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ALL EIGHTS RESERVED.
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ALL EIGHTS RESERVED. OLD BABETTE. By €L M. HAWKSPOBR, CHAPTER YIII. 1 VILLAGE y¡..TE-lL\BLTTE'f) STORY RESUMED. The feast of St. Louis was a. great day at Villeroi. The town was always en fete, end Father Ambrose had especial services at the Church. Rehques more carried about the town. The bones of St. Louis, the patron taint, too precious to be exposed to the air, Were enclosed in a- wax effigy, which was placed in a glass case and borne by four men beneath a gold embroidered canopy. A uro- tession of boys in white and bearing lighted candles followed behind the priests, who, swinging their censors, -went in front. There was excitement everywhere. All the ordinary work or business was suspended, and hundreds of people, dressed in their holiday clothes, streamed in and out of the Church to hear I Mass or hung about the doors in grouns. The noise of the wooden sabots rattling over the round, uneven stones, which did duty for pavement, the solemn chanting of the priests 'e I rose and fell in the air, either close by or far off. J In the evening oil lamps were hung in the Bocage. temporary cafes were nm up with canvas and wood, so that people might buy z" y coffee, cakes, and sweets, and thtre were booths for dancing. The band played under the trees, and everjons went up to the Bocage -even Monsieur Leon. The people of Villeroi respected Monsieur's grief, but. all the same, they liked to see him among them. He was the great man of the place, and lie always went because Father Ambrose wished it and because he thought it was his duty. The feast of St. Louis was looked upon by the people of V illeroi as a religious festival, and it was in reality the only real holiday tif the year. To Babette it was a- day of immense excitement. In the morning she took her grandmother to church on return- ing she stopped in the market to buy a. bunch of flowers to put in a jar on the window- Bill. Her own dress was carefully prepared many weeks beforehand—her best blue lind- sey skirt, a white chemisette, a dainty cap, and the ear-rings Andre had given her to be worn in her pretty, shell-like ears. She had saved up money to buy a new pair of shoes not sabots, but high-heeled leather ones), the straps fastened with curious old- cut steel buckles given her by her Grand- mother. The grandam went up to the Bocage. but, ss usual, she sat on a. seat under the treez-, for she was not strong enough to walk a.bout. She could hear the noise of the band, and Abe liked the moving crowd and to meet her friends and have a chat. She was so lost without her knitting that her hands generally wandered restlessly about her lap, as though in search of the pins. Andre was naturally, for a greater part of the ciay, with Babette. On this particular leFt of Saint Louis he had brought his mother up to the Bocage, but after a bit she met so many acquaintances that he was very soon free to leave her, a.nd when the darkness gathered he stole away with Babette. Quite late in the evening there was a, display ef fireworks in a field adjoining the Bocage, which was called the Champs de Mars. As the showers of sparks fell, dropping like golden rain, or the illuminations in varying colours lighted up the grounds, it showed a fiea of up-turned' faces, and, unfortunately, (Babette and Andre standing side by side, with hand clasped in hand. On such apparently small events does a future destiny often turn. Madame de Ber- nier was much exercised in her mind on the day following the fete of St. Louis, in conse- quence of receiving a visit from a friend. "So I hear," Madame Grandin said, a.s she seated herself on a big chair in Madame de Bernier's room. "that your son Andre is going to marry Babette." Madame de Bernier, Iwith a good deal of warmth, denied this to be so. "My son," she said, stiffly, "is only twenty- one. He has no thought of marriage. I have no intentions for him at present." "Babette is a good girl," Madame Gra.ndin continued, with irritating persistence, as though she had received no denial to the report. "She is strong and healthy. She has good looks. Andre might do Avorse." The colour flushed into Madame de Ber- nier's usually pale cheeks, for she was very angry. She could never ,-orget her late hus- band r.i position. She vas deeply offended that anyone should consider Babette good Enough for her son. "Andre is still a, bg she replied; "a man ishould not think of marrying before he is twenty-eight or thirty. I have no doubt JBabette is a. good girl. I have nothing to £ ay against her, but she will never be my 'foil s wife. He cannot afford to marry a girl without money, no matter how 'worthy she May be." "Well, I'm sorry if I have annoyed you," Madame Grandin said. "but I am only repeal- ting what is now the common talk of the town. jl said I would call and ask for the truth, jjjust for the satisfaction of