KISSIXCr THE CHILDREN. 1 in the morning Make the day seem bright I iilmg every corner Witii ;i (jKinin of light; And Avli.-u happiness lie mioses, Who, n.ioi'lio'.j' im; ulse .corning* Depart*. and p-, cs no ki -ses To t'.ie children in the morning. Many think it folly M;my sav it s bliss Very much depending Ó:1 whose 1 :pa vou kiss! But the truth ] am And I'd have you all take warning II you covet blessing, Kiss the children in the morning! Ki-ses hI the evening W hen ,J,t light.-) are low, Set two L':1rts a-llaming With affection's ;°" Ami the angclj swarm in nunibTS hound the pillow they are pressing, Wh ane wooed to peaceful slural era I LV a oi.e s fond carcising. Kis*es in the morning Are not out of place; Ki<sl:s in the evening Have a special gTace; And it seems to me that this is For indulgence lawlnl reason; Sweetest, tulips—I mean kisses! Ye are never out of season k -1 T
A WOMAN'S WILL; OH, I ENERGY N E W A R D E D. r i CHATTER XVI. | A TRAIWIl IN THE CAJir. [ I'alo RDs dmner-timo An astasia came down, looking "Wr.yp scared. Winifred and Ladv Whitflesra Sairll^ ne in the drawing-room, and Lady Whittlesea P ^tniCr.0Tne hero, mv love, and let me sec what is &THIR • <i IT, ■^astasia kept aloof. ehe viler? is nothing amiss, grandmamma," said "'(/J quivering, only I have the headache." tw y the Iv-auaehe! that is bad enough, yon « ..Bo a drivu with me. The air will do it good." eta" (), you, grandmamma, I would rather u at koine," said Anastasia, still keeping aloof.' ^ur th': way- my dear," t-aid the old lady, I *a&t f''°aaing dros came homo this morning. I the, K°e my little lady in it. Go and put it on, H a darling! chiÎJerYbody spoke to Anastasia as if she were a t looking very pale. Then suddenly glow camo over her f ad and neck. Ver' skl did a< :he old lad>' Wlbhed* 8he ji ,0 ^tch the wedding dress. hej. t8entiy she came dancing back, dressed up in it; sad *yes bright aid sparkling, and every trace of \y s gone. «< was astounded at the change. '< es3 me cried the old lady, highly delighted. deela6 my spectacles, Miss Godfrey. V eil, I .she lookt; like a fairy queen." littlf r1 is a mere child," thought Winifred; a p nnery puts everything out of her head." jv half an hour at least, was Anastasia turned and round, that the old lady might see every phase of her costume. *r0i n at length she was dismissed, she glided I uot,n. room, apparently as light hearied as it 8;n^lng_had occurred. Winifred ever, hoard her i" in the passage. Unfj evident she was reconciled to her destiny, jj ,at Tarry was forgotten. j)te Ul)ng the period that was to elapse between the I^a^nt time and the sixteenth of June, hut little and quietness was expected. eryhody seemed in a state of excitement about ■j gluing Hr1(jUl ^TIS the busy days Sir rhiiip came as usual, Ajj (M'a8 shut up in the drawing-room. with l11/'t J Usia. From onn of theso tete-a-tete* Winifred U r coming up-s^airs, flushed, and in tears. She int n,ot &itempt to detain her, and Anastasia wont ',NV;'• room, and shut the door, ^ed, passing by a moment after, heard very e fcohs. 1!111ilf dinner-time, however, Anast'isia re-appeared gon.e ng- und happy. All traces of agitation were ,otTh ^n(T"'dents were puzzling to Winifred; she did i elicit n°W w^1Ht to niakt* of them. Once she tried to j 80rnething from Anastasia that should prove f^Lailat°ry. They were walking togethor — a rai'c occurrcncc—when Winifred ventured to «(? ^°Pe you will be happy, 5Iiss Horace." Happy," 0h>veg » !ww° st°pped. Eer eye had shot forth a ray of and her cheek was suffused with rosy red. iVin-8i>oli:e. the words with a burst of eagerness, and r^r°d ;rnmcd'1!-te!y rejoined— hvis'^ Sir Philip will malie an excellent •^nVsf. went out. The rosy hue fadod. face looked cold and hard. in „ not s.iy another word. She walked home "^broken .Uence. (;:umot understand it," thought Winifred. fin] i 0 cud of a week the wedding trousseau was ttlo The boxes were packed, and every prepa- Ou made for whirling the bridal pair to Komc. f. s^all love to go to Iiome," Baid Anastasia, as W °°d hatching Winifred put the last dress into ^tmanteau. e> ton. and Sir Philip will be a very nice person .° ^^th," replied Winifred.. ^hp the hard, stony look on Anastasia's face. « ^ave a jerk as if to free herself from something. 8^'t you think so ?" persisted Winifred, -j., 'ng the rich iolds of the dress. H;r °b, 1 don't know! You tease me so about teaTfi ^:i' '•" and Anastasia burst into a llood of hI lonl Y dear, I am sure I have no wish to tease you. << y' Mentioned b.ate- ey- yes! You need not say it again. I itiVs/7t • Oh, what am T doing ? I am not at all I J to-day." you mean that you hate Sir Philip, you are considering what is to take »« ,^cxt Wednesday, Providence permitting." ye8 1 an(^ Anastasia's eye beamed forth fltjpJ1' and her whole being seemed under the in- strong oxcitement. I know; 1 to th*1 ^r.e<^ looked up in surprise. Anastasia glided k -r? window singing, her face averted. ^adiFgU ,,Dee^ not make me talk about it, Miss y°u T/i?* well, we will change the subject. I hope An ^Vr'te to me when you are in Home." «i Tastas :a did not answer. Anfi i snall Wi>nt L» know how you are getting on. ycin 8ure y°1J don't spoil this beautiful silk before come home. I am afraid it won't wear," Btood at the window. th,, tn > see, I have put j our drawing materials on the' °^' 1U8t where you can lay your hands upon ij^ vou happen to be in the humour for sketch- Jj^^nd the cainp stool is folded up here, Miss of ev a9iasia was standing at the window, oblivious A ^ything, flUsh linifred looked at her, she could see a sudden she + colour dveing her neck and arms. Presently f round, her eyes brilliant, and her whole o,aiUlr»ated. eaid-^ VaB daj"ting from the room, when Winifred T aItIt to show you where I have put the things, Ohen YOll will be in no confusion." the th" nOVer mind the things. Janet will see to y but Sir "} hilip does not mean to take « i n says he will not be plagued with her. hurry1??86 ^et me S°> Miss Godfrey. I am in 6uch a (< Well if ycm don't care." present" now; so good-bye for the gone^ ft ^nick bound, like a gazelle, she was << V "Wir,^0^' ,^o in the -^orld, did sk« Me out of the ^w? bought Winded. hapT)!1^6^ vra^ not given te ftar-gazing, but it *fti, „ that night she ■was Btanding at her window VerY had gone to bed. It was a soft, balmy night, nnd though there was Tio moon, vet tho raidanco of the summer sunset seemed yctlo linger in the sky Winifred could see plainly the outline of the tre and the dewy grass of the lawn, amid which a glowworm here and there he'd out her lamp. She was about, at length, to close her window and retire, when to her; extreme surprise and terror, a figure emerged from the shrubbery, and stiaJtluly advanced to the house. Wini.'rcd stood rooted, as it were, to the ground. For a moment she felt unable even to tivo an alarm. Then to her unutterable dismay, the creak of a Bash Gounded through the stillness of the night, and something white came iluttering down to the ground. C, It waS a paper from Anastasia's window, and the man was Harry The blood rushed violently to Winifred's temples. Her first impulse was to rouse Mrs. Horace but ere she had gained the threshold of the door she stopped. To give publicity to an incident like that would be the height of indiscretion. She hastened back to the window. The man was gone; all was silent and peaceful, as though no dis- turbing elements were at work. Then Winifred wrung her hands in despair. "It will ruin me," she thought; "my fatal con- cealment of the matter will bring down all their in- dignation. I shall be turned adrift, and go 1 know not whither. Put even that will be nothing, if this silly child can but be saved?" Full of anxi«ty, she stole along the passage to Anastasia's room but here she was frustrated the door wa.s locked. Still, beyond the Ullci-Jov.x which Winifred saw deFcending, no actual harm hnd been done. Anastasia had not eloped. "She will be thinking of that next," said Wini- fred, bitterly. Her anxiety was so great that she slole Iagaii-i to Anastasia's room, and endeavoured to enter, but she was a second tim" unsuccessful. Then she lay on tho bed, dressed as she was, resolving to keep awake and listen. Hue Winifred was utterly wearied out. In vain sho Etrcve to prevent h( s<'1 f from sleeping. In vain sherouswd herself every time she felt her eyelids closing. Close they would; for Nature was spent, Is and demanded repose. In spite of herself, she sbpt. CHAPTER XVII. GONE. THE BummCT morning dawned fair and bright upon the earth. The flowers opened their petals, the birds sang, and the dewdrops sparkled on the grass. Then up rose Winifred. It was early. No one was astir, or likely to be, at present. Yet Winifred got up in haste, the whole train of alarms and anxieties pressing on her mind. She turned at once to Annstasia's room. The door was unlocked. Well, so much the better; Anastasia wxa accessible. Sho was, perhaps, asleep; and if so, Winifred might, or might not, have the heart to wake her. She opened the door noiselessly and cautiously. The blind was down, and the curtains drawn close round the bed. She drew the or tain softly, expecting to see the fair head with its golden nimbus on the pillow. Her eyes wandered hither and thither, and a sudden paleness fell upon her countenance. 1 re- sently the cold drops of agony burst out upon her forehead. „ Anastasia was gone—actually gone! Sne liew to the window. It was unfastened. Oh, unexampled folly-these children had run away together! I or a moment Winifred stood pressing her hand to her forehead, a hundred recollections crowding into her brain. She saw through the whole web of treachery from beginning to-end. Hut there, was no time to lose—not a single moment. While she stood, a prey to bitter and un- availing regrets, Anastasia and Barry were ileeing, who could tell whither ? Mrs. Horace must bo told the net of miserable folly which had taken place that night. Presence of mind was an attribute of V mifreds. Shocked and horrified beyond measure, she had yet the power to consider what was best to be done. The most immediate thing was to arouse Ars. Horace. Sho waived straight into the room where that magnificent lady was asleep, and woke her without the least ceremony. Mrs. Horace, startled and alarmed, could not, all at once, be made to understand. When the fact did, at length, dawn upon her, she went into violent hysterics, and loused the whole house by her shrieks. „ Winifred's plan was to pursue the fugitives imme- diately, without making any great sensation; and that the mother should use her authority in bringing back her child. Hut this temperate scheme was frustrated ht the onset. In a few minutes the whole household were acquainted with the disastrous cir- cumstance of their young mistress's flight. Winifred—calm amid the tempest of confusion raised by the intelligence—was the only person capable of acting. She at once assumed an air of authority, which Mrs. Horace herself did not attempt to dispute. „ She desired Janet to dress Mrs. Horace, and pre- pare her for a iournev to London. She ordered the carriage to the door; and then, hastily attiring herself for walking, she new to the railway-station in the wild hope that the fugitives might not have started. Alas! she was too late.. A voung lady and a young gentleman, answering to her description, went by the up train to London half an hour ago. QT,™ The next train started m an hour s time. i.how- berry was barely twenty miles from London. It was only five o'clock. It was possible they might yet be saved. Winifred telegraphed at once to have the youn0 people detained on their arrival. The fright and agony of the hapless lovers did occur to her, but it moved her not an atom. Fool! fool! she muttered. "At sixteen to undo herself for life." T Winifred then walked quickly back to Lady Whittlesea"s house. Here the confusion and alarm had reached its height. I.ady Whittlesea was clash- ing her bell incessantly. Servants were running to S fro, not knowing who to obey. Mrs. Horace WRB sitting helplessly on the floor m the breakfast- room, dishevelled and distraught, like an uncrowned qUWinifred first of all, f.et about pacifying the old lad, fho tho ckmour of th, bell by gong tocher and beseeching her to be quiet. Then, S'.feVworia, she told fcer the'hopes she entertained of rescui manner Lady AVhittloseu, calmod by ar(. grew reasonable and traceable, k he the story of 'the flight imperfectly, and wth exag- gerations. Now she asked, anxiously- ,f. 91 "And what are you going to do next. Jon I am going to follow the poor child to London, if Mrs. Horace will accompany me, and bring her safe back agajn to her home." Tilesa vou, Miss Godfrey, you area host in jour self! cried tho old