(Copyright.) "Will you come to dinner to-nigh' i Fred ?" "I'm afraid I can't, thanks. I'v ! promised to dine at the Rag with Did 1 Blount." "To lunioheon to-morrow, then?" "To-morrow? Let's see—" "See what?" testily. "I'll tell yot 1 what's easy to see, Fred, that it if your sister who is asking you." As Mrs. Dalton-Herne says this she ! glv< 13 an angry flick to her fan, and lying back in her chir, pouts a little. : "Just because I am your sister I am nothing to you. You give me the j smallest place in your regard!" Her j pout grows more pronounced. She tap ? j her small foot upon the Persian prayer rug beneath it. with some indignation, | and finally flings her fan on the couch nearest her with a petulant gesture. "You should always pout," says her brother, with a laughing, amused ex pression, "you do it so well. Lots of women go in for that sort of thing, but they generally fail. It suits you. You are delightful when posing as the in jured innocent." He looks at her ser- I iously—"Do it again," says he. "Oh! nonsense!" says his sister, with ! some slight show of impatients. "I'm not on exibition; I don't do it to order | I assure you. What a wretch you can ' be at times, Fred." "She mustn't call me names, Pussy, must she?" asks Sir Frederic, who has drawn one of his little nieces on to his knee, and is now amusing himself, or i her by saying, "This little pig went to > market," on her tiny fingers. "Its so rude isn't it, Pussy?" "You haven't done de 'wee wee' pig yet," says Miss Pussy, oblivious t i everything but her game. "What a frightful omission!" says j her uncle. He catches up her last little finger, "And this little pig cried 'Wee, j wee, wee, I can't get over the barn I door." "Did she ever get over?" asks Pussy. ! "Well, not yet, at all events," says Sir ! Frederic. "But perhaps she will soon. Who knows?" "Do put down that child, Fred," says his sister, "and listen to me. You know I am alone in the world Just at present. George is in Wales, and Sissy has gone to stay with the Newtons. I have no one to support me, and then is a guest coining to me, and—l do want you to come so badly to dinner to-night, and to luncheon to-morrow." "What? Both? I'm going up in tin* world." "You know your own value if ever anyone did," says his sister, disdainful ly. "You won't go anywh< re or do any thing to oblldge anybody; you give yourself prince's airs." "Good heavens! What have I done to deserve all this?" says Sir Frederic. He puts down his little niece and con fronts Mrs. Dalton-Herne with an air that might have seemed contrite if a smile had not lurked behind it. "And what can I do to obliterate my un known sin?" "Come to lunch to-morrow." This persistency awakes a sudden fear within Sir Frederic's breast. He looks hard at her. "Who is she?" asks he at last. Mrs. Dalton-Herne lies back in her chair and laughs. "Oh! If it is that you are afraid of. put it out of your mind. It is not an heiress, not even un American one. For this time only, I want you for my self alone. I am not dreaming of your welfare—of settling you. I want only your help. She is coming to-night, anf-" She? "Oh, yes, it Is a girl! And I'm surp a dreadful one. The more dreadful in that she is a cousin of ours; and I quite dread the first two or three days with her. Fancy having a country girl thrown upon one In the height of the season." "What cousin is she?" "Well, you know, one of poor papa's slaters married very badly—a clergy man down in Wiltshire somewhere, I'm not very clear where—a man of good family, I believe, but an absolute pau per!" "Is he alive?" "Well, it appears so, though he never said so until last week." "Too miserable, perhaps, or else too happy." "Oh, ridiculous! Happy!—on a pit tance! Well, this Mr. Hastings who married our aunt wrote to me last week to say that he would be glad if I would give his daughter—an only child, and the apple of his eye, and all that sort of thing—a glimpse of the world." "Cool request, eh?" "I don't know," says Mrs. Dalton- Herne, with considerable dejection. "I'm bound to say it was the nicest letter. It," reluctantly, "was a charm ing letter. And in a weak moment—l always tell George I shouldn't be left alone —I answered It, and said I would be delighted to have the girl, and put her through a season." "Magnanimous Julia!" says her brother. "Oh, you'd have done Just the same," says she, with another pout. "What! Put up a young woman in my bachelor chambers! Julia, you for get yourself!" "You can laugh, you can laugh." i says she, dolefully, "but what can I I "Cheer up, old girl," says her broth tr, kindly, "who knows but that she ! may prove a Venus." I "A Venus!" "In petticoats, of course." severely, j "An original would be too embarrassing oven to the most advanced chaperon." "Look here, Fred, if you are going to be frivolous. I'd just as soon you went away and left me to my fate," says Julia, angrily. She sinks back in her chair and frowns, but presently her in j dlgnatlon dies away beneath her grow ing fear. ' She will be awful. I know it, ' says she, beginning to cry, "I wish I had had the common sense