Weekly Mail

A VIENNESE ROMANCE. THE TRUE STORY OF A CURIOUS DRAMA. The curtain has just dropped over the last scene of one of those ourious little life-dramas so frequently enacted in Vienna. (says the "Daily Telegraph" correspondent). The hero was a penniless son of Mars, one of the mob of gentlemen who strut with ease, pen poetic advertisements in the newspapers to catch the eye of a wealthy lady in search of a husband, and whose living arid working may be com- pletely summed up in the line:—"A youth of frolics, an old age of cards." The lady was young pretty, rich, 'highly connected, and a. widow. Her late husband had left her two children and one million florins. Before she had cast off her weeds the young officer came upon the scene, saw her, and conquered her. He owed something to his country besides his life, and the lady determined to wed him and wipe away her tears and his debts at one stroke. Her friends were furious, and told her that if she threw herself thus away they would close their hearts and their houses to her for the rest of their natural lives. But the lady, self-willed and obstinate, refused to be guided by meddlesome relatives, and resolved to remain "mistress of herself though China fall." The wedding day dawned at last, and the eight, of the gallant young lieutenant caused the widow's heart to sing for joy. This may be regarded as the first act which culmi- nated in a wedding tour and a second honey- moon. Then came the second act, which opened with a long period of domestic happiness— "the only bliss of Paradise that has survived the fall"—the Paradise being one of the most picturesque spots of Tyrol, a quaint old town in which was situated the favourite residence of the great Paracelsus. In It his delightful "land of drowsy bed" the young lieutenant's regiment was stationed, and, as the two really loved each other, they took no note of time. At last, however, a change came o'er their dream, and the calm pleasures of wedded life began "to smack of noyailce and unrest." The lady pined for the gay life of a big city, and asked her husband to "petition his superiors to l)e transferred to Vienna. He, equally con- vinced that "Variety's the very spice of life, asked her husband to "petition his superiors to he transferred to Vienna. He, equally con- vinced that "Variety's the very spice of life, that gives it all its pleasure," approved the plan, and drew up a pathetic request to this effect1. It wsfi refused. # Then he wrote mother, threatening to resign in case his de- mand should not be granted. The authorities were obdurate, and the young lieutenant had no choice but- to exchange the becoming uni- form of his regiment for the ungainly garment, of the civilian, whereupon the pair proceeded to Vienna, and plunged into the vortex of pleasures that swallows up the time, fortunes,, and lives of so many. He became a member of a fashionable club, where he spent most of his days and nights, and she joined a number of benevolent societies founded for the purpose of realising genuine Christianity in everyday life. Absence makes the heart grow fonder was the principle on which they both were endeavour- ing to act, and they soon found that they could implicitly rely upon it, One evening at the onera the lieutenant di. covered an old friend whom he had lost sight of for years, and his joy thereat knew no bounds. He was all the more pleased to find, when he presented him to his wife, that she too had known the, friend ever since—"ever since she could remember," she said. All three then went home and had supper to celebrate their meeting after so many years. One morning, it might be two or three weeks after this, the ex- lieutenant had just given the la-st brush to his glossy hat and was departing to his club for the day when his wife, presenting her cheek as usual for the farewell kiss, reemed suddenly to remember something, and said, "Oh, while I think of it, darling, could you give me a few minutes in your stUll" I have something to ronsultyou about." "Certainly, my angel, a whole hour if you desire it." But, as he spoke, a cloud came over his smiling features, for he expected a reprimand for his absenteeism, and perhaps even a little scene, of which, like most husbands, he had a holy horror. In the study, the lady began thus: "I wish to say, daiding, that I do not feel anv longer the happiness that once was mine." The hus- band listened unmoved, convinced that this was but the overture to the music he expected, and made no remark, determined to allow the storm to burst over his devoted head. But the continuation of his spouse's discourse rendered Shim absolutely speechless. "I should like," she said, "to propose that we—lim—eh-—should —eh—separate." "W1ia,tY Separate ? Are vou in your senses, thy. angel ?" exclaimed the citizen of clubland, as he was able to articulate. "Yes, dear, I am. But you are nervous). You take it far too tragically. I simply long for a change. I don't know what it is, but I am unhappy. Of course I do not dream of breaking with you for good—indeed, I could never survive such a calamity. But let us serarate just for a season, you know; we shall love each other all the better for the change. Even now I adore you, you naughty boy." She talked on in this strain till ° she gained her point. The husband feared to make matters worse by resisting, so he said at last, "Be it so; if you insist upon it, your will is law. I am agreed." "That's a, dear love, and now when may "ve begin the divorce proceedings?" "The div—divorce—proceedings? What do you mean?" stammered the husband, before whose eyes the universe grew dark, as the Arabs put; it. "So it's divorce you want? That, then,' is what you are driving at? Good heavens! and has it come to this?" But the lady once more poured out a stream of resist- less eloquence', setting forth that what she really wanted was only a mock divorce. Pro- ceedings would be taken, and then in the nick of time everything would be set right again. She would admit that it was a morbid fancy— but women often have such silly notions, and their realisation constitutes what they deem, happiness. She would, of course, die rather than lose her beloved husband—who is her life, her everything, but she must ask him—if he really loves her—to humour her in this. Of course she gained her point. The two separated "for a few weeks," and the lady meanwhile instructed the family solicitor to institue proceedings for a divorce, 011 the ground of 'incompatibility of character and mutual con-,ent"-a, motive which in an Eng- lish Divorce Court would amount to collusion and utterly defeat the object in view. The ex-lieutenant then took bachelor's lodg- ings in a fashionable part of Vienna, but being possessed of no income of his own, and being unfitted by his life and training to gain his livelihood, made a number of debts. One day, when dunned by a creditor, he promised to pay up in a month, perhaps less. "as soon as he and his wife should be together again." "That is ion St. Tibb's Eve," brutally replied the creditor. "What do you mea.n? How dare you say such a thing to me here in my house;" shouted the now furious debtor, preparing to punish the tradesman. The latter, however, defended himself by means of a still more cruel explanation to the effect that the lady was already the mistress of his old comrade, whom he had lately met at the opera, and was about to wed him as her third lawful husband the moment her present marriage should be dis- solved. This intelligence nearly killed the un- fortunate man. He rushed out of his lodgings and drove hither and. thither to his friends, asking their advice. They all confirmed the tradesman's statement—the whole city knew of the scandalous liaison long ago—the hus- band alone had noticed and suspected nothing. What was now to be done? Only one step could be taken, and he was resolved to take it. He would go at once to his solicitor and on- pose the aUDlicatioll for a, dissolution of his marriage. No sooner said than done. Scarcely had he entered that, gentleman's study than he was greeted cheerily with the words "You have come in the very nick of time. I was about to wire you mv congratulations. The court pronounced the decree of divorce yester- day. You are now a free man again, and as such I offer you my heartfelt congratulations." Lieutenant X. left the office a broken- hearted man. Next day he was received as an indoor patient in the principal hospital of Vienna. What was the nature of his illness, and whether attempted suicide had anything to do with it. ha.s not transpired, but two days after his death, and on the morrow of his sim- ple funeral, his divorced wife was led to the a.1tltr for the third time, bv the icmrade he had met at the opera. ?he has row just started on her third wedding tour, and is un- speakably happy once more.

"Katie Sullivan, a little Irish girl, aged four- teen. has just arrived in Queenstown from New York to inherit a large fortune. Up to a few weeks ago she had no idea that she was heiress to 3 large landed estate in Ireland and a bank- ing account which represents the saving's of six generations of Irishmen. Katie's great grand- father was named Patrick Sullivan. He owned a plot of land in County Derry and other Itind near Dublin. He bad also a considerable sum in English gold stored away against a time of need. After,, eacline this sufferers from Rheumatism, old or vo Ling, have only themselves to blame, their cure isiliwrfreeso and easy. W. E, Cooper and Co.'s Rheuo po ci 11 this. Is. ld., 2s. 9d., and 4s. 6d., "post free, from the Agents, Evans and Co., 20, Womanby-street, Cardiff, Penarth, Taff's Well, Barry, and Cadoxtonand T. Cordey, High-Street, Newport j and the Laboratory, High-road, Edmonton, London or order of any Patent Medicine Vendor. Agents wanted where not represented. L1198 AskforTyler and Prize Co's 'Medal Cloths and Serges.

THAT BLUE SATIN BAU. It seemed to be one of the ironies of fate that her name should have been Miss Thankiul Hope. Strangers smiled instinctively at the name when they first met her, for to them there was so little in her narrow life to be thankful foty.and nothing to hope for. And .yet to those of the limited number who grevy to know Miss Thankful the name was, after all, quite appropriate. She was a faded-looking little woman of 45, whose plain face was only redeemed by a pair of smiling brown eyes. She was a day seam- stress, and made enough to pay her board and usually to keep herself suitably clothed. It was a standing joke among the other boarders that no matter how disagreeable the day Miss Thankful could always find something pleasant to be said about it. And, no matter how unprepossessing the last new Hoarder. Miss Thankful's kind heart was sure to dis- cover some excuse. She had watched Florence, Mrs. Simmons's young- daughter, grow up into womanhood, and had shared her timid confidences and opinions about the different young men of the house, confidences which Florence would never have thought of telling her practical mother. There was something about Miss Thankful which in- vited confidence, aud the two were warm friends. it was a dull February evening, a slignt snow was failing, and Miss Thankful hurried along towards home in the early dusk. The windows were lighted up, and presented a tempting anay of millinery, dry goods, flowers, and confectionery. But Miss Thankful did not notice any of them until she turned into Bond-street, and there she walked slowly, coming to a stand- still at last in front of Cooper and Cooper's large dry goods house. She smiled as she looked in at the window. "Yes," she said, softly, "it's there yet. I made sure it would be sold. So cheap, too. Only 6", She was gazing at a blue satin party bag, lined with delicate pink, one of those dainty French affairs which always catcli a woman's eye if she has any soul for pleasing effects. "I can't afford a new dress this year. That three weeks I was sick last month put that out of the question, and so it does seem as if I could buy that bag if 1 want to. Only it would be silly—downright silly!" and she sighed, "1 never had anytumg as pretty as that. Maybe that's why I seem to have set my heart on it. Even my dresses have been brown or black. They last better. "I've had a kind of brown and black life, anyway. But, there now, that sounds com- plainiii', and I've no cause to complain. The Lord's been good to me, and prospered me righv along." "Good evening, Miss Thankful," said a cheerful voice at her side. "Bight nice window. Our trimmer beats any in town. Lots of pretty things, too," he added, with the pardonable pride of a head clerk. "Good evening, Mr. Jones," answered Miss Thankful. "Yes, I was just looking in at the goods. I"—she hesitated-—"was just noticing that blue satin bag over there in the corner— see?" "Oh, yes, that pretty bag. Pretty thing. Cheap, too. I know a good piece of satin when I see it. Funny it was not sold to-day. Will be to-morrow, likely. Miss Thankful felt her desire to possess the bag increasing. "On your way home? Let me take your umbrella," and they walked on together. Miss Thankful 'lad a decided liking f<'J this one of the boarders, partly because he never forgot to show her the same courtesy that he would show to Florence or any younger woman. And this is very gratifying to a woman who has no claim to youth or beauty. He was a timid young man, with a colourless moustache and drab hair, who talked with a jerk, but Miss Thankful always liked him. When they reached the boarding-house she went very thoughtfully up to her room. Mr. Jones had discoursed most of the way upon the amiable qualities Florence possessed, all of which remarks she had heartily seconded. When she had lighted the gas she sat down with the thoughtful expression still on her face. "I wonder," she said. "I do just wonder. But he would never under the shining sun have the courage to tell her," and she smiied. "Mr. Jones—a name I do abominate, and Florence so pretty—and him wun those colour- less eyes and washed out hair! But, then, he is just as kind as he can be, and I make no doubt would be a good provider." The next night when Miss Thankful came into her room she turned on both the gas jets- aHunheard of extravagance. She carried a small parcel done up in tissue paper, and before she stopped to take off her bonnet she went over to the bed and untied the package. It was the blue satin party bag. a, lot prettier than it was at the store," she said, smiling at it where it lay spread out on the white cover in all the ariogance of assured beauty. T 'Those pink roses are lovely. 1 m silly as i can be. I know that well ei,-ougli Thats why I asked Mr. Jones not to speak of my getting it. Maybe next summer 1 can have a lawn with a little blue sprig m it. I his would go beautiful with that. I don't thimc I m too old for a lawn 011 a hot day, and I'm lust glad I got- it—so there!" Then she wrapped up the bag and put it away in her trunk. After supper Florence came up to visit her, and Miss Thankful was tempted to tell her about it. But she was full of her own plans, and the bag was not mentioned. "There is to be a party to-morrow evening "■t- iA -i,r- Moor's. It's the 14th, you know, said Florence happily. "I am going to wear mv blue cloth dress. I've worn it a lot, Miss Thankful, but mother says I may have a new sash. Thai will freshen it up. But, oh, I wish, I do wish, I could have a party bag that I saw down in Cooper's window. It was a light blue and lined with pink. Such a beauty I wish you had seen it. I can't have anything but the sash, though, and so there is 110 use in dud see it," said Miss Thankful, "and it was pretty. I sorter wished ior it IIIA selt. Florence laughed. "Oh, of course, you would not want it, but if you had seen it twenty years ago you might have, she said, with the serene thoughtlessness of youtn. Miss Thankful grew silent. "Mr Jones has asked me to go to evening service twice lately," Jllorsnce went on pte- "iVnink he is about the best looking young man here, don't, you, Miss Thankful? He rever talks much, but I suppose he third's a great deal. I used to think he disliked me, he stammered so whenever I spoke to him, but I guess it was just because he didn't feel ac- quninted." And then followed a, recital of Mr. Jones's sayings. After she had gone Miss Thankful sat for a long, long time in front of the grate, with sad dreamy eyes 011 the jfire. She was j_ oiu g over in her mind a time ^5 years before- "He was nothing like Mr. Jones, slv raid. "He was good looking and so tail, but he was just as timid, and I acted as careless and in- different as I knew how. Girls are foolish creatures. He never got up the courage to tell me. And then we moved away, and that was all. No other man. ever looked at me, and I can't say as I want them, to." She undressed slowly. She elt old. this looking back at one's youth has a tendency to make one feel old if it lies 25 years behind one.. When she was all ready for bed, she opened the trunk and took out the party bag. She opened the door and listened. Every- thing was still in the dim hall. Florence's room was only a few doors away. Miss Thank- ful slipped noiselessly along, and when she reached the door she huug the ribbon over the knob and as softly stole back. She. had put. no card in the bag there was no need. -orence would know who sent it, and then she went to bed and to sleep. The next morning Florence knocked at the door almost before Miss Thankful was dressed, and came in with a. flushed, face. "Oh Miss Thankful," she cried, "I have had the loveliest gift! What- do, you think- that blue satin party bag! "Of course, Mr. Jones sent it. I asked him last night if it was sold yet, and he grew iust as red and stammered so. I know why now Mother says I may keep it, and I wrote him a note of thanks this morning and put it under his olate. This was the easiesrt, way of thaking him. He is having an early break- fast now. so I thought I would wait and go down with you this time," And flie fluttered about the room in happy excitement. Meantime Mr. Jones; was in a very-uncer- tain and puzzled state of bliss. The note had thanked* him for, his beautiful gift, but neg- lected to tell what the gift was. He left the house without being able to get I a glimpse of Florence. At noon there wa-s another tiny white mis- sive under his door. But this, much to his disappointment, proved to be from MissThaiik- ful. "Dear Mr. j ones,—Florence thinks you sent that satin bag. It would be dreadful for her to know differently after thanking you for it. For her sake, please do not ever tell her that you did not. Your friend, "THANKFUL HOPE." Mr. Jones studied this note with smiling eyes. "For her sake;" that clause gave him a quick thrill of pleasure. She would be sorry to find out, then, that it was not his gift. He must answer Florence's note, and this was the result of a. half-dozen attempts — "Dear Miss Florence,—That bag' could not hold the valentine I would like to give you if I dared. It is the biggest and homeliest valentine a young lady ever got. If you care to have me tell me about it, please carry the blue satin bag when you come down to dinner. ''ERASTUS JONES." He could hear Florence singing in her room, orc and he called the bellboy and sent the note to her. "There now," he said, when this had been accomplished, "If it had not been for Miss Thankful I would never have had the grit to send that, and, what's more, I believe Miss to send that, and, what's more, I believe Miss Thankful knew it, bless her! ."If Florence does have that blue thing on her arm, I'll give Miss Thankful the very best dress that Cooper and Cooper have in the store." And Miss Thankful got the dress.—"Hart- ford Courant."

SATED BY A BOY'S WIT. Zim set his pail of blackberries on a rock and swiftly levelled his gun at a small dark object that moved up the side of the ravine like a shallow. "Bang i" went the smooth-bored musket— but the shadow receded faster than ever. "The old gun is 110 good, anyhow," said Zim, laying it down and picking up a stick. "I'll give you a race, Mr. Ground Hog, by granny 1" So Zim girded up his loins and took after the clumsy, yet alert, little animal with such vim that the ground hog, finding lie could not reach his hole in time, whirled and scrambled into a hollow log. Zim blocked the larger end with a rock, then searched hastily for other outlets. Finding none, he congratulated himself. "I don't believe Louder (the dog at home) could 'a' put him into a hole any quicker," said he to himself. "But," in a perplexed tone, "how is I gain' to get him out'n there?" The log lay with its smaller end down the mountain side. Zim got down on his knes, cautiously withdrew the rock and peered with- in. He could see nothing; but a scratching sound excited him at once. lie threw off his hat and opened his jack-knife. "Tryin' to dig your way out, are ye?" he exclaimed, as if to the ground hog. "Mebbe the wood is rotten. If I can get into you, old fellow, we'll see-e-e-e Zim began squeezing himself into the hollow of the log, and the operation was evidently a close pull. Had he been the merest trifle larger he never could have wormed his way down as he did, until nothing but his toes pro- truded. The ground hog snarled. The boy's position was intensely disagreeable, as he soon found out. The rush of blood to his head, and the difficulty in drawing breath both warned him to hasten. It was, moreover, so dark that he could see nothing. Reaching forward, his har d was snapped at, but he managed to get hold of the animal. There was a brief struggle. Zim held on with one hand and used his knife with the other. Presently the ground hog ceased its efforts and gave up the fight, and its life as well. But when Zim attempted to withdraw from the log he found he could not stir. His head was down hill, nor was there rcom to work him- self backward. To add to his distress, his toes, in the struggle, had lost their hold upon the upper end of the log. Zim realised that if he remained in that situation much longer he would surely suffo- cate, though the chance of being heard by human ears in that secluded ravine was dis- mally uncertain. Yet, in the very ec-stacy of his fear, he continued to yell for aid. The swirl of blood to his brain, the stuffy choking darkness, and, more than all, the appalling sense that he might die there, were almost more than lie could endure. With a vague pricking of pity for the ground hog and a dazed idea that he was beintr punished for his own nierci- lessness, he felt his hea-d whirl dizzily. Then something made a noise outside. The log was pulled round, turning over as it went. Hands grasped his heels, and Zim was drawn from his narrow prison. He was more exhausted by his emotions than by the struggle he had undergone. One hand stil 1 held the jack-knife, while the other clutched the dead ground hog'. He was scratched, and his clothes were torn, but lie was alive. He sat up, blinking the dust from his eyes, and looked at his preserver. The stranger, having accomplished Zim's rescue, was now eating the boy's berries ravenously. "Much obleeged to ye," began Zim, then noticing what the ether was about, he inter- rupted himself. "Here! Let them berries alone, please, sir. Dad'll lick me if I don't go home with the bucket full." "All right, sonny," replied his rescuer, still eating away. as if his life depended on his celerity. "I'll 'help you pick more. Didn't know there was any round here—and I'm so- so hungry" He broke off short as lie noticed the ground hog. It seemed to Zim as if the Imm must be starving. The longing expression in his eyes alone amounted to an agony. "Can I eat that," he asked, pointing to the ground hog. "What—raw?" returned ZJJll, in amiizement. "Any way. Don't you see? I'm absolutely famished.' T-.im reached for his coat, which lie had thrown off before entering the hollow log, and drew forth two slices of corn bread with bacon between. "Maw 'lowed I might get hungry," said he. "Put you need it wuss than I do." He snatched it from him and took an enor- mous bite, then seemed to remember himself. He broke the bread in two pieces. "Take one, said he, but Zim. shook his head, and watched his rescuer curiously while he ate or rather crammed the food into himself, as if lie were a machine that required constant stuffing. Zim was fifteen, and the stranger could not have been more than two or three years older, but the pitiful emaciation of his features gave to his a look of weird and unnatural matu- >r;oy.lis clothes were merely phreds and patches, dirt-stained, and hardly sufficient to cover his nakedness. Zim observed that their original colour was blue. A- battered army cap of the same hue confirmed an idea that had entered the boy's head. It was the fourth summer of the Civil War, and the Confederate military prison at Salis- bury. N. C., was only forty miles away. "You must be one of them Union prisoners as we heard got out last week," said Zim, eye- ing the other steadily. The young soldier stopped eating, arid his eyes flashed. Then his weakness and his hun- ger returned upon him and lie again attacked the corn bread. Zim noticed liow thin were his legs and arms as he waited for a. renV. "Suppose I am," said the other. "If I hadn't helped you out of that log—where would you be now?" "In there. I reckon. But you needn't be F-keered. We're Union folks, too. Zimri Skelton is my name; what's yours?" "You are Unionists?" He even suspended his eating, operations for an instant, and ex- tended his hand, which Zimri took. "There's bloodhounds." He shuddered weakly. "I waded that creek down yonder for half a mile or more. But I am not certain whether I've thrown them off my track or not." "You haven't sa.id who you are yet," re- minded Zim kindly. "I am Oscar Whit-taker, of the ty-third Ohio. One of the drummer boys. Seven of, us dug our way out three nights ago." "And you've come all this way—bare- footed!" Zim noticed how bruised were the soldier's feet, and that the hand he had grasped was skeleton-like. "Had to. I'd ratlier be shot than go bade: The rebels ha.ven't much to fat themselves,and as for their prisoners—look at me." Zim had looked. "I see. Y Oi.i 're noth.-n' but skin a.nd bone." "Hark!" The stranger rose. Having finished the bread he had begun on the hemes a,gain. and this time Zim had not the. heart I to say him nay. "Didn't you Itcir anything?" A hunted, terrified look came into the drummer boy's eyes. Hunger and weakness had partially unnerved him, and he seized Zim by the arm. "What is it?" he asked. "It's, a hound, and a bloodhound at that," replied Zim. "I know the creature by the way lie opens. Our mount-in' dogs don't make no sech noise. as that," The boy was hastily re-loading his musket. "Here, you take my knife," said Zim. "There's only one dog. I can tell by the cry. I might not kill him, you see. This pesky guii "Then you will help me?" interrupted Whittaker eagerly, "Course I will." "But—suppose the rebs are close behind ?" "That's hardly likely. But the bushes are thick here. They can't see far. I'll fire when the dog gets near, then you must knife him. Say—is your grit good ?" "orood. enough for that." Oscar's courage had revived when he felt sure of Zimri's siu- cerity and aid. A second later a. sharp report ranpr out. Oscar, knife in hand, and followed by Zim with his gun clubbed, leaped over the log and Iv ran towards the hound, which had reared backward, uttering a shrill yell of pa,in. Whittaker drew the knife deei->1-<- across its throat, while Zim made matters sure with a cradling biow over the animal's skull. Its dying throes were not yet ended when Zim drew his companion away. "We must get awav from here afore the men come up," said i.e. "And we mustn't be long about- it either." 1 At the head of th3 ravine t-lien, crossed a low divide and plunged into another long hollow, where a, large spring, bursting from! the earth under a projecting cliff, was the source of a. brawling mountain stream. Zim followed the course of the brook for perhaps forty yards, then leaped to a rock, and from' thence to another—an immense boulder, seem- irgly. Osoa followed with difficulty. He was very much exhausted by long continued hunger and fatigue. The voices were approaching. Zim looked scared for a moment a he thought of tl)t- pos- sible consequences to himself of being eaughtf while aiding a Federal prisoner to escape. Then his face hardened with a sudden resolu tion. "Here!"said he peremptorily. "Jerk off those army du.ls. Don't speak, but get out 'em quicker'n scat." He was pulling off his own clothes as if life depended upon his speed in so doing. Oscar, wearily obeyed. TIe was too tired to argue. Zim, having disrobed, assisted with no gentle hand. "Get into these of mine," ordered the boy. "Quick, now, if you don't want to be took, or get me into trouble." Faster than this is being written the two lada exchanged suits. Oscar looked rather Áin't she a daisy. I ludicrous in Zim's coat and trousers, whiptt were too small for him, though Zim was large for his age. As for Zim himself—well, it was all Whittaker could do to refrain from laughs ing, despite his nervous exhaustion. But the lad coolly rolled up the extremities, then thrust his gun into Oscar's hand, and hung powder horn and pouch from his shoulder. ? "You takt up that there mountin' said hl pointing up one side of the rayine. "Mqke &AV., like you're squirrel huntin', and when them. rebs come, don't dodge, but keep slowly on up to the mountain. Don't let 'em get close if, you can help it. Tell 'em you heard a gun, if they ask anything, and seed a felic-r goin' ever yan ridge." "But how about you?" "I'll take round the other way, get home best I can, and change my clothes ;;g in'-Bfe t' While speaking Zim crawled up the spur, and presently whipped out of sight. Whit- taker made his way towards the cave, seeming to look for squirrels as he wilt, but with his senses alert for sounds of his pursuers. Half way up the ridge he was halted by a. distant call. "Come down here, boy," said one of several soldiers who were now descending the divide, bnta as Whittaker was slow to obey a shot was fired over his head, and he came down re- luctantly. He was questioned closely concerning es- caped prisoners and the death of the Uood- hound. but managed to avoid inculpating him- self. One man, the sergeant in charge, had been taking stock of Oscar's ill-fitting clothes and thin, emaciated features. made your clothes?" he demanded, suddenly. the-the folks at home, cf cour-c," stammered five- lad. "And you didn't hear that dog?" "I heard it and also a gun shot. But there are so many runaway Yankees about that we folks don't nay much R t tention. "Blamed if I don't believe you're one your- self! You look hungry enough. Bring him along, hoys." Oscar attempted to expostulate, but a. sound of firing below interrupted him. whereat the Confederates seemed to be alarmed. Whit-taker dodged behind the great boulder, determining to risk being shot at rather than return to captivity. Another uproar from the unseen foe below so far befriended h:m that- his defection was not at once noticed. They (lared not then return for him, but quickly disap-J peared over the ridge—just as Zim. accom- panied by his father and several Unionist; neighbours, came up the ravine. Zim had met them and told his story, and, as they rightly; judged that. the rebels must be few in number,; they had resolved upon intimidating measures^ Three months after Lee's sm render Zimri's'. father came home one day from the store down; by the railroad, bringing, among other things, a, long wooden box addressed to Zimri Skelton. It was from a town in Ohio, and the freight was prepaid. Inside was a fine suit of store clothing. including hat and overcoat, A nair of boots and some underwear were beneath. Then the lad drew forth a breech-loading rifle of the latest make, and a. plentiful supply of cart- ridges. There was also a letter that read as follows — "Dear Ziiii,-I-Tere are your clothes back, and also your gun. Would have sent them before, but had no chance. Pardon the delay. Andd if you ever come this WIT be sure and visit your obliged and sincere fritind, "OSCAR WHITTAKER," "Well, I'll lie switched!" exclaimed Zim, fondling the rifle, "ain't she a daisy ? Wonder if Oscar wants his eld army rags back "Louisville Courier Journal.