk, white mull,and white pique, but
almost anything and everything is
used, and there is ample opportunity
offered tor individuality in the choice
both of materials and color.
The foundation for all the stocks is
the same. The plain oue in the centre
is shown with the butterfly tie that ap
pears separately just below. The fonr
iu-liand model is trimmed with stitch
ed bands and has the tie joined to the
back edges, where it crosses and
passes round to the front. The bow
includes turn-over portions, but is the
same familiar friend. The belts are
well fitted and curve to the figure to
give a graceful outline. The plain and
the draped ones are eminently simple,
but are stylish and fashionable as
well. The laced bodice is cut in sec
tions, and tits to a nicety, and can be
closed at back or front as preferred,
made pointed or cutaway as illus
trated.
To cut the stocks with ties in the
//1\ JKW
STOCKS AND KELTS." 1
different styles, seven-eightli yard of
material thirty-two inches wide will
be required. To out the belts, one
yard twenty-one inches wide will be
required.
HE MOUNTED HIS AUTOMOBILE.
He was always a slow-going chap
Till he mounted his automobile;
He never liuii ginger nor aunp
Till he mounted an automobile;
Rut his nature was chunked and ho cast
Off his easy old ways of the past
And became undeniably fast
When he mounted his automobile.
He shied at the things in his way
Till he mounted an automobile;
He would loiter aud dawdle all day
Till he mounted an automobile;
But he went, with a whiz and a whir
Over child, over chicken and cur,
As if urged by some sharp, cruel spur,
When he mounted his automobile.
—Chicago Record-Herald.
HUMOROUS.
First Athlete —Well, did you break
a record. Second Athlete —No; only
a rib.
Sillicus—Do you think woman was
created from a rib? Cynicus—That
is a bone of contention.
Wigg—There isn't much work con
nected with the average political jobj
is there? Wagg—Not alter you get it.
Muggins—Bones has a very indul
gent wife. Buggins—Yes; she even
allows him to sit in the cozy corner.
Nell —Maude and Chollie are to be
married. What do you think of tho
match? Belle —It won't set the world
on fire.
Biobbs —Our minister's wife suffers
from insomnia. Slobbs—Why doesn't
she listen to some of her husband's
sermons?
Tommy—Pop > what are the seeds
of discontent? Tommy's Pop—The
seeds of discontent, my son, are what
the apple of discord grows from.
Hoax—Did you ask Miss Gotrox it
I might, be presented to her? Joax —
Yes; she said she wouldn't take you it
you were presented with a prize pack
age.
Mrs. Chatter—Do you believe all the
disagreeable things ycu read in tho
papers about people? Mrs. Tattle —
Oh, dear, no; only those about people
1 know.
Muggins—He plays execrably; the
worst possible. And yet you told me
he was a finished musician. Buggins
—I said a Finnish musician. He
comes from Finland.
"Even in our poverty," exclaimed
the married man, "life is one grand,
sweet song." "Ragtime, I suppose,"
remarked the bachelor, taking note of
the other's frayed attire.
Returned Traveler—l have often
thought of that young Mr. Tease, and
how he used to torment Miss Auburn
about her hair. Did she ever get
even with him? Old Friend —Long
ago. She married him.
Widowed Father (to his 10-year-old
daughter)—Do you know, Minnie, that
your governess is going to get mar
ried? Minnie —I am so glad to get
rid of the hateful thing. 1 was afraid
she was never leave us. Who
is she going' to marry?" Wid'oweu
Father —Me.
THE VALUE OF FLAVORS.
We Could 4 >'ot C;*t Along "Without Theifl
J're*etice in Our Food.
Chemists tell us that cheese is one
of the most nuitritious and at the same
time one of the cheapest foods. Its
nutritious value is greater than meat,
while its cost is much less. But this
chemical aspect of the matter does not
express the real value of the cheese as
food. Cheese is eaten, not because of
its nutritious value as expressed by
the amount of proteids. fats and carbo
hydrates that it contains, but always
because of its flavor. Now physiolo
gists do not find that flavor has any
food value. They teach over and over
again that our foodstuffs are proteids,
fats and carbohydrates, and that food
flavor plays absolutely no part. But,
at the same time, they tell us that the
body would be unable to live upon
these foodstuffs were it not for the
flavors.
If one were compelled to eat pure food
without flavor, like the pure white of
an egg, it is doubtful whether one
could, for a week at a time, consume a
sufficiency of food to supply his bodily
needs. Flavor is as necessary as nui
triment. It gives a zest to the food
and thus enables us to consume it
properly, and. secondly, it stimulates
the glands to secrete, so that the foods
may be satisfactorily digested and as
similated. The whole art of cooking,
the great development of flavoring
products, the high prices paid for spe
cial foods like lobsters and oysters—
these and numerous other factors con
nected with the food supply and pro
duction are based solely upon demand
for flavor. Flavor is a necessity, but
it is not particularly important what
the flavor may be. This is shown by
the fact that different people have such
different tastes in this respect. The
garlic of the Italian and the red pepper
of the Mexican serve the same purpose
as the vanilla which we putin our ice
creari. and all play the part of giving
relish to the food and stimulating the
digestive organs to proper activity.—
Popular Science Monthly.
Tlie Art of Skipping.
When I meet a paragraph which b©
gins—
"lt is now necessary to retrace out
steps somewhat to explain"—Or.
"The crimson sun by this tim«
neared the horizon. Far over the hilla
stretched a vault of heavy cloud, iti
strange purple tints fading and dis
solving into" —Or,
"But the contents of this room— his
sanctus —sanctorum—deserve morn
detailed description"—Or,
"O strange, unfathomable mystery
of existence, compelling our purblind
race" —when. 1 say, I meet a passage
in a novel which begins thus, I akly
like anything.—The Pilot.