to refuse to have her!" "My dear child, what nonsense! She can't be so overwhelmingly bad after all." "Yes, she is, I'm sure of it. A great large-limbed, Impossible, young person! I have literally no hope; and she will have no clothes either!" "Julia, consider!" says her brother, falling back in his chair, and drawing an antimacassar modestly over his face, i "Have I not assured you that no origi nals are permitted to take their walks | abroad in this great London town? 1 There are always the police, my love, and the county council, and General Booth, and various other unimaginative j people, who put an end to our little harmless pleasantries." ! "It is all very line for you," says Julia, mopping her eyes. "You haven't to produce her before your guests, and call her your cousin. What am I to do ' at my receptions—my dinners? Where j can I put her?" i "There is always the convenient, if | slightly dirty, coal-cellar," says Bir | Frederic, hopefully. | At this Mrs. Dalton-Herne loses all i patience; she rises, and marches to the door. "Come back! Come back!" cries her brother, running after her. "I'm awful ly sorry. I shan't say another word. I'll do anything I can." "Oh, do you moan that?" says Julia, turning and laying her hands upon his arm. "Fred, darling, you will come to morrow, you will help me?" "Of course I shall help you, Judy." Sir Frederic Steyne, as he rings the bell at his sister's charming house, feels distinctly out of humor this afternoon. There had been so many things wait ing for him—so many enjoyable hours that must now be wasted. All because Julia had Implored him to throw them away on a country cousin! A cousin, 110 doubt, with a wide mouth, and scar let hair. He gives quite a cross little nod to the man who opens the door and who is quite an old friend of his, having come from his own place in the country, and goes up stairs In a frame of mind that argues badly for the cousin's hour with him at luncheon Half way up the stairs, however, he cornea to a standstill, attracted by a sound that comes evident ly from a door upon his left. It is a favorite room of Julia's —a room half boudoir, half studio. What is the sound?—lt approaches very nearly to the word noise—and sudden ly It occurs to him that it might be produced by some one running round and round the room. As he pauses, a ringing laugh breaks out—a silvery, soft, very young laugh, and after that tin? playful barking of a dog. "What on earth is going on here?" says Steyne, to himself, and with a desire to get as quick an answer as possible to his question, he opens the door abruptly and looks In. What is going on is at once made plain to him; though, perhaps, he had not been quite prepared for It. What a scene! Here is his sister's pretty room all upset, the chairs pushed this way the tables that. The screens had been moved Into corners, and there —there, at the very end of the room, mounted on the top of the writing table stands —the culprit. Such a charming culprit—a little girl of about sixteen, he tells himself— though later on he learns that she is two years older than that—dressed In a white cambric gown, turned down at the neck, with a deep lace collar that falls In Vandyke fashion over her shoulders. She has evidently sprung from an ottoman beneath her, onto the table, to escape hor foe. But the foe, a furious little fox terrier, has learned the worth of the ottoman, too, and has now his hind paws on it. His front I KIWS are on the table, and his sharp little teeth are tightly Imbedded in the exquisite lace petticoat that appears be neath the cambric gown. "Oh, my petticoat! Come and savtt my petticoat," cries the culprit, beckon ing frantically to Steyne to come and help her. She is holding up the cam bric gown. And Sir Frederic can see the lace flounces of the petticoat giving beneath the terrier's excited tugs, who is now too far gone In his game to know discretion. He can see, too, the dainty : .le feet that show beneath the petticoat. "Get down, you brute," says Sir Fred eric, giving the dog a smart slap that brings him to the floor and his senses, In a bury. "Oh, don't hurt him —don't," cries the girl, eagerly, "he is the best of dogs, really—only he doesn't know what pet ticoats cost." "Shall I take you down now?" asks Sir Frederic, holding out his hands. "No; Just stand away a little bit," she says, and even as >h? says it she is by his side, and IH giving her frock a little shake to bring it into its proper position once more. Sir Frederic is staring at her with considerable interest. She has taken up the terrier —now a reformed charac ter and somewhat ashamed of himself— and is talking to him with a grave air. This gives Steyne time for contempla tion. Whoisshe?Why had not Julia said 6he was expecting guests? Odd, as it sounds, it never k once occurs to him that this beautiful little girl caressing her dog, is the dreaded country cousin from Wiltshire. % "lie's sorry—he's quite sorry," says the unknown, looking over the dog's head at Steyne. "That's a comfort," says Steyne, "per haps he won't do it again." "Oh, yes he will, the