Abergavenny Chronicle

t -1.:C' :¿- ;2 <'P' r<X3-0-0-0^>3-000-0-G-0-0-0-C-0-G-0-0-G-0-G-00-9 j J" [ALL BMHT8 RES""nD.] $ THE WEAVERS g BY ? ALICE & CLAUDE ASKEW. $ ?L Authors of "Tbo Shulamite," "The Rod of Justice, etc. i SYNOPSIS. 4nEZ GIUUN and Peter Eawson are mul-crwiiers, who have tong been rivals, but the former can no longer stand the ^dei'selliiifir methods he has been forced to adopt, and is now 04 the veiye of bankruptcy. At a laeeting between the two ^eri it is agreed to uIÚte the firm, and ?o L-ive the hrad-s fitter par und treatment, as the come:.Jtion and consequent ?d pay have m;u2ea ?M?e tmunm.'H:. But the condition is that the son, Andrew Gilmau, should marry Eve Hawson. This Eve refuses to do, in spite of ail Let- father's pleaton# -.nd at a subsequent interview with Rodney Grieve (who has Jong bc«u in love with her), confesses that she tannot do so because slie has lost her heart to a 1a..>;cinat.n¡; actor-a Matinee idol, whom she met whilst ¡;:t:1j>;ni; with her g-jd- other in London, and has pone to America on tour Though the news is a shock, he promises to stand by her as a brother. Andrew Oilman does not take kindly tj tho thought of lnarrying Eve, as his affections are set oa Fancy FclttTB. a Penniless orphan niece of Peter Kawhoi. He i-ays nothing, oowever, to his father, mainly b"<"3.m<e Fancy Felton pcr- ttJ.ades him at least tn proppse to Ei e, iissurirw him that lie Will be refused. She does this. because tiho belf is desperately in love with Rodney (irieve, arid hopes that Eve Andrew will be obliged to marry, when Rodney may turn t 0 her for consolation. Andrew propose*, but is djsinayed to Ud that Eve does not refuse him, but asks far time to con- sider, which, as far as she is concerned, is dono merely to "IlVe a little reprieve from the pressure brought to bear on her Immediately afterwards liodnt-y trin^s her the news bat the Blue Star, in which the actor .sailed, hai foundered In Mid-Atlantic, and Conrad de Lille, t J whom Eve has been mariied, i&amoncr the drowned. The knowledge that her mzt??c. hero hna proved a ??picablf coward, and altogether a bad lot," hMbeena J^eat shock to Eve, but makes bn na,ise that her fecliuz for o\Jnrad was but girlih infatuation. An interview with a ?rviog womau from Yaj?ley. who tells her how ana'rs stand ^ere, and that a strike is imminent, makc-? Eve decide to Jcritioc herself for their go?, even though she does not love ,ktidrew This decision is still further strengthened by the lurther particulars of the weak and do^pia.bly mean cha- ?cter of Conrad, wiwhlúh Fancy mp^lies her. Ev&) there- /'fp, goes to tell her father that she will many Andrew and ?t\c him fiom ruin. marriage is ammged between Eve and Andrew, and I I:Odncy one day brings over a wedding present to Eve—a case Gf pearls—which belonged to hi* motlier. Eve tells him he Ought to present them only to his wife, but he replies that he Shall never marry (a statement which Fancy overhears), and in doing 80 betray, his own feelings tor her. Eve r.ahes then what her feelings for him are, and that he is moD' to er than the brother she had always considered him. The nowledge bring" tragedy with it, 88 she is engaged to pother man, and t?ing-s are at ?ixes and eeveus." Fdrew, also in despair, ?eek8 out Fancy, but she declines t ) stn to his love-making, still hoping to gain Rodney's &'fM- ti 04 when once Eve and Andrew aie married. She tells h;m Jjtot it is his duty to marry Eve, trying to persuade hers6f t?'4i in lUVÎug Ro1ney she is )n4r iu?al'iug her destiny." I CHAPTER X. I A REPENTED BARGAIN. "If I had only realised the small amount working capital that Peter has at his dirsposal. his many financial obligations, and the hopeless state of his affairs generally, I 1! not have urged on this marriage be- his girl and my son, and suggested that Peter and I should become partners." Jabez Gilman ground his teeth savagely together and pushed his chair back from the large writing table, loaded with papers nJ. legal-looking documents, at which he had been sitting and then he gazed some- hat impatiently round the room, finally Coding to pat a big wolf-hound. He was sitting in the library of the large grey house where he resided, a house which tood in a fine park of its own, and boasted ?tensive grounds, with a lake, a broad arti- cial sheet of water, of which Jabez was ?rticularly proud. It Was quite late in the evening—nearly ?f-past eleven—but Jabez did not appear least inclined to go to bed, although he /on as he leaned back in his chair- f «>1 heavily—and glanced at the clock 0 "?c mantelpiece. ? ? thought old Peter was good for many Year, he muttered, "thnt he'd struggle a 0 keep his mills going somehow—hard Pressed as he was for money. I never SUessed he was on the verge of a total Il\rnSI-UP' I'd got tired of the eternal com- Petition going on between us—the way we ry to undersell eaeh other. I ought to had more patience, of course; I was a iOol h€?f ? ?ose to his fed and began to walk j j. '?Uy up and down the room, his brows fwlu'Jted t4c?ether in a frown, an ugly emile Maying about his lips. "Rivals—rivals—aU our lives," he mut- red, "and now to become partners—part- es just when it is in my power to smash ter completely, and to become the biggest llIwncr in the count v. But oh, how ^veriy the old fox concesird his pecuniary a. *cunigtances from me, how well he man- a ed to make people believe that he was still a ?rrn j?an as iar as business was con- l1{ £ ?ec^- A warm man, indd! Why, if it ? "? not been for my proposal his mills Xf ^d have been dosed by now. But, as it j k-s jus+ mauaged to tide things over, f r ?c's contrived to borrow sufncient money t ??P ?? mills going till we have become e ^ep his mills going till we have become other's partners, and his financia 1 posi- tin I1 is secured." .iTb('z walked :mgrily over to a large cigar ??.??t w'ich .bod in one corner of the ?'y. and selected a cigar which he pro- ???? ? ???t' but he was too disturbed in lr'r'^ to derive much pleasure from the <K^ant weed he smoked. ho<?? that I've had a look at old Peter's he muttered, "and have gone t¡g-h the papers that his lawyer had to t¡; J11e, I feel mad with myself, absolutely j," » for he must have gone smash. And vi7-I ant saving him from ruin. It's a absurd situation altogether, almost nn '1r i>v, Possibfe rue. But what a rate old fox he (,1 .a: 'vcnt and eat down in his big arm- Zlalr, and leaned his head back medi- 4? i vel,v ^"a i ns". the I L t""??'y gainst the leather cushions. ? "I must sav I like the girl, he mut- »ed. "I've no quarrel with Eve. She's ex- t?? !ne!y pretty, and I like her EOn. gcntle ?ys. her low voice, and I don't doubt that ?G wi}! rnako Andrew an extremely F-ocd ,'{ (,  ?, not that the lad s(ms a bit In love 'th he:" but I daresay they'll bo hapnv -?.??1 !Qr ll iLat-UtS? is, if the !i,é f ¿c,nis (f, '0 ?P??? "P from his chh' and b??an to ??a? ? ?p a -I down the room again, taking JZ etn. des, his dog following him. couMn't break things oS at the el,t^,01lr> I suppose, the whole wor]d ? ?y s??'M on mc if I did. But if by ???ce I eou!d force "M Peter into put- tit? ?? ond ?? ?? negotia?tons that we ar?  ??-.? on, if he could be made to 6y that t},???"sge should not take place, if he ?lio- rei use to give his consent—well, that .0 a dlfi'ereut matter altogether. But  ? it to b3 done—how's it to be man- Tedj I'n got into the way of thinking -? ?th<\ a clever chap, but this matter  m ?together, for it's rather an I '1/j 'h job to ????st to a man that he  o-' ? '?   and tbzt is what owa throat, n¿ h2t is what '?f.-Haw3on would be domg if he quar- ?,:tiM, t ?th me at the pr?ent moment—if he ,'¡,c:J1!- fep all the conditions that I may >,lvaV k ?t to impo,? ?poQ h,?/' •i,ibe? startcc; ? he ?id the last words, '?n ? suddenly slapped one of his thighs. f( « Ah, I have it, he exclaimed, his dark Z lighting up. "I have it. I can, and I iurpjt-e ceTtain conditions upon Peter may yet cause a break between us—I 'I. as a fool not to have thought of this > before." ?Ic o?rst Into a peal of lau?i?r, then Lc f,T„ SSC ??' to ?? writing table, and r.?an ? n ??? papers  wer3 Rtwwn ?bn ("Glitet !he which wers strewn aLI30ut, Ú\"r 't, nnd to put them in some sort I)f f)"der. li-,t when he had made up ti -e 9, ?? bundle of letters—documents he tap?????r with a piece of narrow pink of t unlocked a drav"H at the bottom pai"C(>i -?'t,?? t?bic ?nd tried ? poke the .s it ??s. but the drawer w&s ov?r full ? it ??' ?? ?'?? ?° impatient frown he ?ft?cd 'Was, and w th an impatient frown he I ?f t-ed  a bulky envelope, intcndi')? to ra-ke, by ?° removal Qf thin envelope f?j the ?pera that ho now ¿œiroo to pl??w «w ^awer. Lillr'q w* the ?'? of ?piR? Conrad do illc,s 1, he &sked himself, "that im- t"14'?nt, ?"???fu! knave, who hM h?j the ^udooit. ?'y ?? h::td at blackmaH, and ?!? dy j° ^ry at blackmail, and tn  to ext.ort money out of me by ?a"n? snf ? ? ? tetters?" Jabcz laurbed n 1.1 L r 1 1 k "lel'œ y, an a BomWlla"  Lor? ? ?'?- ?? ?m?I.at ?d??:? ? ——— Th? h. ? made fa-M mi??e-an i -n c rkd v ?p<d m;st.akc-when I ?'c? ?nUmen't get the better of me and I agreed to l". 0 j^-ate 1I2V ..?a? is* s bov-Liie,?' r.y; But he's dMd now, thank God-Con- ?t?? s drowned. and there the matter cnd?. Or <lead men don't wake, they gkep sound." jjg,0 pauocd a moment. A meditative look ?acT c?ise over his counte?ace. "I loved his mother," he continued, "and Lucy Emily was the one person w ho kaew why I hated Peter Eawson so intensely." He hunched his shoulders, then took up the big envelope and read what was written across it. "I may as well tear up these letters now, for whatt3 the good of keeping them," Jabez deliberated; "I don't want Andrew ever to come across them by any chance, after I'm dead, perhaps. Andrew, who has no idea that I have another side to my nature than the one he knows, for he always regards me as such a clever and euceessful man, and I don't want him to find out that I had an unhappy lo?e affair in my youth, and that unhap,p prf I adored preferred another man. No I don't want Andrew ever to go peering into my past." He hesitated for a second, and was just about to open the envelope when he shook his head, and pnshed the bulky package back into the drawer again. "No," he growled, "no. I won't destroy those precious documents, for though I said just now that dead men don't wake, still, their ghosts walk sometimes, and-and haunt the living." He locked the drawer and was about to leave the room, when the door suddenly opened and Andrew came in. and there was a curious, rather drawn look on the tall youug man's face that made his father re- gard him rather curiously. Why, what's the matter with you, lad ?" he exclaimed, "and what keeps vou from your bed? It's close on twelve o clock." HI-I wanted to speak to you, father," Andrew began, "and I've been trying to screw up my courage all the evening, but I'm a coward, for I have come to the study twice already, and have turned back just as I was about to open the door." "And what reason have you to be so scared of your own father?" Jabez de- manded. But you always were scared of me, even when you were quite a little chap," he added reflectively; "but I don't know that it's done you any harm. The dread of angering me has kept you out of many a scrape, I reckon, and you certainly weren't a milk-sop at school or at college. Let me see, you did rather well at football, both at Rugby and at Cambridge, didn't you, Andrew? "It's not physical courage that I fail in," Andrew answered hoarsely, then he came forward and stood directly in front of his father, his full, fair face working painfully. "It's this marriage, sir," he began, "this marriage you have arranged between myself and Eve Rawson. My heart's not in it, for though I'm very fond of Eve it's no good pretending that I love her, and I only asked her to marry me because you insisted on it, and—and I made quite sure at the time that she'd refuse me—that I was pretty safe in making the offer." "And so you got a bit sold w hen Miss Eve eaid 'yes?'" Jabez laughed as he spoke, and Andrew realised with some relief that his father didn't appear to be angry with him. "What's to be done, father?" he de- manded. "It seems jolly rough on Eve, drawing back at the last moment, and—and I'm afraid it may upset the business arrangements that you are making with Mr. Rawson. But, after all, I'm your son, and it's my whole life's happiness that is at stake. Must I marry Eve; do you abso- lutely insist upon it?» Jabez bent his brows. "Why didn't you speak as plainly as this to me before, you young fool?" he thun- dered, for don't you realise the position that you're in? Here is your wedding day actually fixed, all the prelimicaries settled, the bride waiting." He played with the big wolfhound's c, A rs, then added: "Really, Andrew, I don't see what's to be done. You owe a dutv to the girl. I don't see how you can jilt Eve, I really don't." "Engagements have been broken off be- fore, and almost at the eleventh hour," Andrew murmured. He moistened his dry lips with his tongue as he spoke, and he gazed at his father with a desperate eager- ness. "Oh, I know I ought to have made a clean breast to you days ago," he added, "before I had allowed matters to go so far, but somehow my courage failed me. I—I thought you were to k??n on this marriage taking place, f3oc-,r set upon it—and I've always tried to fall in with all your wishes, haven't I, father?-to obey you absolutely." "Yes, you've given in to me all your life," the old man grunted. "I would have cared for you far more, Andrew, if you'd gone your own way sornetim"-fet me at defi- ance, even but you take after your mother, poor woman, and a meeker, milder woman never breathed." He shook his head, and then added, more to himself than to his son, I like women who have a will of their own. Your patient Griselda. becomes a nuisance after a time." He paused and frowned, realising that he had been betrayed into over great freedom of speech and then he looked at Andrew through half-closed lids. "Well, well, so you want to get out of this marriage, do you? he said. "And what about the poor girl—what about Eve's feel- ings? Andrew flushed. "I don't want to hurt Eve in any way lyit I cannot think that her heart is really set upon this marriage. I fancy she is merely trying to please her j father. otherwise I would not suggest break. ing off my engagement, I'd be loyal to Eve  at aU cctlfi," "Humph! So you think she doesn't c-aro for yon' Jabez nodded his head filowlv. I "\Vell, all I can say is that old Peter and I have got a very obedient eon and daugh- ter, ond it's a pity that such a well-trained pair shouldn't marry. You're not thinking of auy other girl, I suppose, Andrew— there's no one else you've got up your sleeve —that you're fooling about with? Andrew hesitated. "That is a question I decline to answer," he said slowly. It va-3 the first time he had ever disobeyed his father. A long pause fell, a pause during which Jabez titudicd: the young giant 6crutinis- iiinriv. Then the old man pointed to the cloelc. "It's late, we'll to bed," he said sharply. "Early to bed, early to rise, that's been my motto all my life." He walked towards the door, and Andrew followed slowly, but, just as Jabez was about to leave the room, the young man stretched cut a cold hand and touched his father lightly on the arm. "Wii:.t about my engagement?" he de- manded. "Is it still to hold good—and are preparations for the marringe to go on?" "Why, of course! Why not?" Jabez snorted. "I 'm not the sort of man to break my word or my bond. I promised old Peter Rawson that you should marry his daughter, and if there is to be any breaking off of this engagement it is old Peter that will have to do it. He looked into his son's face, laughed loud and sardonically, and then tramped out of the room. I CHAPTER XI. I I BOMEONS'S WALKING OVER MY GRATB. I "Fair girls should always wear white- nothing suits them eo well-—and really, 1 must say, Eve, you look perfectly beautiful in your wedding dreas—absolutely lovely." For once in her life Fancy spoke with very genuine enthusiasm, and gazed at Eve with admiring eyes. The two girls were standing up in Eve's bedroom, and the bride-elect—the bride whose wedding was to take pla-ce in another three days' time—had just opened the great cardboard box which had arrived that after- noon from a well-known London jeho-p, and had been persuaded by Fancy into trying on the wedding gown. And now Eve stood up arrayed in bridal satin—soft, shimmering satin that fell about her graceful figure in long fo!ds. Tho train, which was suspended from the shoulder, was most beautifullv bro?ered with silver and pearls, and Fancy had even thrown the wedding veil over Eve's head, so as to heighten the illusion, She was right in saying that Eve had never looked so beautiful, and yet this girl was pale and there was no glad happy light in iier eyes—no smile quivering upan her lips. She looked more like some tragic priiacess-, some beautiful, golden-haired princess—who was to be married Lo the king of the neigh- bouring country, sacrificed for the sake of her people, doomed to make a loveless mar- riage to ensure peace tor her father's su b- jects, sent forth in her youth ahu her beauty to conquer the hearts of the enemies of her house, to enslave them, to subdue them. It's a lovely gOVln. isn't it?" Eve gazed thoughtfully at her reflection in the long mirror, but she did not appear to be at all impressed by her own loveliness. In fact, she thought what an irony it was that she stand up arrayed in the robe of a bride when she ought to be wearing mourn- ing robes for Conrad de Lille. And yet the knowledge was slowly dawning upon her that she had never really loved the hand- some actor, who had disgusted every decent man and woman bv his conduct at the time of the wreck of the Blue Star. Slowly but surely th knowledge had come home to Eve that what she bad felt for Conrad had merely been an infatuation sneh as a romantic schoolgirl would naturally feel for a handsome and fascinating actor. Her godmother had not taken proper care of her, she had allowed her young guest to go her own way far too much during that momentous visit to London, yielding to the mistaken idea that girls can look after themselves. "I look taller, do I not, with this long train?" Eve spoke in low tones, then she gave a little nervous shiver. "Someone's walking over my grave, Fancy," she ex- claimed, then she turned away from the mirror. "They say it is unlucky to try on a wedding gown—superstitious people de- clare it is the most unlucky thing that a. bride can do. I wonder if the prediction will come true in my case?" "Really, Eve!" Fancy held up small protesting hands. "How can you say such things, and it's most foolish to be super- stitious. Besides, if you didn't try on your gown before you were married, how do you know that it would fit, though I must say that they have fitted you. to perfec- tion, and I never saw a more exquisite frock? How you will be stared at by the crowd who will fill the church. I wonder if you will feel nervous, Eve ?" Fancy knelt down and spread out the train again, taking a. very womanly plea- sure in touching the rich, soft fabric, admiring the shining splendour of the satin. She would have liked Eve to parade up and down for at least half-an-hour -—her artistic pleasure in the bride was so great. Besides, Eve's marriage to Andrew Gilman would remove a dangerous rival from her path, or so Fancy told her- self. There was just the chanee, the bare possibility, that Rodney Grieve's heart might be caught in the rebound, for Eve would certainly be out of his reach in a few days from now. She would be another man's wife, and then would come Fancy's oppor- tunity—an opportunity she would not fail to take every advantage of. "I don't think I shall feel nervous—why should I?" Eve folded her hands together. "I can imagine a very happy bále-a. girl deeply in love—being exceedingly agitated on her wedding day morning—tremulously excited, but it would be different—very different in my case." She sank down in a chair, throwing the bridal veil lightly back from her face, and the look that had come into her eyea puzzled Fancy—it was the look that might come over someone who was gazing into a land of promise—a land from which she would have to turn away with ft long rc- luctant sigh. "What ornaments are you going to wear, Eve, on the great day?" Faney walked up to the dressing table and began to play with some trinkets that lay there. As usual, she was dressed in one of her favourite green frocks, and her whole manner—her whole appearance — suggested elf-land. She was far more like a fay than a woman, and her eyes gleamed a bright green this afternoon, as though to match her dress. "I don't think I shall wear any jewellery at 311." What, not the diamond necklace that Mr. Gilman speaks of giving yoo—the neck- lace that belonged to his wife?" Most certainly not," Eve answered with decision. "I do not care particularly for diamonds, nor would I wear them on my wedding day." perhaps you are right," Fancy agreed. of A large diamond necklace might be a little inappropriate for a bride—but pearls—pearls are more suitable — more bridal. Besides, they would match the em- broidery on your train. So why don't you wear the nice little rope of pearls that Rodney gave you? He would be pleased, I should think, and they would look so lovely rouT.td your throat—they would just give the finishing touch to your whole dress—tho perf.ct touch." Eve glanced at her cousin in surprise. "How do you know that Rodney hM given me pearls for a wedding present?" she demanded. "I have not told a soul, for I did not wish to accept tho gift for ona thing—it was a gift far beyond his means." Fancy flushed, then she gave a lig'ht, somewhat affected shrug of her shoulders. "I know you've never told me about the pearls," she retorted, "but you see I hap- pened to open the drawing-room door some weeks ago, and I 6aw Rodney offer you the pearls in t.heir case." Then why did you not make your pre- sence known?" Eve demanded, flushing a little. "Oh, I thought you neither of you would onrticularly desire my company at the moment," Fancy answered airily, so I just eliojKsd away." Ie And you didn't listen to what we were eaying? H My dear Eve, what an accusation to bring against me. I'm not an eavesdropper -—a listener." She spoke with such well simulated n- dignation, and her gif-en eyea tallied with jr.V.h angry that Evo was completely ?k?*: -.? ?- -?.? to* "I'm sorry. Fancy, if I've annoyed you." she murmured. "1-1 didn't moan to, but now that we have got. upon the Eiubject, of Rodney Grieve, I may as well tali you that it is my earnest wish that be will fall in love with "you later on—I—I have told him so, fo? I want you to be happy, Fancy—I want him to be happy. And you do love him dearly, do you not?" "Love him, I should think eo," Fancy ex- claimed. She spoke in low, suppressed tonea, an extraordinary change coming' over ber faoe, such as always occurred when Rodney' na.rr,e waf] mentioned, for the wild, elfish ex- pression deserted her eyes, the pixie look. and a woman's feoul peered out—a passionate woman's soul. "So you've spoken to Rodney about me, have you?" Fancy added after a brief pause, "but I expect he gave you to understand that I should never succeed in taking youi place in his heart. It seems rather a. ruib- take, doesn't it, that he should care for you so deeply—you who have no love to give him —whilst here I stand, ready to worship him as no woman ever worshipped a man yet—to adore him—and yet he turns from me. he turns from the substance to worship a shadow. She laughed rather bitterly, then, as she stared at Eve, she caught her breath, for a look had suddenly come over her cousin's face that she failed to understand— a look that baffled and surprised her. "What is it, Eve," she cried sharply, jealousy giving a keen edge to her voice. Why do you look so strange? It isn't pos- sible that you have grown to care for Rodney during these last few days, that lie has begun to count for something in your life, and just when you are about to marry another man—when your wedding-day is fixed with Andrew Gilman." Eve crimsoned to her forehead, then she suddenly hid her burning face in her hand. "Don't say such things to me, Fancy," she entreated, "it is cruel of you, really cruel, for suppose what you have just said is correct. Think—think what I must be suffering. "Oh, <> you little fool!" Fancy said the words with extraordinary vehemence. "So when it's too late you have suddenly found out that you love Rodney, have you; but what's the good? Nothing can possibly stop your wedding with Andrew, and you know that. You know just as well as I do noth- ing can avert your wedding." "I know that," moaned Eve, "and I have no one to blame but myself for the fatal tangle I have made of my life only, for pity's sake, never refer to this subject again. And have I not told you that I want you to marry Rodney? For I think would be happier married than living a single life, and it's his happiness above an things. She spoke in low, barely audible tones, but just as she said the words a hasty knock came at her bedroom door, and when she cried "Come in it was her father who entered. The old man looked very pale and dis- turbed, and when he caught sight of Eve in her wedding dress he shook his fists at her fiercely. "Off with all that mummery," he cried, "tear the wedding veil from your head and trample it under your foot, Eve, for your wedding is not going to take place. We have been tricked and deceived." "Father!" Eve sprang to her feet. "What are you saying—what do you mean? Has Andrew decided to break off the en- gagement—has he jilted me at the eleventh hour? ,"Jilted you? No, Andrew hasn't jilted you," old Peter Rawson exclaimed hoarsely. "It is I who have broken off the engage- ment-I who have forbidden the marriage!" (To be Continued.)

I QUAINT SUNDAYS. I One of the quaintest-named Sundays in the course of the year is "Clipping Sun- day." At many places on this Sunday the children form a ring round the church that is, they encircle or "clip" it, the word being used in the north-eountry sense of embracing or enfolding. Certainly, in the North every Sunday is, in a very real sense, Clipping Sunday, for that day is above all others the general courting day of the week. In some places where ancient yews grow in the churchyard, a festival is made every year when they are clipped, and some people have imagined that this is the origin of the strangely-named Sunday, but is is not so. Mothering Sunday and Simnel Sunday are one and the same. They fall on the fourth Sunday in Lent. The Sunday is called Simnel Sunday in Lancashire and Yorkshire because on that day Simnel cakes are eaten, and in the week prior to the festi- val the confectioners' shops look especially tempting. The Simnel cake is a rich plum- ca.ke, and many children would like every Sunday to be Simnel Sunday. It is said that the custom arises from the simple fact that the Bible readings in church on that particular day both refer to eating'

I DANGER OF DULL DAYS. I ft would seem almost impossible for a person to be killed by sunstroke without seeing the sun, yet it is a thing which hap- pens with unpleasant frequency in India. The rca.son, of course, is that when the sun is "in" as we say, it is in reality only ob- scured by clouds, which, -although they shade the light, do not in any way inter- fere with the heat. Consequently the fierce rays of the sun beat down just as usual, and the unwary or careless individual who goes I out without his sun helmet may consider himself lucky if a serious illness is the only result. Similarly, the early morning, when the sun has just risen, is another particu- larly dangerous time for "tap," as the Tommy in India calls it. Although this is the coolest part of the day, it is also the most treacherous, for the sun's rays then are horizontal, and strike dead upon the side of the head and nape of the neck, both of which 6pots are soon affected by heat. One is also liable to get sunstroke through the eyes, while another very vulnerable point is the spine. To protect this latter, soldiers in very hot ctations wear 3pine-pads.strips of thick cloth which hang down and cover it.

I WHERE GOATS COME FROM. I It has been generally believed that the j different varieties of. the European domesti- cated goat are descended from the paseng, or bezoar goat (Capra oegagrus). During the laying of a water main at Iloczow, in eastern Galieta, fairly well preserved skins of fossil goats were found. It evidently belongs to a hitherto unknown extinct species, which has been named "Cpara prisca." The con- formation of the skull is quite different from that of the skull of "C. oegagrus," and of jt) subsj)ecies, the Cretan goat, and th0 wild goat of the island of Erimomilos, but is identical with that of the so-called Jura wild goat, which was proved by Lorenz- Liburnau to be merely the domest i c goat re- verted to a wild state. The skull of the extinct t.^ecies also closely resembles that of most of the European domet-icated breeds. It 1 hn" appears that most of the hitter are probably derived from "C prisca," though a few breeds, such as the old Alpine breed of Salzburg, are evidently descended from "C- crgngrus."

L'cc}.t. Lodge, a har.tLorce fhooting box near Toniintoul, Bar.ftshire, belonging to the Duke of Richmond and Gordon, and tenanted by Mr. Reiss, has been destroyed by fhe. The damage is estimated at £ (5.(XK). Mr. John Ilodge, M.P.. has appointed Sir C. H. Kenderdinc, K.B.E., as Director of Artificial Limb Supplies in the Ministry of Pensions. The Food Controller urges that delivery of food bv motor vehicles should be kept, within the closest possible limits, so as to avcid unnecessary wear and tear.

I THE SIMPLE WAY I ? is generally the beat way. and the jg ? 8Ímplet way of mant?inin? your K M health !< to take a rc:u*ijle medicine 0 ? directly you feet o ?-eortt. A w ? dose of Beecham't P 'fs when nee- S3 ? cessary will keep you f!t ?nd weB. g S There !t no more har Jy? ?expensive | and popular remedy than Becham'. ? ? PU!t. They never faH to perform | what is pronn?ed for them. For g S the numerous ailments to which the 5 h digestive system is liable, Beecham's f S Pills are heartily recommended. If | H you TAKE m them as occasion demands, they 0 will be found to afford speedy and >| 5 full relief in cases of biliousness, < constipation, sick headache, flatul- | t ence, heartburn, sluggish liver, g 5 feelings of depression, lack of ener- g 2 gy, poor appetite, and a general Ion *J ? of tone. If you happen to be a suf- £ j 9 ferer from any of the symptom* of 5- ? dyspepsia the simple way to a cure $ is to take ,EEC PillS. in boxes, labelled 18-3d and 3s-0d. I in boxes, labelled ls-3d and 3s-0d. |j

I CLUB WINDOW. iU 1.) 'i K i.J" ¡ General Sir Francis Lloyd tells the follow- ing amusing story. Jt concerns a. very- small drill sergeant and a tail, burly recruit from Yorkshire. Though diminutive as to stature., the sergeant's temper was fierce, and he pos- sessed a ready and a rasping tongue. "Now then, you Private Knaggs," he bawled tc the tall Yorkshireman, "'01d yor 'ead up. l yer ea d up. There ain't no threepenny-bits !yin' about on this parade-ground." "Shall I always have to look oop, sargeant?" asked the coun- try lad. "Always!" was the fierce reply. "Then," answered Private Knaggs. as he lifted his face to the skies, "Good-bye, sar- geant, for I shan't never see thee no more # Mr. John Burns is happiest when he is amongst his books, many of which were bought with money, earned in his days of struggle, that might well have been spent | in satisfying his hunger or in purchasing some necessary article of attire. On more than one occasion Mr. Burns had to choose between buying a pair of boots or a book, and it was generally the book that he selected. Mr. Ja-^ Pleasants, the whimsical come- dian, tells the following true story: "A young man," he savs "was being questioned by a recruiting officer with regard to par- ticulars about himself that were necessary for the paying of separation allowance: "Next of kin?" asked the officer sharply. "I beg your pardon, t&ir?" "Next of kin?" re peated tho ofifcer, eveu more sharply. "I've only got this shirt on, sir—my undervests are all at the wash was the astonishing reply. "The recruit thought," Mr. Pleasants explained, "that the officer had said Next your skin Sir Conan Doyle's first story, written at the age of six, told of a tiger that swallowed a man. The youthful novelist used to tell his stories to his schoolmates, for which they paid him in jam-tarts. He would en- sure prompt payment by cutting short the tale at a most exciting point, and refusing to proceed unless the stipulated reward was immediately forthcoming. General Pershing is fond cf telling this story. It happened when he was on the Mexican border A regiment wa5 marching by when it met a small, tow-headed, ragged Irish boy clinging to a moth-eaten, dilapi- dated donkey he had been riding, and which had become restless owing to the noise of the band. It was all the bov could do to hold the beast. A joker in the ranks called out to the boy as he swung past "Say, kid, what are you holding your little brother so tight for? "Because," came the reply from the Irish kid, "he fees you glJyB and I'm afraid he might enlisL" Sir Rosslyn Wemyss, the First Sea Lord, is said to have one pet superstition. He will never wear anything green. This is an aversion that Sir Rosslyn shares with the rest of his kinsmen, and the reason for it is that Wemyss Castle, the home of the family, is supposed to be haunted by an exception- ally unpleasant ghost, which is known as "Green Jean." Moreover, the castle pos- sesses a dungeon shaped exactly like an old green bottle. However much green may suit any of the fair ones of this ancient- family you wH] never find one of them sporting it*! you will never find one of tiici?) FP?ol,tilng -i t ♦ # Quickness in repartee has been credited to Paderewski. A gentleman once introduced the pianist to the champion polo-player of England, and added: "You are both loaders of your separate professions, though they a.re, of course, very different." "Not so very different," quickly responded the great pianist. "My new friend is a dear soul who plays polo, whereas I am a dear POl who plays solo." < President Wilson relates a good story of a. foreigner who came to England to see the "sights." He was very fond of every" thing ancient and spent most of his time in visit- ing out-of-the-way places with interesting histories attached to them. At an old coach- ing inn the traveller ordered some sand- wiches and liquid refreshment, and asked the landlord a-bout the history of the place. The landlord showed him so many relics and mementoes of famous historical epi- sodes that at last the traveller began to sus- pect that he was "having his leg pulled." "Everything here seems to have a legend attached to it," he remarked. "Yes, almost everything" answered the landlord. "Well," said the traveller, between his munches, "do tell me the history of this quaint old ham sandwich » In the days before he became a peer of the realm, the Marquis of Crewe poued for a while in 'London as a literary free lance. He did not, however, meet with any very marked measure of success. When in com- pany one day with a few other wiiters simi- lary circumstanced, a discussion arose re- garding magazine editors. "They're too old said one disappointed contributor. "A bunch of fossils! No wonder they get out such rotten magazines." The future Lord Crewe looked up from a rejected manuscript of a poem which he was tidying with a rubber eraser previous to sending it off on its rounds again. "What is the average age of these men?" he asked. "Sixty-four," came the answer. "That's it!" he ex- claimed with mock bitterness, "they've ail reached their declining years." An exceedingly witty impromptu remark is credited to the Earl of Stair. It was his ancestor, the first Earl who was mainly re- sponsible for the Massacre of Glencee, and in revenge an old Highland woman called down a fearful curse on his House, prophe- sying among other things that the future holders of the title would die childless. And, as a matter of fact, the second, third, fourth, sixth, seventh, and eighth earis did die without issue. A snjwretitious lady once asked the present Lord Stair if this were true. "Quite true," answered his lordship briefly. "And do you attribute it to the 'Curse of Glencoe, persisted the lady. Possibly," was the guarded reply. "Though as regards the third and sixth earls, at all events, there was what the lawyers would call contributory negligence.' "How so: came the puzzled inquiry. "Well, you sec, madam, neither of them got married." t Lieutenant-General T. E. Clarke tells an amusing story of two Irish soldiers belong- ing to his old regiment, the Royal lnnis- killing Fusiliers. They were "difging t hemselves in after an advance, and the entrenching tools supplied by the War Office being of standard size, and none too large at that. one of the Irishmen, a giant over 6ft. tail, found himself a good deal handi- capped by the shortness of the handle of his spade. His back was aching from bend- ing over so much, and he had paused for a moment to straighten himself up, when his companion remarked: "Say, Mike, phwat wud ye do ef ve had a million pounds?" "I'd add four mches to the handle of thi* blurrjr shovel," was the reply. The one-time "demon bowler," Mr. F. R. Spotforth, tell a curious story concerning an early cricket experience of his in Aus- tralia. It appears that he was playing in a match at Adelaide with Sydney E. Gregory, w.s, in my opinion, the best fielder at cover-point in the history of cricket, not even excepting Jessop. On the occasion I am referring to, however, the weather was exceedingly saltry and oppressive, and caused Gregory, who was holding in his favourite position, to I turn sleepy for a, moment. Suddenly mid- I off shouted, 'Look out, Syd! The startled The t- ?rtkd fieldv.nan saw something black elart past him. shot out an arm, aud a caugltt-a bird."

I I AT A GREAT RATE. It j prJ&iible to actually see certain tropi- cal plants grow. Au eminent scientist, making measurements in some botanical gardens in Java, recorded a growth in a bamboo of seventeen inches in a single elay. Another bamboo was observed to add eight inches to its height daily for ?fly-eight days, while two others grew four )nchcc steadily each day fc-r &ixt; days.

r «B t I THINGS THOUGHTFUL. I LOOK INWARDS. Look inwards' for you have a lasting fountain of happiness at home that will always bubble up if you will but dig for ifc —Marcus Aurelius. I OUR HELPER. Our antagonist is our helper. This amic- able conflict with difficulty obliges us to an intimate acejuaintance with our object, and compels us to consider it in all its relat jons. It will not suffer us to be isuperhoial.— Edmund Burke. I THE BOOK OF NATURE. I Study the book of Nature that God bath I spread out before thee; so thou wilt store np knowledge within thy brains and peace within tny heart. I UNBEARABLE. Of a' the ills that flesh can fear, The loss o' frien's, the lack o' gear A gowlin' tyke, a glandered mcar. A lassie's nonsense— There's just ae thing I cannae bear, An' that's my conscience. -St,evensca. I A NATION S HISTORY. History teaches us that the life of a nation, like that of the individual, consists not in material resources alone, but in those moral and spiritual resources of which religion is the root and ftay,-Principal Selbie, D.D. I INDIVIDUAL WORK. There is work for all of u, And there is social work for each, work which I cannot do in a crowd, or as one of a mass, but as one man acting singly, according to my; own gift6, and under a sense of my perisonal responsibilities. There is. no doubt, asso- ciated work for me to do: I must do my, work as part of the world's great whole, or as a member of some body. But I have a special work to do, as one individual, who, by God's plan and appointment, have a separate position, separate responsibilities, and a separate work-a work which, if I do not do it, must be left undone. I NOT FOR OTHERS. No one of my fellows can do that special work for me which I have come iiit-r the world to do; he may do a higher work. a greater work, but he cannot do my work. J cannot hand my work over to him. any more than I can hand over my responsibili- ties or my gifts. Nor can I delegate my work to any association of men, however well ordered" and powerful. They have their own work to do, and it may be a very noble one. But they cannot do my work for me; I must do it with these hands, or with these lips, which* God has given me. GLORIFYING GOD. I may do little, or I may do much. Tha.t matters not. It must be my own work. And by doing my own work, poor as it may neem to some. I shall better fulfil God's end in making me what I am, and more f;.ru}, glorify His name, than if I were ert-her going out of my own sphere to do the work of another, or calling in another into my sphere to do ThY proper work for W.— Ruskin. CHANGE. From high to low doth dissolution climb. And Fink from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail; A musical but melancholy chime. Which they can hear who meddle not with crime, Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. Truth fails not; but her outward forme that bear The longest date do melt like frosty rime, That in the morning whitened hill and plain And is no more; drop like the tower sub- lime Of yesterday, which royally did wear His crown of weeds, but could not even sus- tain Some casual shout that broke the silent nir, Or the unimaginable touch of Time. —William Word-worth. FOR OTHERS' SAKES, Large is the life that How- for others' sakes, Expends its best, its noblest effort makes. Devotion rounds the man and makes him whole; Love is the measure of the human soul. —• James Buckham. GOD AX ARTIST. God Himself is the only great ArtiEt. nrd what we ask from Him in our wildest dreams is not worth that which He gives us in His unchangeable wisdom. CHRISTIAN DOGMATICS. That part of theological science which occupies itself with the contents and grounds of the religious truth believed and confessed by the Christian Church as a whole, or by one of its ^-eciions in particular. -Van Oozterzu. LIBERTY. Liberty is quite as much a moral as a political growth, the result of free indi- vidual action, energy, and independence.- S. Smiles. YOWS AND RESOLUTIONS. 0 Lord. pinch me into the remembrance of my promise, that so i may re-enforee ray old vows with new resolutions.—Thomas Fuller. SEEN AND UNSEEN. We are two men each of us, what is seen and what is not seen. But the unseen is the maker of the other. GOD'S GIFTS. Nor lack I friends long-tried and near and dear, Whose love is round me like this atilo- sphere, Warm, soft, and golden,-For such gifts to WhaTehall I render, 0 my God, to Thee I —U hittiex. THE GOLDEN RULE. An Indian, hearing the Golden Rule ex- plained, said, "It cannot be done." Then, after a paQse, he added. "If the Great Spirit would give a man a new heart it mig-ht be done, but not else." That- is the truth. To apply the Golden Rule we need a golden heart. JUSTICE AND LOVE. There can be no greater mistake in ethics or religion than to set justice over against love; justice here to do certain things, and love there to do certain other things. Not at all; justice is only a part of love; love under one aspect.—T. S. Hamlin. MUSIC. Music is more persuasive than poetry, it is more ethereal, more insinuating, and it can sound its way into hidden chambers of the life where the profoundest poetry could never reach. There are moods of the eoul when poetry is irrelevant and aanost irrita- ting, and in these moods music biixLgs the magic power which turns the iron gate upon I its hinges, and floods the prison-house, with light. I NOT ALL SPOTS. The spots on the sun may be a-i interest- I ing study, but anyhow the sun is not all spots.—Rt. Hon. A. Birrell.

Lieutenant Rough, of the Black Watch, formerly a Nonstable si- Tower Bridge Police Station, was presented with a sword on be- half of the officers and men of the M divi- sion. Leonard Sidney Deif. manager of the Britannia beerhouse, Teddington, agreed, in London Sheriff's Court, to pay E:iO breach of promise damages to Miss Emma Wells, a nurse.