it. You know gbest if it is a formal engagement and if you jlave given your consent." "There is no engagement," Madame de Bernier said, with emphasis. "You have my authority for saying so, and al«o for con- tradicting this absurd report. When my son js engaged," she continued, "I will announce It. Madame Grandin was inclined to be offended. She d:d not think her natural .curiosity need have met with such a rebuff: but, then, she did not take a, mother's feel- ings into account. I CHAPTER IX. BABETTE'S LOVE THREATENED. Madame de Bernier had been terribly anxious about Andre for a considerable time. but she did not think the affair was so serious, nor that he and Babette had gone so far, till she found his doings and intentions were public property. She had several sleepless nights; then an inspiration came to her. She decided to write jto her dead husband's brother, the silk mer- :chant at Lyons. It was a very difficult letter to write, involving many questions and re- quiring great deliberation and discretion. She knew when people got on in the world— when they were rich a.nd successful—that their poor relations were generally avoided. When her husband had been ill and dying ib,s brother had taken no notice, although she 41a.1 informed him of the facts. He had never made any inquiries about Andre nor offered to lelp his widowed sister-in-law. M.idame de Bernier did' not feel that she nvoul 1 lose anything by writing, as there was mothhg to lose; and, on the other hand, she might be the gainer, so she wound herself up 4o ma,:e the venture. In a long and closely-written letter she told Andre's uncle that the lad had grown into a. fine, prtmising young man, and, looked upon sts the future representative of the de Bernier iamily, his relations might 'wish to hear about him. She had tried to do her duty by her husband's son. She had a mother's- feelings, but she was not like a. man, end she found it difficult to place him out well in the world, or do as much for his future as she desired; above all, she now feared he might be intending to make an imprudent marriage. 0 She ended the letter by saying that her .bject in writing wa,s to obtain her brother- In-law's advice, though, if it came to her port ears that she bad written to his uncle about him, she feared she might do more harm than good, as, like most young men, Andre had a fine spirit, and 'would probably recent interference. «?.. When this letter was posted Madame de Bernier had yet more sleepless nigh •. What if the postman brought ke reply when Andre was in the house? She grew so alarmed that she alzaoct hoped there would be no reply. If the letter arrived when Andre was out, all would be well. If Andre were infuriated by finding his uncle had been asked to give his advice as to how ho was to b& treated; if he found his mother had been 'writing about his affairs without his consent, no one but herself knew what the consequences might be. Madame ce. Bernier was hot and cold alternatively when she thought about it. She pictured Andre, for revenge, marrying Babette right away. CHAPTER X. ANDRE'S UNCLE COMES ON THE SCENE. The very disaster Madame de Bernier had so greatly feared, and prayed might be avoided, actually came to pass. One after- noon Madame was sitting by an open win- dow, looking into her pretty garden, bright with flowers, when she spied the postman coining to the gate. Andre 'was lying back in an armchair, pretending to read, but really half asleep. The click of the latch on the gate roused him. Madame de Bernier got up, and made a step forward, but Andre was too quick for her. He also sprang up, and before his mother had time to prevent it, a letter was in his hand. Her heart beat painfully, but she reoognised that it was more prudent now to face the wont-that not to do so wa.s useless. "We don't often get letters, do we, mother?' Andre said, cheerily; then added, with a. certain degree of excitement, as he examined the postmark, "I do believe it comes from my uncle at Lyons "Give it to me, Andre," his mother said, sharply, and, after a moment's hesitation, Andre handed the letter to her. Madame de Bernier's fingers trembled as she broke the seal; her eager eyes quicklj scanned the pages. Then the fines on her forehead were smoothed away, and even a smile relaxed her lips. The much-dreaded letter only contained a few lines. Monsieur de Bernier showed an amount of tact and discrimination that gave his sister-in-law an absolute and unswerving belief in him for all the future. He made no allusion whatever to the letter he had re- ceived, but wrote that, finding a business call would take him to Caen—which town being only a short distance from Villeroi— he proposed paying his sister-in-law a. visit of two or three days, when lie hoped to renew his acquaintance 'with her and make that ol his nephew. A postscript added that he would probably arrive by Diligence during the course of the following week, and would put up at the Pomme D'or. Andre had no suspicon of what his mother had done—or suffered. He was rather elated about the promised visit. He had always heard of his uncle as a man occupying a superior social position to what his father had done—of his being a moneyed man—and in a vague way he felt the visit might provo cf service to himself. When the time oame mentioned in his uncle's letter, he went every day at about four o'clock to the Pomme D'or, winch hotel was situated on the Place in the town, and there waited the arrival of the diligence. One afternoon his patience was rewarded. As the horses, with bells on their collars, clattered down the unevenly-paved street leading to the hotel, Andre saw a stout, Horrid man sitting just under the banquette. W hen the diligence stopped, this man Andre decided was his uncle, owing to a slight resemblance to a picture of his father. With a good deal of difficulty and some show of nervousness, the stranger descended from his very elevated position by means of a ladder, which was quickly fetched from the Pomme D'or, and placed against the side of the lumbering vehicle. When on terra firma he regained his self-possession. He looked steadily at Andre for a moment, then introduced himself, and, with a fair share of cordiality, held out his hand. Whilst the luggage was being collected and carried into the hotel, Monsieur de Bernier seemed lost in reverie. He stood quite still, looking up and down the street with that peculiar expression on his face people wear who return to the home of their childhood after long years of absence. For over twenty years he had been away from Villeroi—for nearly a quarter of a cen- tury the old tOvMU had only come back to him in his dreams; but there had been so few changes that every stone was familiar. Twenty years had changed nothing, yet a certain sense of disappointment came over him. How small it all seemed! How insignifi- cant He had fancied his birth-place had been so much bigger—so much more impor- tant, that the houses were better, the market- place larger, and the shops more important. Even the stillness of the place oppressed him. He did not know how much he had been growing away from Villeroi till he re- turned to it. With a sigh he placed his arm within Andre's, and they proceeded to the house. Madame de Bernier was prepared for the visit. She had been expecting it for nearly a 'week, so she was not taken at a disadvantage. Carefully and becomingly dressed, she met her visitor on the doorstep, and conducted him into her sitting-room with the mixture of ceremony combined with cor- diality she deemed requisite on the occasion. The room was small, and Monsieur de Bernier seemed to fill it, just as the disused loom filled the, room opposite. He was a man who could never be overlooked—tall, broad, self-satisfied, with that conscious air of prosperity about him that, above all things, denotes money. Ho saluted Madame de Bernier very politely, though with an air of patronage, drank the wine set before him, alluded feelingly to his dead brother, and never even by so muoh as a hint betrayed the confidence Madame had reposed in him. The conversation was quite general till Andre had left the house—sent away by his uncle, with the excuse of carry- ing a message to the Pomme D'or. Then Monsieur de Bernier asked to be put in pos- session of facts. Madame de Bernier, in spite of some natural trepidation, gradually unfolded her fears about her son, described Babette. her obscure origin, her want of dowry, and her own faihire to induce Andre either to get regular work or give up the idea of an im- prudent marriage. Once on the theme she wanned to it and dilated on it. Monsieur de Bernier listened! attentively, though he said very little but the following day he invited Andre to breakfast with him at the Pomme D'or. The vin ordinaire to which Andre was accustomed was replaced by a full-flavoured, rich burgandy, and several extra dishes were added to the usual menu. After breakfast was over they went outside the hotel to have their coffee and cigars, sitting on a bench, with a little table in front of them, under a spreading fig tree. Then Monsieur de Bernier drew from Andre very much the same story as he had heard from his mother. Andre, who had hitherto stood greatly in awe of his uncle, became quite expansive. He 'was taken out of him- self—partly by his uncle's genial influence, partly in consequence of the Burgundy. Be- lieving he had found a. partisan, he confided his mother's objections to his marriage with Babette. He spoke of Babette with rapture, and praised her in glowing term "An early marriage is by no means a bad thing for a young man," Monsieur de Bernier said, reflectively, leading back upon the bench and sending a curl of smoke up among the fig leaves. "It gives an object in life. It makes a maa more of a man and strong to labour." At the word "labour" Andre hung his head, and said nothing. "You do not care for weaving—I mean, band-weaving-ca.rried on in a. small way?" his uncle asked presently, watching his nephew narrowly. "Yau aspire to something better? Well, that's only natural. I did the same myself: but, before we go further or talk of anything else, you shall introduce me to your sweet- heart, Babette. After that we will see what can fee done to mend matters all round." CHAPTER XI. BABETTE INTRODUCED TO THE UNOLE. Andre was elated beyond measure. The coming of his uncle seemed as if it were a.bout to unlock all the doors which had hitherto been closed. That afternoon Monsieur de Bernier accompanied Andre in a. walk round the town, and, coming back to the Pomme D'or, asked Andre, as if he bad only suddenly recollected it, to fulfil his promise of taking him to see Babette. Andre was delighted, and they turned into the Rue L'horologe. As Monsieur de Bernier ascended, the narrow stairs leading to the old grandam's rooms they creaked so beneath his weight that she thought it was Father Am- brose, and, rising from her seat, crossed herself. Babette was very nervous at this unex- pected visit, hub looked so pretty with her down-cast eves and blushing cheeks that Monsieur do Bernier—practical man though he was—felt in his secret heart Andre might he forgiven fcr a; weakness that bid fair to spoil his chances of rising in the world. For a few minutes even he had half a mind to any himself on Babette's side, but he im- mediately put the temporary weakness aside. Ho said-a, few pleasant things about Villeroi and his satisfaction in re-visiting his boy- hood 8 home. He made no allusion to Andre's engagement—never touching on anvthing beyond generalities. He stood, refusing the chair Babette timidly offered. He looked large and important: the exer- tion of coming up the .steep stairs .had brought an extra, flush into his facc. His coat was thrown open, and his breath was short, as though the room stifled him. One thumb rested in the arm hole of his waistcoat, which was made of dark blue silk, powdered over with pink rosebuds. He made Babette feel how entirely he was out of keeping with his surrounding. but lie wa.s evidently ce- sirous of making himself agreeable. Andre stood by and said nothing. He wax 'watching his uncleexpression as a man does who is waiting for the verdict. Monsieur de Bernier shook hands with the old grand-am before he left, and then, with a few well-turned compliments to Babette, he descended the creaking stair.- and -grained the street. After he and Andre were gone Babette went to her grandmother, and knelt down by ,her side, laying her head upon her lap. The old woman rested her bony hand upon the soft brown hair of the girl, and stroked it, but neither -spoke. Andre's uncle had been most friendly— most courteous. Why was it he had left that sense of oppression on both ? In the evening Andre oame round to see Babette and to hear what she thought of his uncle. His unclE, had gone to dine with Mon- sieur Leon, at the Chateau. Monsieur Leon had a. brother—also a banket—living in Lyons, and this brother was Monsieur de Bernier's greatest friend. Monsieur Leon, since Gabrielle's short reign at the Chateau, rarely entertained anyone, and Andre could not help giving his information with a burst of pride. "Andre," Babette said softly, her lips trembling with emotion, "I am" afraid' you will be growing too grand for mc. I feel as if your uncle's visit to Villeroi would separate us." "Why have there absurd fancies?" Andre replied briskly. "You don't know my uncle. You do him injustice. He admires you, Babette. He told me you were charming. Besides that, he is going to help us. He has as good as promised to do so." "What is lie going to do?" "He will speak to my mother, and my mother, von may be sure, will listen to him, though sue might not to me. You must spin quickly, Babette; the house linen and the trousseau will soon be Iwanted." The tears which had begun to fill Babette's eves wero forced back. "The old oak press will be the beginning of our furnishing,she said, trying to smile" z' "We must never part with that, Andre." "I don't know," Andre replied, regarding it with a depreciating air. Then his eyes wandered round the room. "Perhaps wo may be able to afford something better," he added. Babette's heart sank, for she saw that already his uncle s views had infected him. They 11.4 so often talked of their future liorne, and hitherto their needs had seemed so simple—so easy of attainment. Just two rooms, a few bit-! of furniture, and love to make it seem a paradise. Babette was silent that evening. It was Andre who talked. His mind was full of vague expectancy. A crisis seemed approach- ing. He could not sit still, but walked rest- lessly up and down the dark, uneven floor. Presently, however, lie sat down by Ba- bette's side. The light faded, the moon- beams stole in, their voices sank into whispers, and, for a time at least, future troubles were forgotten, and love was lord of all. (To be continued).
A LONDONER WHO PAID NO . RATES…
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A LONDONER WHO PAID NO RATES FOR FOURTEEN YEARS. I i At last a really practical use has been found for a husband, ami ladies of advanced views who affect to despise matrimony ma.y now be brought to look upon the institution with more lenient eves. Mr. George Philip Lamb lives in Clerkenweil, and is married. He and his wife carry on some kind of a business, but their share in its management is strictly defined. The wife has the sole control of the shoo, and the husibancl g-oea to gaol in place of paving the rates. In this way considerable economies are <«ffected. the business flourishes, and domes- tic peace reigns in the household. For fourteen years Mr. Lamb has paid no rates, but always "took them out" in prison." The new use for a. husband was fully explained to the Clerken- weil magistrate by the rate-col lector, who asked for another condemnation against the man for B7, which was now due. Lamb, as usual, did not aippear, and sentence of &ix weeks' im-nri- sormeni was passed in his absence. New Women will (suggests the "Teletgraiph") be gra- tified to learn that there is at least one hus- band who understands his position in the social scheme.
COUNTESS RUSSELL.
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COUNTESS RUSSELL. The hearing of the appeal by the Countess Russell against the findings of the jury and the decision of Baron Pollock was opened on Friday (before Lords Justices Lindle.v, Lopes, and Rigby). The jury had frund that the ccuntess had been guilty of conduct amount- ing to legal cruelty, towards her husband, and Baron Pollock dismissed the countess's suit for restitution of conjugal rights.—Mr. Murphy submitted that there was no case of cruelty to go to a jury.
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JANE'S YOUNG MAN.
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JANE'S YOUNG MAN. As I sit writing in my study, I can hear our Jane bumping her way downstairs with a, brush and dustpan. She used in the old days to sing hymns, tunes, m- the British national song for the time being, to these instruments, but latterly she has been silent, and even careful, over her work. Time was when I prayed with fervour for such silence, and my wife with sighs for such oare, but now they have come we are not so glad as we might have anticipated we should be. Indeed, I would rejoice secretly, though it may be unmanly weakness to admit it, even to hear Jane sing "Daisy," or by the fracture of any plate but one of Mariana's best green ones, to learn that the period of brooding has come to an end. Yet how we longed to hear the last of Jane's young man before we heard the last of him Jane was always very free-with her conversation to my wife, and -discoursed admirably in the kitchen on a variety of topics—-so well, indeed, that I sometimes left my study door open—our house is a small one—to partake of it. But after Wil- liam came it was always Wiliam, nothing but William; William this and William that; and when we thought William was worked out and exhausted altogether, then William ail over again. The engagement lasted alto- gether three years; yet how she got intro- duced to William, and so became thus satu- rated with him, was always a secret. For my part, I believe it was the street corner where the Rev. Barnabus Baux used to hold an open-air service after even-song on Sun- days. Young Cupids were wont to flit like moths round the parafine flare of that centre of High Church hymn-singiug. I fancy she stood singing hymns there, out of memory and her imagination, instead of coming home to get supper, and Wiliam came up beside her "and said, "Hello!" "Hello, yourself," she said, and, etiquette being satisfied, they proceeded to talk together. As Mariana had a reprehensible way of letting her servants talk to her, she soon heard of him. "He is such a respectable young man, ma'am, said Jane, "you don't know." Ignoring the slur cast on her ac- quaintance, ray wife inquired further about this William. "He is second porter at Maynard's, the draper's," said Jane, "and gets eighteen shillings—nearly a pound—a week, m'm, and when the head porter leaves he will be head porter. His relatives are quite superior people, m'm. Not labouring people at all. His father was a green grosher, m'm, and had a chumour, and he was bankrup' twice. And one of his sisters is in a Home for the Dying. It will be a very good match for me, ma'am," said Jane, "me being an orphan girl." "Then you are engaged to him?" asked my wife. "Not engaged, ma'am, but he is saving money to buy a ring—hammynst ",Vei!, Jane, when you are properly en- gaged to him you may ask him round here on Sunday afternoons, and have tea with him in the kitchen." For my Mariana has a motherly conception of her duty towards her imid-strvants. And presently the amethys- tine ring was being worn about the house, even with ostentation, and Jane developed a new way of bringing in the joint, so that this gage was evident. The elder Miss Mait- land was aggrieved by it, and told rav wife that servants ought not to Wear rings. But my wife looked it up in "Inquire Within" and "Mrs. Mu-therly's Book of Household Management," and found no prohibition. So Jane remained with this happiness added to her love. The treasure of Jane's heart appeared to me to be what respectable people call a very deserving young man. "William, ma'am," said Jane one day, suddenly, with ill-con- cealed complacency, as she counted out the beer bottles, "William, ma'am, is a teeto- taler. Yes, ma'am; and he doesn't smoke. Smoking, ma'am," said Jane, who reads the heart, "do make such a dust about. Besides. the waste of money. However, I suppose it's necessary to some." Possibly it dawned on Jane that she was reflecting a little severely upon Mariana's comparative ill-fortune, and she added kindly, "I'm sure the master is a hangel when his pipe's alight, compared to other times." W iiliam was at first a rather shabby young man of the ever ready-made black coat school of costume. He had watery-grey eyes and a complexion appropriate to the brother of one in a home for the dying. Mariana did not fancy him very much, even at the beginning. Bis eminent respectability was vouched for by an alpaca uinbrella, from which he never allowed himself to be parted. "He goes to chapel, 1 said Jane. "His papa, maam——" "His what, Jane?" "His papa, m'm, was High Church but Mr. Maynard is a Plymouth Brother, and William thinks it policy, ma'am, to go there, too. Mr. Maynard comes and talks to him juite friendly w'en they ain't busy about using up all the ends. of string, and about his soul. He takes a lot of notice, do Mr. Maynard, of William, and the way lie saves string and his soul, ma'am." Presently we heard that the head porter at Maynard's had left, and that William was head porter at 23s. a week. "He's really kind of over the man who drives the van," said Jane; "and him married with three children. And she promised in the pride of her heart to make interest for us with Wiliiam to favour us so that we might get our parcels of drapery from Maynard's with exceptional promptitude. After this promotion a rapidly increasing prosperity came upon Jane's young man. One day we learned that Mr. Maynard had given William a book. 'Smiles's 'Elp Yourself,' it',g called," said Jane, "but it ain't comic. It tells you how to get on in the world, a.nd some what William read to me was lovely, ma'am." Mariana, told me of this laughing, and then she became suddenly grave. "Do you know, dear," she said, "Jane said one thing I do not like. She had been quiet for a moment, and then she suddenly remarked, 'William is a lot above me, ma'am, ain't he?'" "I don't see anything in that," I said, though later my eyes were to be opened. One Sunday afternoon about that time I was sitting at my writing desk—poss-ibly I was reading a good book—when a something went by the window. I heard a- .startled ex- clamation behind me, and saw Mariana with her hands clasped together and 1Lc eyes di- lated. "George." she said, in an awe-stricken whisper, "did you see?" Then we both spoke to one another at the same moment, slowly and solemnly "A silk hat! Yellow gloves i A new umbrella "It may be fancy, dear," said Mariana, "but his tie was very like yours. I believe Jane keeps him in ties. She told me a little while ago in a way that implitd volumes about the rest of your costume. 'The master do wear pretty ties, ma'am.' And he echoes all your novelties." The young couple passed our window again on their way to their customary walk. They were arm in arm. Jane looked exquisitely proud, happy, and uncomfortable, with new white cotton gloves, and William, in the silk hat, singularly genteel. That was the culmination of Jane's happi- ness. When she returned, "Mr. Maynard has been talking to William, ma'am," she said, "and he is to serve customers, just like the young shop gentlemen, during the next sale. And, if he gets on. he is to fie made an assistant, ma'am, at the first opportunity. He has got to be as gentlemanly as he can. ma'am, and if he ain't, ma'am, he says, it won't be for want of trying. Mr. Maynard has took a great fancy to him." "He is getting on, Jane," said my Avife. "Yes, ma'am," said Jane, thoughtfully, "he is getting on." And she sighed. That next Sunday, as I drank my tea, interrogated my wife, "How is this Sunday different from all other Sundays, little woman? What has happened? H&ve You altered the curtains or re-arranged the furni- ture, or where is the indefinable difference of it? Are you wearing your hair in a new way without warning me? I clearly perceive a change in my environment, and I cannot for the life of me say what it is." Then my Avife answered in her most tragic voice: "George," she said, "that—that Wll- liam has not come near the place to-day' And Jane is crying her heart out upstairs." Then followed a period of silence. Jane, as I have said, stopped singing about the house, and began to care for our brittle possessions. which struck my wife as being a. very bad sign, indeed. The next Sunday, and the next, Jane asked to go out, "to walk Avith William," and my wife, who neArer attempt to extort confidences, gave her permission and asked no questions. On each occasion Jane came back looking flushed and very de- termined. At last one day she became com- municative. "William is being led away," she remarked abruptly, with a catching breath, apropos of tablecloths. "Led away?" repeated my wife in puzzled wonderment. "YfS, m'm. She is a milliner, and she can play on the piano." "I thought," said my wife, "that. you went out with him on Sunday." "Not out with him, m'm; after him. walked along by the side of them, and told Z, her he was engaged to me." "Dear me, Jane, did you? What did they do ?" "Took no more notice of me than if I was dirt. So I told her she should suffel' for it." "It could not have been a very agreeable walk, Jane?" "Not for no parties, ma'am." '"1 wish," said Jane, "I could play the piano, ma am. J)ut, anyhow, I don't mean to let her get aAvay from me. She's older than him, and her hair ain't gold to the roots, ma'am." It was on the August- Bank Holiday that the crisis came. We do not clearly kno^' the details of the fray, but only such frag' ments as poor Jane let fall. She came home dusty, excited, and Avitli her heart hot withm her. The milliner's mother, the milliner, and William made a party to the Art Miisreui# at South Kensington, I think. Anyhow, Jane had calmly but firmly accosted them somewhere in the streets, and asserted her right to Avhat, in spite of the concensus of literature, she held to be her inalienable pro- perty. She did, I think, go so far as to lay hands on him. They dealt with her in ft crushingly superior way. They "called a cab." There was a "scene," W iliam being pulled away into the four-Avheeler by his future wife and mother-in-law from the reluc- tant hands of our discarded Jane. There were threats of giving her "in charge." '"My poor Jane said my wife, mincmg veal as though she Avas mincing William. "It's a shame of them. I would thing no more of him. He is not worthy of you. "No, m'm," said Jane. "He is weak." "Hut it's that woman has done it," said Jane. She was never known to bring herself to pronounce "that Avoman's" name or to admit her girlishness. "I can't think wlwt minds some women must have—to try and get a girl's young man away from her. there, it only hurts to talk about it," Jane. Thereafter our house rested from Williani- But there was something in the manner Of Jane's scrubbing the front doorstep or sAveep- ing out. the rooms, a certain viciousness. that I 'et persuaded me that the story had not yet ended. "Please, m'm, may I go and see a wedding to-morrow ?'' said Jane one day. My wife knew by instinct whose wedding- "Do you think it wise, -Tane?" she said. "I would like to see the last of him," said Jane. "My dear," mid my wife, fluttering into my room about twenty minutes after Jan" had started, "she has been to the boot 11010 and taken all the left-off boots and shoes and gone to the wedding with them in & bag. Surely, she cannot mean-" I said, "is developing elmrn cter. Let us hope for the best." 0 Jane came back with a pale, hard face- All the boots seemed to be still in her bag' at Avhicli my Avife heaved a premature sig of relief. We heard her go upstairs and 16 place the boots with considerable emphasis- "Quite a crowd at the Aveddiug, ma aiih she said presently, in a purely converse* T tioTial style, sitting in our little kitchen, an scrubbing the potatoes "and such a. loveJJ day for them. She proceeded to nuineTO°'j other details, clearly avoiding some carain* incident. 0 It was all extremely respectable and n'c'e' ma'am; but her father didn't Avear a blac> coat, and looked quite out of place, m-a'anx- Mr. Pidtiillgquirk-" "U ho ?" "Mr. Piddingquirk—William, that vva ma'am—-had white gloves and a coat hke 1: clergyman, and a lovely chrysanthemum. i looked so nice, ma'am. And there Avas rea, carpet doAvn, just like for gentlefolks. they say he gave the clerk four shilling^ ma'am. It Avas a real kerridge they not a fly. When they came out of there AV;;s rice throwing, and her two llt- sisters dropping dead flowers. And threw a. slipper, and then I threw a boot- "ThreAv a boot, Jane j. 1 it "Yes, mia'am. Aimed at her. But j, him. Yes, ma'am, hard. Gev him a eye, I should think. I only threAv that I hadn't the heart to try it again. A" 1 little boys cheered Aidien it hit him." „ Another pause. The potatoes were jel'^ scrubbed violently. "He always Avas » above me, you knoAV, ma'am. And he u led aii-ay." I .d. The potatoes were more than tinl-- Jane rose sharply with a sigh, and rappe the basin down 011 the table. "I don't care," she said. "I don't cal'ej^ rap. He Avill find out his mistake yet- seiwes me right. I was stuck up about "j I ought not to have looked so high. And am glad things are as things are." e My Avife was in the kitchen, seeing to higher cookery. After the confession on boot throwing, she must have watched Jane fuming Avith a certain dismay in brown eyes of hers. But I imagine th v softened again very quickly, and then ;lIW must have met them. "Oh, ma'am," said Jane, with an a.,totl ing change of note. "Think of all that have been. Oh, ma'am I could have so happy. I ought to have knoAvn, /"J didn't know. You're very kiu" let me talk to you, ma.'am 1 har-r-r-r-r t And I gather that Mariana so far herself as to let Jane sob out some of fulness of her heart on a synip shoulder. My Mariana, thank heaven. never properly grasped the importance1 "keeping up her position." And since fit of weeping, much of the accent of bIt anJ- ness has gone out of Jane's scrubbing brusliAvork. day Indeed, something passed the other eJ1 with the butcher boy, but that seal fg belongs to this story. However, JaIieror]c young still, and time and change are at '1 do with her. We all have our sorrows, blit of not believe very much in the permanency broken hearts.
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..tbot1b You often see persons wasting away WI to g-7 any apparent cause. The food they eat seeB1Sij]e to -waste a.nd their systems are utterly \incc0t-t's assimilate enough to keep up physical -vigour- ► ^jjig Emulsion overcomes this condition fi'f ;uid restores natural condition of