next opportun ity." She throws back her head and laughs gaily. "I shouldn't like him so well if I didn't know that. I like naughty things, don't you?" " I'm not sure," says Steyne. It is on the tip of his tongue to say to her, "Are you naughty?" but all at once it seems to him to be a silly rejoinder. He smiles at her, instead, and says, lightly, "We ought to be friends, oughtn't we?" "Friends! That's a great deal!" says she. "That's an ungrateful speech, at all events. Do you mean to tell me that I was not the means of saving you from an untimely death?" She laughs again. "Well, you saved my petticoat's life, anyway," says she. "Yes," frankly, "I will be friends with you." "Then, how do you do?" says Steyne, holding out his hand. Quite well, thank you." "So glad," says Steyne. This Idiotic remark evidently puzzles the pretty child staring at him. "Why?" asks she; and then, as if ashamed of herself, goes on hurriedly, "how do you do?" says she, as if de termined to be as polite as he. "I am alive," Bays Sir Frederic, dis consolately, "and that Iw as much as any one can expect of one nowadays, especially if one has a disagreeable task before one." "And you have?" "Oh, yea, my sister has asked me to come here to-day to entertain a country cousin of ours—a girl of some sort—an awful sort, no doubt. She is to appear at luncheon, I believe. You —you'll be at luncheon, too?" "Yes —" slowly. She is looking at him as If in great perplexity. "What a blessing," says the young man. "I have been quite dreading the hour with this fearful overgrown dam sel from some dark corner of our nat ive land. I can Imagine her —can't juu? A huge, unsophisticated, loud-voiced girl, with big red hands, and bigger, redder—oh, well, it's a comfort that civilization has removed the necessity of our seeing her feet. Don't you pity me, when you think of my having to help my sister put such an importation through a season?" There is a dead silence then. "I am afraid I am the cousin," says she, slowly. "Oh, no! Oh don't say that," says he, a dark red covering his brow. He looks inexpresibly shocked. "I am afraid I must. I can of course sympathise with you—a country cousin is an infliction, no doubt." "You should have some mercy," says he. "Ater all I didn't know, how could I?" "Perhaps I am not your cousin, after all," says she, coldly. "It may be all surmise on my part—only it seemed to me that you were a little like Mrs. Dalton-Herne, and she certainly is my cousin." "So am I," says Sir Frederic, quickly. "However angry you may be with me, you can't alter that fact. I am your cousin. I have no prouder boast. I suppose you will never forgive me, but I think you ought to go into the mattei a bit. Julia has off and on so many visitors, that I took you for one of them, and—" "But your cousin would be a visitor, too." "Certainly, only more of a one, don't you know; and I never connected you with the picture we had drawn of the "impossible she" from Wiltshire." If he has hoped to provoke her to a smile here, he finds himself mistaken. She has taken the dog into her arms once more, and her eyes are bent upon his head. "I am sorry I came," says she, at last "I am not surprised that you say that. I quite feel that my conduct is unpar donable," returns he. His manner is so really miserable that she softens—in a degree. She looks up at him. "You musn't say that," says she, coldly, but civlUy. "It was not a real fault of yours. It was a misfortune only. I have no right to be aggrieved." "For all that you are." "No, no—l think not." Give me your hand in token of amity, then." She extends her hand—a small, limp, cold, unforgiving little hand. "Ah! I knew it," says he dropping it, "yet, if you would think " "I don't want to think," says she. with a sudden burst of passion. Her large blue eyes are now directed full on his, her lips are firm. "Is it such pleasant thinking? " She stops sud denly and in a marvellous manner, for one so young, controls herself. I should like to forget," says she, evenly, "so would you, I'm sure. Let us of other things.' "As you will," says Steyne. A sense of anger has risen within him. This child—this baby—to so put him down! He had been In the wrong no doubt, but he had explained, apologized—and she would have none of ills apologies! Her whole manner points to the fact that she wishes him for the future to be a mere acquaintance—not a cousin. Well, why not accept the flat? He throws off the touch of offence that has marked his latest manner, and coin ing nearer to her strokes the dog's head with a smiling air of perfect indiffer ence. As a man of the world he tolls himself he bus many arts with which to subdue a little ill-tempered child like this. "A fox terrier. Looks well bred," se.vs he, sticking his glass in his eye. Ife had looked for a sudden confusion In her because of hiH change of tone from one of deep regret to one of fash ionable indifference, but the girl meets his move with Just such another. "Yes. Isn't he a heart?" says she, with enthusiasm. "Look up, Dandy, look up, and let me introduce you to this new acquaintance." Perhaps the girl had hoped that Dan dy, being so entirely en rapport with herself, would have shared her feeling of anger towards Steyne and have de clined to acknowledge him, as even an acquaintance. Hut if so Dandy disap points her. In answer to Steyne's. not over sympathetic snap of the ftuger9, ( Dandy springs into his arms, and seems veil content to make friends with him. Could any knowledge of the future have sharpened the poor creature's de sire to cling to. and arouse an interest in Steyne? "Your dog likes me," says Steyne, with a faint emphasis. "Dandy has beautiful manners," re turns she, giving him a little thurst in turn. "I hope you will allow me to culti vate his acquaintance, then," says Steyne, flushing, "he may improve mine." Fortunately at this moment, when war seems imminent, Mrs. Dalton- Herne appears in the doorway. "Been making friends already? How delightful!" cries she, innocent of irony. "Luncheon is ready, however, so come down at once." "Give me one moment," says Connie Hastings, catching her dog out of Sir Frederic's arms and running out of the room. "Am I not fortunate, Fred? Am I not lucky?" exclaims Julia, as she dis appears. "What the deuce did you mean by telling me that your expected guest would be a huge, gawky, under-bred creature?" "Why, you don't mean to say that you—" "Yes, I did. I did it with a vengance. I gave her a perfect photograph of her self as we expected to see her." "Oh, Fred, you might have left me out!" "Well, I didn't. She'll never forgive me." "Yes she will. She is not a fool. Did you ever see such a charming face? Isn't she a darling?" Sir Frederic pauses, then:—"lt is an excellent name for her," says he, slow ly. Now this answer frightens Mrs. Dal ton-llerne, who has her brother's matrimonial arrangements very much at heart. "Oh, no doubt! no doubt!" says she, airly, "still, one must remember, Fred, that she has no position, and no fort une—not a farthing. Do remember that." "I'm not likely to forget it while you're here," says her brother, grimly. He pauses. "I don't care about farth ings!" says he. It is next day, and Sir Frederic Steyne, in a hansom, is tearing down to his sister's house, as though life and death depend upon his being there in time. It has never occurred to him to question himself as to why he is so anxious to lunch with Julia two days running—all he knows is, that it seeniß an eternity since he parted with that ill-tempered, unforgiving, beautiful little girl yesterday. He had .learned at luncheon that her name was Connie. Constance! What a terrifying name to him, who is in her had graces! Will she be all too constant in her anger against him? There is some nervousness in his manner as he knocks at the hall door, but, once in, nervousness and every thing else, except pity, dies from him. Here, with her hands pressed against her face, and sobbing bitterly, is Con nie. Such a miserable Connie—like Nlobe, all tears. Julia is standing near her, with her arms around her, and the footman, the butler, and the page have all stricken attitudes, descriptive of the direst grief. "What has happened? What is it?" says Sir Frederic, hurrying up to them. "On, Dandy! My darling Dandy!" says Connie, raising herself a little from Julia's embrace to look at him. Her lids were swollen, her lips trem bling. It is absurd to say a girl looks well when she is crying in real earn est; yet, however she looks, it is a positive fact that at this moment Sir Frederic, gazing at her sad little face uplifted to his, knows that he loves her. He had been attracted by her yesterday in her gaiety and youth; to-day, in her grief, he knows that his heart is at her feet. "You can all go away now," sayß Mrs. Dalton-Herne, with a gesture to the servants. "Sir Frederic will give you directions later." "Is the dog—" "Oh, no, not dead; he can't be dead," says Connie, miserably. "Julia, you don't think he is dead?" "My dear, of course not. Connie, darling, don't be so cast down." "But what is the matter then?" asks Steyne. "Oh, I'll tell you," says Connie, still sobbing slightly. "Yes, darling, tell Fred," says Mrs. Dalton-Herne, soothingly. She gives a communicative glance at Steyne. "I've got some letters to send off. Do what you can for her. I'll be back In a minute," says she. "But, Fred, dearest, do remember!" It is evident that it is with some reluctance she leaves them. She would not have left them at all probably had she not noticed how extremely cold, not to say forbidding, had been Connie's manner to Sir Frederic at luncheon yesterday. "Now, tell me," says Steyne, turning to Connie, "what has become of your dog." "He is lost—lost! I took him out to the door this morning, because I wanted to see how a real street looked, and suddenly Dandy ran away from me, down the steps, and away, and round the corner; and though I ran after him" half way down the street, I could not see him again. I stayed there for a long time." "Where?" "At the corner. But he was nowhere —nowhere at all. And then Julia sent the footmun for me, and she said I shouldn't be there without iny hat— as if my hat mattered when Dandy was lost—and now—now—oh! where la my lovely Dandy?" She draws back from him and covert her face with her hand# once more. She is dissolved in tear*. "Don't do that," say he. "Don't cry! There la hope yet/' "Hop*. Y" 'Yes. Dogs an? often stolen in town, but M ini. times they are recovered." "• ou mean that Dandy—" "That Dandy may yet be restored to you. How fond you are of him!" says he a little bitterly. "Fond! I love him," says the girl. "Pappy gave him to me. He was small- a tiny thing—a weenchy, weenchy pup"—putting her lingers to gether in a sort of cage as she speuks, as if to show the dimlnutlveness of her pet when first she saw It —"and I have taken care of him ever since such care! Where is he now?" says she, looking up at Steyne with miser able eyes. "Ah! That is what I fear that someone has taken him who will be unkind to him, and he wouldn't understand that!" "It won't be for long," says Steyne. "Who can tell that? Julia says the police will get him for me. Hut the police wouldn't know him. She burst into fresh weeping. "He was such a good, good Dandy," says she. "I'll get him," says Steyne, sudden ly—foolishly perhaps—but It seems to hirn at tills moment that he must find the dog for her. "You—you!" "Yes. And—Connie—if I do, will you forgive me?" He has taken her hand. "Oh, go, go!" says the girl eagerly. "Forgive you—l'll forgive you any thing if you will only bring back Dandy!" It is very slight encouragement, cer tainly, and Steyne having left her has time, whilst driving to the Hattersea Home, to dwell upon the poverty of It. Still, she has certainly promised forgiveness. He had taken pains to pick out as smart a looking horse as he could see before Jumping into a hansom, but the smartest horse in the world is of little use when a blook occurs; Just now. Sleyne finds himself behind a brougham, with an omnibus beside him. Idly, and without thought, his eyes scan the occupants on the top of the omnibus; presently, as they travel slowly and without interest towards the box seat, they all at once grow eager and excited. His gaze has fallen on a small object securely held under the arm of a man. It is a dog! Hut what dog? What dog is it like? Steyne has seen Dandy for only five minutes or so, and as those five minutes had been filled with horror of his unfortunate mistake, he had not had much time to study him. And yet, surely he had seen that dog before. Something In the little creature's eyes, terrified, distended, looking this way and that, suggests the idea of captivity; but, Indeed, even as Steyne is staring at him, the little creature makes a bound,escapes the man's re straining arm, dashes to the front and down the steps, and is away beneath the carriage wheels and horses' feet— somewhere! The sharp oath that passes the man's lips can be distinctly heard by Steyne he sees him rise—an ill-looking ruffian, with a filthy cap pressed down over as rascally a pair of brows as ever met over squinting fling himself down the omnibus steps in hot pursuit of the terrier. The ruffianly-looking person with the unpleasant cap, has, in spite of all Steync'B efforts, got beyond him— it is not always easy to hurry in a crowded thoroughfare—but both turn down a side street comparatively de serted, and the man, seeing his chance, breaks iato a sharp run. He is evident ly quite unconscious of the fact that he has a pursuer, and therefor gives his legs full play, and Steyne, in a perfect rage of fear, sees him gaining 011 the dog, who, looking back every moment, in a frightened, terrified fashion, now over this ear, now over that, has begun to run more slowly, as though hope is dead within bis poor little heart. In another moment or two his illegal cap tor will have him again—there will be a quick rush round a corner, and aftet that— "Dandy! Dandy!" calls Sir Frederic, in a loud, clear voice. He is not now even sure that it is the actual "Dandy," but as a last resource he tries what the effect of his call will have upon the dog. The effect is Instantaneous. The ter rier stands still for a moment, hesitates —looks at the owner of the voice—and then ... It seems but a second before he has flung his small body upon Steyne—upon his knees, hie breast even; leaping from F e ground, panting, ex hausted; but oh! so thankful! The young man stops and takes him into his arms, altogether regardless of the destruction done to his perfect get up. "There, there, good dog, then! You will soon be back with your mistress." He pats the frightened creature and soothes it. All this has taken a mom ent or two—in which the man with the cap lias slunk away. He had under stood. He disappeared. Steyne with the dog in his arms looks round for a hansom. Oddly enough, the driver whom he had so summarily dismissed is coming down the street. He halls him. The man grins down at him. "Was It to get that dog back, sir?" "Yes. i't was," says Sir Frederic. He laughs up at him. "If it hadn't been for that block I should never have done It," says he. "You have brought me luck, but he luck musn't be all on one side. Drlv# me as hard as you can to he gives the address In Park Place— 'and you shall have a sovereign." To re-enter the house, to get through the hall, and up to Julia's boudoir doesn't take a second. Opening the door very softly, he looks In. Seated at a table, the very picture of grief, is Connie. She seems deaf to his entrance. He looks at her a moment or two, and Is hardly certain whether it will be bet ter to call to her or step forward, when all responsibility is taken out of his hands by Dandy. That sensible terrier decides upon Im mediate speech. He breaks out Into A violent fit of barking—a sort of Jubilee declaration of his return, and, scrambl ng out of Steyne's arms, runs straight to his mistress. "Dandy!" It is a little cry. She Is on her knees beside him, her arms round him, the tears running down her cheeks. "Dandy—darling!" After a little while she rises, the dog still clasped in her urms, as though she is afraid of losing him again, and looks at Steyne. "Where did you find him?" asks she. "It wus a rescue," says Steyne, laugh ing, and going up to her. "You must thank Dandy for his deliverance, even more than ynu thank mo. Ho kit'-w me at once, the moment I culled him." 11a gives her a little graphic description 01 the dog on the top of the omnibus, and the run down the side street. "Oh, how shall I tell you what I feel?* cries he, with sparkling eyes, when his somewhat airy account has come to an end. "I don't care what you suy, It is to you all the praise is due. If you hadn't seen my precious Dnndy, and called to him, ho couldn't have run to you. And what a life he would have had with that awful man." "Probably not. The awful man might have sold hlin to somebody who might have given him a happy liame." "He would never have been happy without me," says Connie, with con viction. "Well, really, I don't see how he could," says Sir Frederic, with a rather prolonged glance at her, that brings a slight color to her cheek. "It Heems abominable of me to say anything about It," continues he, after a moment, "but you did promise me something If I brought back Dandy." "Yes, your forgiveness." "Oh, that!" "It Is a great deal. A great deal to me. I cannot be happy without It. You are very anxious about Dandy's hap piness. You might give a thought or two to mine." "I forgive you—l do, indeed!" says the girl, earnestly. "If there is any thing to forgive. But you didn't know —you couldn't have known—and" smil ing up at him, "even if you had com mlted a regular big crime, I should for give you now for bringing ine back my little sweetheart her." She hugs Dandy to her breast. "Connie," says Sir Frederic, who Is now a little pale, "is Dandy your only sweetheart?" Connie stares at him, as If surprised, and grows very red. "Why, of course—of course," says she, confusedly. "Ah, well," says Steyne, drawing a quick breath, "that is good news. I will ask you one thing more. Give me time. Don't harden your heart against me. Give me a chance." Perhaps her arms have loosened themselves around Dandy; however It is, that grateful dog Jumps to the ground, and, with many friendly barks, runs to his preserver. "Your dog likes me." says Steyne, glancing at her meaningly over Dan dy's head, as he stoops to pat him. "I like you too," says Connie, In a low tone. "Do you mean that, Connie?" He has taken her hand, and bending over it, kisses it gravely. "How can you ask?" says she, shyly. "Have you not saved my dear Dandy?" Dandy is still tearing round them, barking delightedly. Steyne catches him up, and solemnly presses his lips to his sleek head. "Good dog, then!" says he. And, indeed, perhaps he owes as much to Dandy as Dandy owes to him. THE NEW WOMAN. New Yorkers are using cooked ban anas more and more. One of the fa foua specialties of the Manhattan Club is fried bananas; they fry them there as doughnuts are fried, by dropping them into a vessel of boiling fat. They are excellent, treated in this way, but the method la troublesome and expen sive Baked bananas are much easier obtained, and are really better than any other form of the cooked fruit. Just the wrong way to bake them is frepuently followed; that Is, they are taken out of the skins; then it is neces sary to put wine or lemon and sugar on them to give them flavor, but If they are baked In their Jackets they have a delightful acid of their own, and eaten with cream and sugar are a de licious dish and are very nourishing. The fruit should be well ripened and the oven fairly hot. Ten or twelve minutes will usually suillce to cook them. They should be softened all through when done. Mrs. Joseph Harper, wife of one of the Arm of publishers, has received a letter from Mrs. Robert Mln turn, pro testing against the publication of "Trilby." Mrs. Mlnturn's reason for writing to Mrs. Harper was that she felt the supject to be too indelicate for discussion with Mr. Harper. Mrs. Min turn Is a prominent woman of soblcty in New York, old enough to be thor oughly of the old school. Mrs. Beardsley, the mother of the famous and peculiar artist, Aubrey Beardsley, Is a gentle, old-fashioned English lady, who lives entirely for her clever son and his beautiful young sls ter.They keep house together In South Kensington, London, and his mother entertains his set with great hospital ity. She is sure her son is the greatest genius of the age, but people who know him say he does not take himself so seriously, and that he Is a very nice boy. Mrs. Ruth McEnery Stuart Is as good a story teller In talk as she is on paper. A woman said the other day in speak ing of her: "I ate n.y dinner at the same table with her every day for a year at one time since she has been in New York, and the way she told funny stories continually, and never once re peated herself, was simply one of the most marvellous things I ever knew of. Her stories were always good, too. She has a sense of humor that is a Joy for ever." New York fashionable women don't follow any strict fashion about their underclothes and their negligee cos tumes. That is of all others the field in which It is the thing to exercise an In dividual taate. The rich women have gowns and toilette Jackets and petti coats, the like of which are not to be found in any shop or pictured in any Journal of fashion. The only chance the public has to see such things is in the windows of the fashionable clean ers. There you can see lovely things and also lots of women, who do not be long to the Four Hundred, studying them, getting points for their own wardrobes. There is no beter sofa pillow than can be made by rolling up an elder down quilt and tying It round with a ribbon. It is a most useful addition to the usual supply; It is more adjustable than the regular thing, and If your quilt Is pretty, as It should be, It makes a most ornamental pillow. Mrs. Mary E. Lease has declined the nomination for Mayor of Wichita, Kan, If ohe had accepted the nomination she would have been compelled to resign her place at the head of the State Board of Charities, the income of which | is three or four times as much as the Mayor's salary. HBBMP Anthracite coal used exclusively, insuring cleanliness and comfort. AHKANOKMKNT OF I 'ASSF.NOKK THAINS. NOV. 18, 181 M. LEAVE FItEEI.ANP. o R5, H25, n :KI. ID 41 a in, I 35, 2 27, :: to. 4 26, 0 12, 6 58, S 05, 8 5", 11 in, for On I toil, .Initio, Lum ber Yard, Stockton mid Ha/.leton. 0 05, 8 25, 633 a ni, 1 36, 40, 4 26 p in. for Maucli Chunk. Allcntown, IJctlilchem, IMiilu., Huston and New York. DOR, 6 33, 1041 am, 2 27, 4 26, '• .V 4 pm, for Mahanoy City, Slicmnuloah and I'ottsx ill*- 720, 1110, Ins<i am. 1151,4 51 pm, (via High land Brunch) for While Haven, Glen Summit, Wilkcs-Barrc, I'itlston and L. and 15. Junction. SUNDAY THAINS. 11 40 a m and 345 p m for Drifton, Jeddo, Lum ber Yard and Ila/.lcton. 346 n m for Delano, Mahanoy City, Shenan doah, New York and Philadelphia. ARRIVE AT ERE ELAND. 7 20, 6 27, 10 50, 11 54 a tn, 12 58, 2 18. 4 34, 5 33, 6 58, 847 pin, from Ha/.leton, Stockton, Lum ber Yard, .Jeddo and Drifton. 7 20, 0 27, 10 56 a ni, 2 13, 4 34 , 0 58 p ra, from Delano, Mahanoy City and Shenandoah (via New Boston Branch). 12 58, 5 :SL 8 47 p m, from New York, Hasten, Philadelphia, Bet hit-hem, AI lent own and Munch Chunk. 0 27, 10 50 am, 12 58, 5 33, 6 68, 8 47 p m, from Huston, Phila., Bethlehem and Muucfi < 'hunk. 0 33, 1041 a m,2 27,0 58 pm I mm White Haven, Glen Summit, Wilkt-s-Burn-, Pittston and L. and B. Junction (viu Highland Brunch). SUNDAY THAINS. 11 31 a m and 331 p in, ironi lla/.ieton, Lum ber Yard, Jeddo and Drifton. 11 31 a m from Delano, llu/.leton, Philadelphia and Huston. 3 31 p m from Dcluno and Mahanoy region. For further information inquire of Ticket Agents. CHA3. S. LEE, Gen'l Pass. Agent, Phila., Pa. ROLLIN 11. WILDER, Gen. Supt. Hast. Div. A. \V. NONNKMACHER, Ass't G. P. A„ South Bethlehem, Pa. npilE DELAWARE, SUSQUEHANNA ANB A SCHUYLKILL RAILROAD. Time table in effect January 20, 1805. Trains leave Drifton for Jeddo, Eckiey, Hu/.lc Brook, Stockton, Beaver Meadow Boad, I loan und Hozlcton Junction at 6 00,' 10 am, 1200, 4 15 p m, daily except Sunday, and 7 03 a in, 2 38 p tn, Sunday. Trains leave Drifton for I fur wood. Cranberry, Tomhieken and Deringcr at 600 a in, 12 00 p in, daily except Sunday; and 7 03 a in, 2 38 p m, Sunday. Trains leave Drifton for Oneida Junction, Ilarwood Road, Humboldt Road, Oneida and Sheppton at 6 10 a nt, 1200, 4 15 p in, daily except Sunday; and 7 03 a in, 2 38 p m, Sunday. Trains leave Ha/.leton Junction for ilarwood. Cranberry, Tomhieken and Deringcr at 635 a m, 1 58 p in, daily except Sunday; and 8 53 a in, 4 22 p ra, Sunday. Truins leave lla/.lcton Junction for Oneida Junction, Ilarwood Road, Humboldt Road. Oneida and Sheppton at 6 47, 6 37 a m, 12 40, 4 40 p m, daily except Sunday; und 7 37 tt tn, 308 p in, Sunday. Truins leave Deringcr for Tomhieken, Cran berry, Hurwood, Ha/.leton Juration, Roan, Beaver Meadow Boad. Stockton, lla/.le Brook, Eckiey, Jeddo and Drifton at 2 55, 007 p nt, daily except Sunday; and it 37 a in, 507 p m, Sunday. Trains leave Sheppton for Oneida, Humboldt Roud, Hurwood Road, Oneida Junction, Hazlc ton Junction and Roan at 8 18, 10 15 a m, 1 15, 525 pm, daily except Sunday; and 8 tut u ut, 344 p m, Sunday. Trains leave Sheppton for Beaver Meadow Road, Stockton, lla/.le Brook, Eckiey, Jeddo and Drifton at 10 15 a m, 5 25 p IU, daily, except Sunday; and 8 06 a in, 3 44 p m, Sunday. Trains leave Ha/.leton Junction for Beaver Meadow Boad, Stockton, Huzle Brook, Eckiey, Jeddo and Drifton at 10 38 a ra, 3 20, 5 47, 040 *p ra, daily, except Sunday; and 10 08a iu, 5 38 p m, Sunday. All trains connect at llu/Jcton Junction with electric cars for Huzlcton, Jeanesvillo, Auden ried and other points on the Traction Com pany's line. Trains leaving Drifton at OK) a m, Ha/.leton Junction at 0 37 a in, and Sheppton at 8 Is a in, connect at Oneida Junction with Lehigh Valley trains east and west. Train leaving Drifton at 0 00 a m makes con nection at Deringcr with I*. R. It. train for Wilkes- Bar re, Sunbury, II arris-burg and points west. DAN lEL COXE, Superintendent. "VTOTICE TO CONTRACTORS, in acoord xx unco With an ordinance of Freelaral bor ough, approved June 25, 1805, authorizing the construction of the following terra eotta pipe sewer: An 18-inch terra eotta pipe sower, with 32 0-inch connect ions 5 loot long, on west, side, and ;t2 "Y's" on east side, on Centre street, extending from Carbon street to South street, a distance of 807 feet. Sealed proposals will lie received by the chairman of the street committee until 10a. in., July 5, 1865, for the construction ol the said sewer, in accordance with plans and spec ifications now in possession ol Bernard Mc- Laughlin, corner Ridge and Chestnut streets, Freelaral, Pa. Parties will be required to furnish a bond in the sum of SSOO for the accept ion of the eon tract if awarded. Contractors receiving contract will be re quired to iurnish bond in double the amount of contract price, subject !• the approval of council, for the faithful performance of tin work. Council will reserve the right to reject any or all bids. Bernard McLaughlin, Chairman of street committee. Freeland, Pa., June 25,1895. N OTICE is hereby given that an application will be made to the governor or the state of Pennsylvania on Monday, the t went v-seeomi day of July, 1865, by Thomas English, H. B. Long, B. F. Muhoney, H. T. Long and Geo. 11. Butler, under the act of assembly of the com monwealth of Pennsylvania, entitled "an act to provide for the incorporation and regula tion of certain corporations," approved April 26, 1874, and the supplements thereto, for n charter of an intended corporation, to lie cull ed the "West l'ittston Water Company," the character and objects whereof is supplying water for the public at the borough ol \Vcst Pittston and to persons, partnerships and as sociations therein and adjacent thereto, as may desire the same, and for these purposes to have and enjoy all the rights, beneiits aral privileges of said act of assembly and its sup plements. Alexander Farnhant ami Geo. H. Butler, solicitors. N'OTICE is hereby given that an application will be made to the governor of t lie state of Pennsylvania on Monday, the twenty second day of July, 1865, by Thomas English, K. B. Long, B. F. Mahouey, E. T. Long and Geo. H. Butler, under the act of assembly of the commonwealth of Pennsylvania, entitled "an act to provide for the incorporation and regu lation of certain corporations," approved April 26, 1874, and supplements thereto, tor a charter of an intended corporation, to be called the "Pittston Water Company," the eliaraeter and object whereof is supplying water for the public at the city of Pittston und to persons, partnerships aral associations therein and adjacent thereto, as may desire the same, aral for these purposes to have and enjoy all the rights, beneiits aral privileges of said act of assembly und its supplements. Alexander Farnhaiu and Geo. 11. Butler, solicitors. [ EH 1G li TRACTION COMPANY. J-J Freeland Branch. First car will leave Freeland for Drifton, Jeddo, Japan, Oakdale, Kbervale, Ilurleigh, Mlinesville, l.uttimcr aral Iluzlcton at 0.12 a. ni. After this ears will leave every thirty minutes throughout the day until 11.12 p.m. On Sunday tlrst car will leave at O.lu a. m., the next car will leave at 7.35 a. nt., and thou every thirty minutes until 11.05 p. m. IYV3TATE of Ellen McNeills, late of Foster XJJ township, deceased. Letters of administration upon the above named estate having been granted to the un dersigned, all persons indebted t said estate are requested to make payment and those having- claims or demands to present tlie same without delay, to Hugh M. Drislin. C. E. Keek, attorney. "VTOTICE. The undersigned, supervisors of IN Foster township, will bo at the hotel of Mrs. Jane DeFoy, Washington street, I Ice land, on July 20, 1896, at 7 p. tn., to meet any and all persons who desire to work out road tuxes in Foster township. William Stoltz. James Buskin, supervisors. LNllt SALE CIIKAIV \ house and lot on .J' Centre street. Freeland: lot. 25x125; house, 23 x 32. For further particulars inquire of Frank McDerinott, Drifton, or at thisollicc. Refowich, the loading tailor and 1 clothier, is where you should buy you clothing.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers