(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.