lady, holding out her hand, ana with tears in her eyes.. Leaving her j atroness tolerably composed, Wini- fred now hastened to Mrs. Horace. She found her still wringing her hands, and rock- ing herself backwards and forwards, while she uttered the most bitter invectives a gainst Harry, and denounced him as a traitor and a villain Which, indeed. he is," said Witifred, quickly; « but we do not intend that he should marry our dear H oraco." As she spoke, she busied herself in making a cup °f ™0B" ahrieljod. MM. Horace, I daresay they are married now," "°Ztt4T.i'.kind." paid Winifred. E^t i, the tanoScJ hour, and it is not nrnch paat five. ITu carriage has taken place yet. "But we know where they are, and we ca^i't began Mrs. Iiurae°; with a in • Oh, yes, I have found out where they are and as soon aa you have drank this cup of coilee,w -a Bet off after them.' Where are th,?v ?" cried Mrs. Horace, eager y. On the way to London. I have ordered the car- riage to take us to tho station in time for the next train. „ "And do you think there is any nope. claimed Mrs. Horace, starting up with r«TiTea Yes every hope in the world. Even if th«y get to London first-which, of course, they will do-they will be detained. I have telegraphed." "Miss Godfrey, we are greatly indebted to you, said Mrs. Horace, in a transport of gratitude. Winifred made no reply. She poured out the coffee, and began to cut some slices of ham." She had ordered breakfast before she went to the station. I cannot eat anything." cried Mrs. Horace, it is impossible. Had we not better start ?" „ We should only have to wait at the station, replied Winifred, cpolly; "besides, I want my breakfast. Mrs. Horace sat down again. How calm you are," Miss GodfreyBut then my poor child is nothing to yon Nothmg and Winifred laid down her knife and fork, and her eyes gave a sudden flash. I would give my life for her," added she with energy. "I am sure you are very good," replied Mrs. Horace, bursting into tears. It is necessary to be calm," continued Winifred, resuming her composure of manner, because nothing can be done or thought of in a state ot hurry and confusion. You see that, if we had been running hither and thither, without any definite purpose, Miss Horace might have been lost." I Oh, yes; and, Miss Godfrey, where do you think they had planned to -to-to Mi*. Horace started with horror at the sound of the words It is so very dreadful! sobbed she. I do not think they will bo allowed to leave the station." replied Winifred, quietly. "Remember I have telegraphed." r (T. be continued.) I
THE SILENT HEART. MRS. HAEIXKY was seated in a small, rather cheerless sitting-room, engaged in the homely occupation of stocit ing-darning, while opposite to her Carrie, her only ehi c, with folded has&, looked out of the window. There had been a tall figure passing down the path that led to the little gate. but, long before, that was out of sight. Still Carrie sat there, her dark, mournful eyes looking out upon the dusty road, her beautiful mouth folded in lines of pathos, touching in so young a face. Busily the shining needle went in and out of the stock- ings, and sometimes the mother cast a wistful glance at the lovely face opposite to her, as if longing to comfort or advise. It was strangely pathetic to her to see the little white hands, that were always so busy, lying idle in the forenoon, the cheerful face so absorbed and sad. At last Carrie broke the long, painful silence. "Mother." she said, "is it my duty to marry John Everhard '« Your duty, Carrie ? nave you no warmer word lo use when you talk of marrying a man to whom we owe so great, a debt of gratitude? No, mother. I am grateful to him, but love him." love him." Yet he loves you devotedly." "If I could only believe that!" Carrie sighed. If I were only sure lie loved me "You doubt that ?" Mrs. Hartley spoke in a tone of the utmost amazement, while her bus- hands fell idly before her. "You doubt John Everhard's love?' Mother, if he really loved me, surely my heart would answer something to his words. But when he is most eloquent I shrink from him the most. I ask myself why he should feign a love for »»<?, who can give him nothing— not even love, in return, and find no answer. And yet I know, by every throb of my own heart, John Everhard does not love me." You are too romantic, Carrie. Think for a moment- We were miserably poor, living in an attic, sewing upon shop-work for th» barest neceisaries of life, when accident threw you in John Everhard's way." Was it accident ? I have often thought it was strange that he should have stood so very near when I was insulted for the only time in the street. It has often troubled me that I thought I detected a glance pass between the man who was rude to me and my gallant deliverer. It was rather dramatic, mother, that sudden rush to protect me." But think, Carrie, of the great delicacy exhibited in his kindness since that time. His introduction to me was certainly a gentlemanly method of obtaining per- mission to call. Then his procuring this cottage for us upon such easy terms, and the work we are doing, so pleasant and yet so well paid. And surely, Carrie, if we were still as rich as we were when your dear father died, you could not have been wooed with more respect than John Everhard constantly shows you." I know all you would urge, mother, and yet the fact remains; he does not love me." He is a man who might marry well in his own circle, Carrie. His father is a leading lawyer, and your poor uncle had a great respect for him." Uncle Herbert, mother ?" Yes, dear, who died iu California last year. Poor fellow, after slaving there for nearly twenty years, he must have died poor." Wbv ?" "I am his only living relative, dear, excepting yoar- Eslf, and, if he has left any property, we should have heard of it." Yes, I have heard you say so. I wish he had left you a little money. Ever so little would enable us to throw otf this bitter load of obligation. It crushes me I had rather be back in our attic, and know we were inde- pendent. Mother! mother! I cannot marry John Everhard!" It was a despairing cry, coming from a tortured heart. The young girl had been so gradually hedged in by the kindness of her suitor, that she had scarcely measured her load of obligation until she was asked to give her life in payment, The keenest pain was in her own apparent ingratitude and hardness of heart. She asked herself again and again, what she could desire in a lover and husband that John Everharrl did not offer her. He was young, not 26 fine-looking, intelligent, well educated. His family occupied a good social position, and he was in a lucra- tive business, Yet he wooed her, a penniless girl, giving her no love. Could she marry him, and live year after year, with no love for her husband, no love from him ? Could she stand before the altar, and pledge herself to honour and obey a man for whom she felt only a gratitude which tantalised her by puzzling suspicion? As if in answer to her thought, her mother said Yet you have all to gain by such a marriage, Carrie; nothing to lose I should loso my self-respect, my happiness for life. No mother, though I may seem ungrateful, I'll not marry where there is no love." Mrs Hartley did not urge the suitors cause, although deeply disappointed at her daughter's decision. She had married for love herself, though her husband had been a rich man, and she knew only too well how much warm, true love is needed to make married life happy. To advise Carrie to marry John Everhard after her reasons for refusing were so clearly stated, would have been to do violence to all her own convictions. But John Everhard did not patientlybear the rejection of the beautiful girl he had persistently wooed for many long months. He had, as Carrie suspected, planned the apparently chance encounter which first brought him to the notice and grateful acknowledgments of the widow and her daughter. He had spent valuable time and no small amount of money in following up this introduction, and having, as he believed, won Carrie's affection, had asked her to be his wife. And Carrie, with only the pure instincts of her own maiden heart to guide her, had refused bis offer. With his heart full of bitter revenge, he tried to win by cruelty what he had failed to gain by kindness. Before a week passed he urged his suit with Mrs. Hartley. With affectionate words she told him of her own regret and Carrie's decision, but absolutely refused to use her own influence te alter it. Only a few days were allowed for reflection before the landlord of the little cottage raised the rent to such an exorbitant price that only immediate removal remained for the Hartleys. The easy, lucrative work was taken awav at an hour's notice, and when Carrie went to the warehouse for which she had formerly worked, employ- ment was denied her there. Winter was coming on, and the narrow attic room seemed even more dreary than before, in contrast to their cosy cottage. Still mother and daughter spoke no word of regret for the refusal that was costing them so dear. Carrie in her heart was thankful that some of the load of grati. tude was excelled by this sudden, rade persecution. and Mrs. I1;1rtlev SP°V* c",c" in terms that quieted p,iv pain her daughter might have felt on her aceount. Carrie," she said, "I shudder to think of your in the power of a man who could to wreak hi. avenge upon two helpless women. Thank Gou, ir^ child, your heart guided you truly. No man wfis ever loved you could s suddenly become yeur enemy. It was in January-- a night whsn rain was falling fa»t upon half-melted snew, that Carrie came home after a day of frui^leei solrok for werk. Where is your shawl ?Mrs. Hartley «ai<j, u girl drew, shivering, te t'ne tiDy handful ef fire. I sold it. We must eat or die," was the quiet reply. "I bought bread, milk, ind potatoes, and there will be < enough to buy these for a few days more. Then work may coHte." As she spoke there was a knock at the door, and John Everhard came in. His handsome-attire, his courteous address, were in strong contrast to the wretched room and the chilling reception that met him. Still. with quiet tact, he refused to recognise the coldness, and gradually led the conversation from commen-place to personal topics. Not abruptly, but by graceful transitions he led the way to his own'hope that Carrie might think more kindly of the offer refused before. He spoke eloquently of his love for her, delicately urged his respect and affection for her mother, and expressed the most profound regret that he had ever allowed his anger at his first refusal to iuuuenct him, as it had done, to acts of enmity. There was no lack of words to prove his sincere affection, as he poured them into tho ear of the shabby, almost despairing girl, and Carrie, lis- tening for some answer from her own heart, foand none. Not one throb there bore witness to the truth of the vehement asssertions. Sadly, but resolutely, she said, as she had said before "1 cannot marry you, Mr. Eveihard. I do not love you, and you de not love me." I do not love you cried her suitor. "Carrie, can you be s« blind, so deaf to love. as to doubt mine? Be my wife, and every floor of my life shall prove my love for you." 1 cannot be your wife I" Do you love another, Carrie? I do not admit vour rigkt to' ask that question, but I will answer you. 1 do not love another "Then love will come. I can wait, years if it must be." But ha pleaded in vain. Carrie flrmly rzlused to become an unloved, unloving wife. It wasdate when the disappointed suitor took his leave, and Carrie crept into her mother's arms. Forgive me, that I deny you too the comforts of a home," she sobbed. Child, child," her mother said, I want no home built upon the ruins of your happinese. Have you for- gotten to-morrow is your birthday, Carria? You are twenty-one." And when she arrived at woman's estate, It was all the estate she had." quoted Carrie, bitterly. There was little sftep in the cheerless attic but the morning found the Hartleys up early, and Carrie pre- paring to go out in search of work. A bright sunlight made the prospect somewhat more cheerful than it had been the previous day, and Carrie was speaking cheerily, when the postman's voice ran along the narrow hallway. Hartley An answer to our advertisement!" cried Carrie, flying down for the letter and up again. 11 A great legal envelope, marked' Everhard and Hill, she said. Can John sue me for breach of promise, mother ?" There was a pause while Carrie opened the letter. Then Mrs. Hartley gave a startled cry at the deathly pallor of the face lifted to meet her eyes. Mother," Carrie said, in a hushed voice, can you bear a great shock ?" Yes, dear. All we love are dead, and we have each other." "Ashockof joy, mother! