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The Marchioness.
The Marchioness. It was in Normandy last year, during the shooting season. I had had a long morning's sport, and noon found me footsore and weary in the vicinity of an old mill, some- where between Mortagne and Condesur-1' Huisne. It was a comfortable-looking place, and I determined to solicit the owner's hos- pitality. The miller received me very courteously, and I was soon stretching my legs under the table and partaking of the most equisite dejeuner that was ever placed before; a hungry sportsman. There were trout from the mill stream, and partridges from the neighbouring mo. cooked to a turn and accompanied by some really excellent wine, not the petit vin of Normandy, but good mellow Bordeaux. This somewhat surprised me, but when at dessert the miller invited me to visit his gallery of family portraits I was perfectly bewildered. "What," said I to myself, "a picture gallery in a. mill!" Of course I accepted his invitation, and; found that the pictures really existed, and were fine ones, too. There were a dozen of them, representing Louis XIV. courtiers and marquises, and marchionesses of the times of Louis XV. and Louis XVI., the series being closed by a buxom-looking farmer's wife in a white sun-bonnet, next to a delicious little marchioness. Stopping before the two latter portraits, the miller -aid:- "These are mother and daughter." He appeared to be amused at my surprised expression, and continued:- "Yes, sir, this countrywoman is my mother,, and that pretty little marchioness smiling there is my grandmother. It is a strange story. Everybody round about knows it, and I may as well tell it to you. "As you have probably surmised from the age of these portraits, the scene is laid during the Terror. The father, mother, and elder sis- ter of yon little marchioness were arrested, and soon afterwards judged and executed. The little marchioness, my grandmother, sir, found safety only in fl:ght. The poor orphan took refuge with one of the farmers on the family estate, whom she knew she could tru-t. This fanner was a young man-he was only about SO years of age. He had known the little marchioness from her babyhood, and was levotedly attached to her. In fact, to be frank with you, sir, in his heart of hearte he loved her. "He wa-i greatly troubled by the perilous posi- thm i i which her presence placed him, but he cocid not turn the poor child away to be massacred by the savage revolutionists. He hid her in the cellar, and the mob vainly scottred the whole country in search of her. But a neighbour, a ferocious Jacobin, had marked the farmer's trouble, and, suspecting the reason for t, denounced him to the Revolutionary Committee. In a few minutes the house was surrounded by a horrible mob, howling for the death of the hated aristocrat. They battered in the front door and poured into the place. Ah! air, it was a terrible moment." Here the miller paused and mopped his brow, while his eyes glistened with excitement. "The first room was empty," he went on. "Tiey smashed everything in it they could lay hands upon, and were about to break-open the door of the next room, when it suddenly opened, and the marchioness stood before them, beside the farmer, who was half dead With anguish and terror. "For an instant the mob stopped short. But it was only for an instant. Shrieks of 'Down with the aristocrat! Kill her! Away with her! Bum her! Tear her to pieces!' arose, and the blood-thirsty brutes were about to rush forward, when the little marchioness was suddenly struck by an inspiration. Ah! sir. it must have come from on high. She made, signs to them that she wished to speak. II 'Citizens,' she began. "Unaccustomed to hearing such an appeliar tion from the mouth of a. dainty aristocrat, the mob stopped. She profited by the pause, I and continued: 'Citizens, what do yon want with me? Why are you incensed against me? What have I done to you? I am one of you-I am your sister!' "Murmurs of approval and protest were heard, but in the main the mob appeared to be' astonished and suspicious. 'She's fooling us, the aristocrat,' shrieked a woman, who, with her dishevelled hair, flushed face and crooked fingers, ready to claw the delica,te girl's eyes out, looked like one of the Furies let loose. "'No. no," exclaimed the marchioness ear- nestly. 'I. swear to you that I am no longer an aristocrat, but a woman of the people. In proof of it, here is my future husband «nd she pointed to the farmer, who, too over- come to utter a word, would have bent his knee before the brave young girl, but she pre- vented him. "Her remarkable presence of mind was their salvation. The fact that she was willing to marry a simple citizen, caused a complete wvulsion of feeling, and the wretches who a moment before had been lusting for her blood now applauded her. "'We must be married under the Tree of Liberty,' she added, 'and, citizens, we invite yon all to the wedding.' "Another burst of applause followed this in- vitation. Friendly hands seized the little marchioness and the farmer, and they were straightway shouldered and carried in triumph to the Tree of Liberty, escorted by the cheer- ing mob, waving their pikes and scythes. "The marriage took place, and the crowd, joining hands, danced the Carmagnole fran- tically around the newly-made husband and wife, and the festivities, with eating and drinking, were kept up till nightfall, when those of the revellers who were not too intoxi- cated escorted the couple back to the farm. "As soon as they were alone the assumed familiarity of the farmer immediately vanished. Doffing his hat, he bent respectfully before the marchioness, and, with tears of gratitude in his eyes. exclaimed: 'Mademoiselle, I thank you from the hot, torn of my heart. Your sacrifice was our salva- tion. I beg you to pardon the liberties- the critical position in which we were placed com- pelled me to take. It, is, of course, my duty to render you your liberty, and I do so.' 'Sacrifice? Liberty?' said the marchioness, 'but I am free and I have made no sacrifice. Don't you, then, understand that I love you?' "And thus it was," concluded the miller," that the little marchioness became a poor farmer's wife, and the grandmother of an honest Nor- man miller." (The End.)
POOR JAKEL
POOR JAKEL "I say, Jake, have you axed her?" "Wall, no, I hain't—not as yit." The two strapping fellows finished out the furrow, and with loud "whoa-haws," "gee- haws." they turned their horses round and, coming alongside each other, resumed: "Jake. I believe yeer scared!" "Shucks! Like ter know what er feller'ud be skard er Nan fur! She's ther timidest little redheaded gal I ever did see. Most al'ys they's sassy and tempery. Tell yecr what! T'other day I rode up when she wus sittin' on the gallery sewin', and she run like er cotton-tail and knocked over one of the best cheers and broke it. Ther folks guyed her, and she hid off and did 'thout her supper. I wus 'lowing ter tell her to set ther day that evcnin'. My crap go so grassy. I hain't had no time to waste on any tomfoolery lately; so I hain't bin back. I tell you what. Sammy, thar's not er woman living I'm skaird of. I never had much 'pinion, no- ways, of women-folks. Never seed one yit but what 'uld screech, and run from er mouse. "No, siree! Thar's nothin' on the top side er this earth I'm afraid of, and Nan least of all. Shuck?." He threw back hi3 head and set the echoes ringing with a loud guffaw. "Wall," assented Sam dubiously, "I know she's not tempery; but, by Jacks! when them little black eyes pv hern gits ter twinkling, er fellow's tongue gits twisted. I tell you I'd ruther face er mad bull than have ter set still and let 'em laugh outright. I'd run sho!" A fortnight afterwards we are not surprised to find him deliberately making his toilet to meet that occasion-to all bashful lads the very worst of courageous tests—to "pop the question" to the one woman of all the world. With lavish hand he had applied a loud- smelling. oily pomade to his unruly lccln that each particular hair might be held in place. Then he carefully cleansed his hands for the auspicious handling of a brand-new cravat. Jake's silk Bash tie was a. bright red, and his manly face was of that rare copperas shade possessed only by youths born and bred in rich river bottom lands. Jake had as finely proportioned hands as any six-fcoter you will find anywhere, but they were crack-nailed and as rough-palmed as a corn shelier, and just as he had deftly t'ed a true-love knot a silken thread clung to his fingers, and in loosening it he had the misfortune to undo his work. "I'll be dumbed!" he exclaimed, as he looked at the reflection of the pendent red ends. He jerked his arms up and down to overcome the tension of holding them up so long, and then began again. A thousand little demons seemed to get into those silken threads. They clung to his rough palm, and puckered the silk tie. As fast as he loosened one another stuck. "Shoot the thing!" he cried, looking with blank despair at his reflected image. Now it was tied, but, alas! it was not the thing of beauty it had been. There was nothing left but to pull on his blankets cut in the pat- tern of coat and vest. Though it was a hot day as his old grey mare halted at the identical spot where she had been tied a hundred times, any one would have thought he had an ague, he shook so and was that cold. "Git up, you fool." he mumbled. His voice sounded so far down in his throat it scarcely reached his mare's ears, but he struck her a stinging blow and she sped past the fence steps. Slowly he came riding back and, unfortunately for the poor mare, she stopped again. But she had learned a lesson, and fifteen minutes later, when Jake came up again, she merely slowed up when she reached the fence, and cast an inquiring glance at her ma iter. slowed up when she reached the fence, and cast an inquiring glance at her ma iter. "Practising for the wedding supper. Jake?" "Hey?" exclaimed Jake, jerking the grey on her haunches as he caught sight of Sammy and Nan seated with suspicious propinquity in the shade of a black jack thicket that had furnished the foundation stumps of .the rustic 6teps. "I say, are you gettin' uj courage to come to our weddin' supper on the 16th?" Nan's burst of merry laughter sent him speed- ing down the road like a clap of thunder does a scarey horse.
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[No title]
Uncls Bob: Whit are yen going to be when you become a man, Tommy? Tommy: I'm going to be a soldier, 'cos then I can fight all I want to without being spanked for it. Not his Fault.-Warton: I have not spoken to my wife for three weeks. Morlcy: What are you sulking about? Warton: Sulking! My dear fellow, I'm waiting till she stops talk- ing. Ragged tramp (ill shirt-sleeves, to woman who has indignantly ordered him to move on): Ah, lady, you might not think it, but once I had only to collect my rents and go my way. Lady (with asperity): That's all I want you to dc now. An Ambiguous Answer.—Friend: What are you selling now? Agent: Rubbembright metal polish. Friend: Is it a good thing? Agsnt: Well, I've scoured the whole country with it. A Useful Steak.—"Waiter, do you remember me? I came in here yesterday, and ordered a steak." Waiter: Yes, sir. Will you have the same to-day? Customer: Yes, if no one else is using it. Her Plan of Campaign.—Winkle: Alice ex- pects to bring her young man to the point on Christmas day. Mrs. Winkle: How do you know? Winkle: There's a broken wishbone over every door in the house. Most Appropriate.—If we were to choose the most appropriate symbol of the fleeting, the evanescent, the perishable, the decaying, the here to day and gone to morrow, perhaps it would be a pa.V of boy's boots. Entrance Examination.—"Who is that stout fellow over there feeling the muscles of those schoolboys?" "Oh, that's one of the professors." "What are his duties?" "Hunting up talent for the football team." Had Proved It.—" Clarence," she sighed romantically, "do something true, something brave, something heroic to .prove your love for me!" "Well," he answered firmly, "I have offered to marry yon!" Comfort For Her.—"Sometimes I think I shall never marry," said Miss Elder, in a burst of confidence. "0, don't despair," replied Miss Flip; "we read in the Bible that Naomi was 5S0 years old when-she married." J I Not in his Department.—"Have you looked into the case?" asked the great lawyer of his) managing clerk. "Yes, sir. The man is inno- cent, beyond a doubt." "Is he? Then one of the junior members can attend to the matter." "The trouble with his tooth," said the dentist, probing it with a long, slender instrument; "is that the nerve is dying." "It seems to me, doctor," groaned the victim, "you ought to treat the dying with a little more respect." A tourist, recently returned from Switzer- land, tells how in the visitors' book of an hotel he found the following entry under the -heading "Profession"—"Young lady in search of a husband." Brown r I hear Jones is sick. I wonder if it's anything contagious. Smith: Don't worry; if it is it won't matter. He's too close to give anything to anybody. Little Johnny: Mrs. Talkemdown paid a big compliment to me to-day Mother: Did she really? Well, there's no denying that woman has sense. What did she say? Little Johnny: She said she didn't see how you came to have I such a nice little boy as I was. ty, J4 He: Could anything be more delightful than the harvest moon? She: I may be wanting in artistic appreciation. but the honeymoon has always been my ideal.
... DRESS-FASHIOX-HOME.
DRESS-FASHIOX-HOME. TRAINING AT SCHOOL. Mrs. Sophie Bryant, D.Sc., the well-known suc- cessor to Miss Frances Mary Bass as head of the North London Collegiate School for Girls, one of the most approved of similar-establishments in the metropolis is of opinion that girls of the upper middle class might with advantage receive instruction in domestic matters at school. She does not believ that the higher education destroys the taste for or ability in household duties. On the contrary, the educa- I tion of the mind is a direct advantage, as it makes one work quickly and think easily. Sh3 adds: "The fact that a girl has been well edu- cated will make her take up in a sensible and methodical manner whatever work she under- takes. There should always be a combination of the ideal and the practical in a weman's life. A girl who leaves school and does not go to an university, or take up a money-earning career, I should like to see enter a technical school of domestic training for a short time. It is quite a common thing for a girl to go though a course of cooking and dressmaking. We have a cookery class attached to the North London Collegiate School. I am strongly of opinion that -every girl should learn needle- work, and it must be commenced when the girl is very young. While you may teach a girl to cook quickly, this is not so with needlework, which requires skjll in the fingers and much practice. BOAS, The number of white feather boas now worn is considerable considering that the weather, though much cooler than before, is still de- cidedly hot. But theie boas, when worn well hack on the shoulders, give a decorative effect, without great heat, and are, in that position, always ready to be closed over the chest as pro- tection against possible chill. A great number of ladies wear white net ruffs or boas. These are much lighter than those made cf feathers. and their transparency of fabric renders them extremely becoming. The newest way of fasten- ing these boas is by means of a little gold or silver-gilt donble hook. which is twisted first round one side of the hoa. and then round the other. This keeps all tidily in place, and proves altogether a neater arrangement than that cf tucking the end of the boa into the waizt-baiid, which is apt to make so delicate a possession shabby in a very short space of time. GOS3IP. The diver's profession is usually mcnopcliscd by men, but at Nazairo (Brittany) a woman has worked as a diver for ten years, and is a.t the head of a salvage firm ia which her three brothers are partners. This wjmaii—Louise Fabert—has recently been awarded a gold medal by the French Society for the Encouragement of Good Actions, in recognition of five courageous rescues of people in danger of drowning. "Little Lady Cromartie," as she is spoken of in her county, came of age cn Thursday, tho 14th. and great were tha rejoicings at her homa in the North Countree. Lady Cromartie. who is well known in London society, has gor.e everywhere under the wing of the Duchess of Sutherland. She is dainty and petite in figure, pink and white complexion, and always taste- fully dressed.
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I When -tsk-ng for Cocoa insist on having CAD- BUR Y'S—sold only in Packets and Tins—as other Cocoas are often substituted for the sake of extra profit. e3435-1
l III".-, .-.,.i 41;I OUR…
l i 41 I OUR DAILY CARTOON: JACK'S YARff. I SEAMAN IVILSON: "You must ccme to terms, Mr. Owner, or I anchor and stop the ship."
r FREE BIRTHS' COMPETITION.…
r FREE BIRTHS' COMPETITION. The proprietors of the Evening Express have decided to throw this competition open free to readers of this paper, and they will award A Prize of One Pound to the person sending in a coupon bearing the correct forecast of the number of births which will take place in the 33 chief towns of Greax Britain during the week ending September 2- < CONDITIONS. Competitors must fill in the appended coupon. and 3end it to Births Ccmpention," Evening Express Office, Cardiff, not later than by the first post en Monday, tjeptember 4. The announcement of the winner or winners will be made on the Thursday following. Any number of coupons may be sent in the same enve.ope. In case of any dispute the Editor's decision will be final. Disregard of these conditions will cauSoe the disaualification of the coupons. BIRTHS COMPETITION. THE NUMBER IS Name ••••• Address The envelope to be marked on the left corner, Births Competition." AUG. 23—SEPT. 2.
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'n Mr. Evans, of Birmingham, writes:—"For Indigestion. Nervousness, and Debility, Gwilym Evans' Quinine Bitters has proved quite a boon as I can reit. upon it to give me relief." Bottles 2s. 9d. and 4s. 6d. e4919-3 To DARKEN GRLY HAIR.—Lockyer's SuI- phur Hair Restorer is the quickest, best, safest, costs less, eifccts more than any other. The colour produced is the most natural. Lockyei s Sulphur is the only Euglish Hair Restorer Universally Relied on. e-2 SOMETHING FOR TEA.—Always Ready. HINCT for BREAKFAST.—Always Ready. CUDAHY'S REX L"UNCH TONGUES. Stand alone for excellence and quality, and can be had from all grocers. e7276—3
P EA RLS BKF0ItE CHILDREN.…
P EA RLS BKF0ItE CHILDREN. ~~if An interesting little Story is published by the "Leader." A young lady a lew weeks ago was taking nearly 80 pearls in a' box to her jeweller's for re-setting when, crossing St. James's Park, she unconsciously lost the box and its precious contents. Here the plot intro- duces three infants from the borough who had gone west to see the soldiers in the park. They picked up the box and its Deads," and this is how Johnny Saunders told the Leader" man what became of them: We played schocls. I was master, and to all the good little boys I guv a bead. We played gimes wiv 'em. I guv 'em nearly all away an' dropped some." His mother added: He never told me about the "oeads' tilf he had lost them nearly all. And it was weeks afterwards that I saw the advertisement. 'cI took the boy to Mr. Ryder (the jeweller) and Johnny told his story. And to think of it, just! That boy with 974 in his hands—and dropping it all. It's heart- breaking—that's what I call it!" Mra. Saunders couid have put the money to a good use, for she has an invalid husband and several small children.
-----FOR SAILOBS' FRIENDS.
FOR SAILOBS' FRIENDS. Rochefort left St. Malo for Fourth 28th. Mandalay left Francavilla for Smvrna 28th. Cyfarthf^i arrived St. Nazaire 2Sth. P.Jaenavon arrived-St. N z-Tre 8th. Tredegar arrived Bilbao 23-h. Portugalete ieft Bilbao for Cardiff 23th. Collivaud left Arundel for Pcnirth 29th. Maltby voasiod Gibraltar for Delaware for orders 26th. I Nevby pa"ed "Lizard for Newport 28th. Watlington passed Gcpenhagaji for Bordeaut Mth. Preston arrived St. Na-z;vr? from Ninea 31h. [ Racine left Bilbao Tor Cardiff 58th. Charles T. Jones passed Bcachy Head for Hamburg 28tli. ATonwen arrived Hamburg 28th. Gwalia arrived Huelva 23th. Ely R'>e left Cannes f^v Oirthagoi i 28'h. "Raiaby left Snndewall for R?chefovt 27th. Hav'nbv left Npnt.es for Bilbao 28th. 1f1:iy left Philadelphia for Rotterdam 26th.
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DANGERS OF A "BICYCLE GYMKHANA."
DANGERS OF A "BICYCLE GYMKHANA." A new outdoor amusement has recently been devised, and is becoming very popular just now. It is known as "bicycle gymkhana," and the events and amusements comprise open races, obstacle races, tricks, musical rides, carry- ing burdens, and team driving. From beginning to end the impression cannot be banished from the mind that danger and risk to life and limb appear to be courted at every point. In the obstacle race, for one example, the riders of both sexes encounter in their career sacks stuffed with straw, high hurdles, see-saws, etc.; and the sport is varied in the case of male riders by their assuming at some. Doint on the course a grotesque garb. which severely. interferes with the freedom of pedal- ling. As may be imagined, ugly spills are the rule, and are often very serious. The strain on the bicycle is very great, and none but the most superior "make" survive the ordeal, while the breaking down of the macii ine is another source of accident. As an instance of another game, a team of six lady riders, two abreast, and bound by ribbon on the shoulders which terminate like a pair of reins in tha hands of a gentleman driver, is driven at ari alarming pace helter skelter round the course. Should any single rider fall out or break down disaster speedily overtakes the rest. Should another team be behind they share the sama fate, and the spectators are left in fmspense as to whether any personal injury has been sustained amongst the living debris. The evil is greater for girls,, who are expected to lift their bicycles over bigh hurdles in an excit- ing race, and it is difficult to calculate what lasting and deep-seated mischief may be started by-this apparently simple effort. Under the special circumstances t should never be at- tempted by girls, and especially young, .grow- ing girls, neither should other equally risky taks which are attempted. The bicycle gym- khana is a pretty and engaging spectacle, but it should be shorn of barbarisms of this kind. In any case, such sports on a bicycle are attended with danger, and it is comforting to think that there is generally a medical man amongst the audience or close at hand. His services are -only too likely to be needed, and the view which we take is by no means an exaggerated one of the real dangers I which he in the path of those who participate in. Xhe bifcycle gymkhana: There can be no sport without some element of risk, but in this pastime that risk passes from possibility to extreme probability.
OUR FREE GIFT OF BOOKS.
OUR FREE GIFT OF BOOKS. We are presenting gratis to every regular reader oi the "livening Express" a higa-class work of English literature. The books will be given away at the rate of 24 every day until every reader has rrcS-ved one. Upon the top of the Second Page of the .L-vening Express" each day will be found a number, printed in violet lllk. which number will be different in every paper that is printed. Keep this number till the following day, and see if it is given in the list printed below, if your number is given, take it to either of our offices.at Swansea, Newport, Merthyr, or Cardiff and-you will reee,ve either of the above books. If you cannot conveniently call, tear off the purple number and send it to the "Evening Express Office,. Cardiff, vyith your name and address and twopence towards the cost of postage, and the book chosen by you will be forwarded to your address. No person is entitled to a second book, even though he bo the hoiuer of a selected number, until every leader has received A book. PURCHASERS of TUESDAY'S "Evening I Express" bearing t-,Ie following Numbers Printed in Violet Ink on the Top Left-hand Coiner of Pace '<! are entitled to a Book: — 859367 859676 860027 850388 863464 863636 863863 864344 866737 866988 867377 867677 867976 870020 870170 870299 87C458 870666 874974 875322 875555' 875954 876366 6769&
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THE CHAIN OF OUR SINS.
(COPYRIGHT.) THE CHAIN OF OUR SINS. BY MISS M. E. BRADDON. Author of "Lady Andl'iy's Secret," "The Fatal Thre^" "Tho Day Will Come," "Lost for Love," "The Doctor's Wife," "Whose Was tho Hand?" "One Life, One Love," "Thou Art the Man," "Sens of Fire," .%c. SYNOPSIS. ENABLING YOU TO BEGIN THE STORY TO-DAY. Arnold Wentworta. who iias taken the assumed name of Alfred Wildover, a man of thirty years of age, is returning to England from South Africa. Aboard the steamship he meets Mary Freeland, whom he had known as a child in the days before he ran away from his home in England. He has made money at the diamond fields. and is returning to England on a visit. She. too, has left home, against the wish of her aunt, with whom she had lived, and gone upon the stage. Her aunt has since died, and be- queathed to Mary Freeland her fortune. Wildover has received a letter in South Africa from a woman for whom, before leaving England. he had formed a sincere attachment. She has heard of his good fortune in the new country, and beseeches him to return to her. The story of their relationship is n sad one. When quite a girl Lisa Rayner had been led astray and deserted by a, man many years her senior. She had, however, lived through the period which fol- lowed without falling into a life of vice, and had managed to support herself in a poor quarter of London. Whilst living thus she had made the acquaintance of Arnold Went- worth. He himself, having rAn away from home. had been "reduced to great ooverty. and it was only the intervention of Lisa Rayner which had saved him from a suicide's grave. Trom this there irad.-sprung up a sincere affection betweea-theii. and they had lived together as man and wife. A life of poverty, however, had soon- worn out Arnold's, and at length he had given Lisa what money he could .obtain, and bade her good-bye. and gone out to seek his fortune in South Africa. This he had achieved* and he was now returning to England with anything but pleasant anticipa- tions of meeting the woman with whom he had at one time imagined himself to be in love. Aboard the ship, he falls in love with Mary Freeland. but. being conscious of th3 stain upon his past life, he refrains from tell- ing her. and sadly bids her good-bye on land- ing, without making any appointment for a second meeting. CHAPTER IV. (Continued.) "Dear mother; how sweet that you should be glad to see me—reprobate as I am!" "Xo. no. dear; don't call yourself that. I'm sure you would never do anything really wicked—although you were so unhappy as not to be ableto get on with your father." "I should have been a good deal unhappier if I had got oh with him. Oh, my dear mother, forgive me! I know you don't like to hear a word said against your ty-your husband." "No, Arnold, for he is a good husband, a good father, a good master. But you see, dear, it was not your fault. People say nowadays that heredity accounts for everything, and you always took after my people. You have the Tor- rington temper—flaming up at nothing and over in a minute. And it wasn't to be ex* pected that you could get on well with a. man of your, father's calm and thoughtful charau- ter." "It doesn't matter, mother dear, as long as you can get oft with him—quite comfortably." "Oh, my dear Arnold, my life would be a very happy life if it were not for losing you, for, you see, with Philip so well married and living in Yorkshire on his wife's property, and with you quite, quite away, I seem to have no son." "But you have Beatrice, mother. I hope she is good to you." "She is the best of daughters. We visit a great deal "%V,hy, that's a, change from old habits!" "Among the poor people, dear. Your father doesn't like company at home, and he doesn't like Beatrice to go our much-gadding h3 calls it-for you know how he has always looked down upon our neighbours here. But we go to Lady Cliftonville's garden-party, and to Lady Milbank's two Mondays in August, and those are delightful afternoons." "Three afternoons in a year! Poor mother —poor Beatrice!" "It is rather dull—for Beatrice. And some of the people your father thinks not good enough would be so nice for poor Bee, if he would only let us know them." "Poor Bee indeed! She must be as dull and drowsy as a humble bee by this time." "She had a. surprise at church this morning that almost upset her. I was afraid she would have cried out in the middle of the Psalms when she saw her." "When she saw her?" "Mary Freeland! Mary Freeland, grown so tall and so nice-looking, dressed in black, "n the Roffeys' pew." "Mary Freeland? Ah, she didn't lose any time, then. She only arrived in England yes- terday morning." "How did you know that?" "Because I came from Africa in the same* steamer with her." "You! Mary Freeland in Africa? Arnold, what can you mean!" "Don't be frightened, mother dear. We weren't in Africa together. We met casually on the stsamer." I "But Mary Freeland! What could she be I doing in Africa?" "That's her story. She'll tell you her adven- tures, no doubt, by the schoolroom fire, at tea and toast tima." "If your father will let us know her," Mrs. Wcntworth murmured despondently; "but, I perhaps, he won't, now she's grown up." "Oh, stuff! He couldn't be such a beast as to boycott little Mary." "Arnold!" murmured hi3 mother, reproach- fully, and th.3n in aa awe-stricken whisper: "They say she has fcesn on the stage." "And so she has; earning her own living, like a plucky girl who wouldn't be badgered into marrying an old fool in a hideous chest- nut wig for the sake of a home. I admire her pluck, and so ought everybody else. And she was in charge of an uncle and aunt all through her stage career. There's no room for scandal." "Still, people are shocked, dear. And every- one was tremendously surprised at old Miss Farmiloe having left her so well provided for, after all. But tell me about yourself, Arnold, and your own life in Africa. That is what I want to hear. And time .is so short." "Ah, we have plenty of time. You don't dine till eight. You are coming to the Bear I with me and we are going to sit by the fire for an hour or so, and talk to our heartsi content. And then I am going to take you quietly home in time to dress for dinner." They were within five minutes' walk of the inn when Mrs. Wentworth came to a dead stop. "I couldn't possibly go to the Bear, Arnold! It would be all over Mervynhall to-morrcw- I and it would come to your, father's ears, and he would be horrified to think that I could go to a pidblic-house-to meet my son—surrep- titiously." '"If he had not made his son's home in- tolerable there would have been no need of surreptitious meetings. But are you really afraid to ccme and sit by the fire' at the old f inn? The Bear seemed as quiet as the grave just now-except for a sound of voices from I the tap-room across the yard." I "Oh, I know the kind of people who go to th9 tap-rocm. Our gardeners, and grooms, and the sexton, and the men from the mill- lots of people who. know-me. I daren't be seen there. Arnold." I "Well, then, wcan only talk here—walking up and down the road. But you will catch cold." "-No, no; J am quite warm in this seaSskin coat." "Happy thought! I saw lights at the Briery; Mary must be keeping Christmas I thsre. Shall we go and look her up?" "My dear Arnold, that would be worse. She will have the Roffeys with her." "It must be the road, then; and you mustn't walk here a minute longer than you like." "I should like to/walk with you for hours, dearest. I should not know if I were tired, till afterwards." They turned back and walked the other way, and Arnold told his mother much about his lucky years at Witwatersrand, but. not a word of those years of trouble in London. He had written to her even when things wèteat their worst, for he would not have her tortured by the thought -that he might be dead. Four times a year—whereever he might be— he wrote briefly, under cover' to his mother's ¡I faithful maid, Anne Green, to report himself alive and well. And now her heart throbbed with gladness I as he told her of his good, fortune, and that his future life might be smooth and prosperous if he were prudent enough to stick to the (money he had made, and live upon the in- terest of his capital. "I shall have four or five hundred a year," he said, "and if I were to marry'a nice girl with three or four hundred of. her own we cou.d live scmewhere'in the country—and we might keap two or three hunters, and some I aiiocting- we shouldn't want luxuries or finery, both being used to rough it." "Both! Do you mean that you are engaged, Arnold?" hia mother interrupted excitedly. His sunburnt face reddened in the darkness. "No. no, mother, not engaged," with a deep sgn. "I was talking nonsense, that's all." "Oh, Arnold, I should love you to marry and settle near us! If you were doing well, and had married a nice girl, I'm sure your father would forgive you." ¡ "Wou'd he, do you think? Forgive me for outrunning my allowance at the "Varsity by a few hundreds, and never costing him a shil- ling afterwards?" Arnold, said scornfully. "It wasn't the money he felt, dear. It was the disappointment. Oh, Arnold, my dear son, you have made me so proud and so happy to- night—so proud "to think you' were able to t i make your fortune without a friend to help you!" "You're wrong there. I had a friend-a. coll^ga friend-one of the friends I won for myself while I was spending those extra. hun- dreds. From a purely commercial point of view that one friend was worth' all the money, J for it was his capital that started me in Africa." I "How sweet of him! What a dear fellew life must be! How I should love to know him!" "I doubt that, mother. He's as good as gold, but he swears like a trooper, and—and never goes to church." "How Mad! And I was thinking that he would make such a nice husband for Bee." "Ah, mother, simple and sanguine as of old. Years have not changod you. I wish I could see your dear face. I think I must light a match and look at you." "Don't dearest; you would see how old and careworn I have grown." "Careworn! Ah, poor mother! And you pretend your life is happy." "There are always cares for the mistress of a. house, Arnold, in the happiest lifv. "tiigiish cooks are so stupi d-.ind-an(I-I have never I denied that your father is a little exacting. But how can I remember trifling worries now you have come home and have done so well for yourself? You will nevef go back- to Africa, will you, dear"? Promise; me that." "No, no, mother, dear, I can't. That wooM be to promise away my life-j-to make lifelong fetters with words. I hope to stop in England. If I can be happy here I will stop.' And- if. I can, live,- near you I will. But if I-find I. can't be happy in England I shall go back to :the mines, and- make sorite more jnoney." v j His mother pleaded with him, and he answered her-with all affection and gentleness, and told her that he meant to make himself a home within easy reach of her, if his hopes could be realised. He would not tell her what those hopes were, though she urged him to confide in hdr-ap d at the lodge gate they parted, with viords of affection on both sides, and Mrs. "Wentworth walked slowly along the avenue to the big white house, Ihedding a few. tears as she-want.. "It is so sad that he cannot get on with his father," she sighed, "arid that we must tit down tQ: our Christmas dinner without him." Arnold was in no hurry to go back to the B:¡r, and to a sdliiary dinner n the panplled parlour, which smelt of worm-eaten wood and rotten rose-leaves. He walked past his inn on to Mervynhall; and loitered on the bridge for the space of a pipe of tobacco, locking at the lighted windows of The Briery. How cheerily the warm lamp light shone across the garden by the river! She was there, hIs little Mary, in the prim drawing-room he remembered in old Miss Farmilce's lifetime; a room whose threshold 'he had crossed with; a',o;e,'nevcr knowing what he ought to say to 'hat severe spinster. He pictured Mary play- ing hostess to some of the Roffey family, elated with the sense of possession and in- dependence, a. young woman with a. comfar-. | tablet .income, youth, health, good looks, high I spires, and able to dispose of her life as she I)Iea,sed.. He would have lifced to walk in among them and surprise her; but he was doubtful how ¡ he would be received by the Roffey brood. He had left Mervynhall under a cloud, as a son I who hzd b idle and extravagant at the university, and whom his father had cast off. He would be looked upon as a profligate ,1(1. venturer, no doubt, by those serious, church- going Roffeys; more especially aa Rcffey was his father's solicitor, and affected a profound vSncration for the sage of Langton Park. No, it would not do to call upon Misi Free- land at eight o'clock in the evening. He went back to the Bear, dined on tough beef, and felt inexpressibly dreary as he sat. by a sullen fire, thinking not of Mary Freeland, but oj another woman, whose face haunted him and would not be banished, although he tried hia hardest to shut it out of his thoughts. "What is the use of regretting tilings that are inevitable?" he muttered to him-.elf, as he bent over the smoky fire and knocked about the ccals savagely. He lighted pipe after pipe, smoked till the room was cloudy with tobacco, sat long aftei everybody else at the Bear had gone to bed. tired, but dreading sleeplessness in the bed- room above, and know ng that he should not be able to sleep. (To. be continued.)
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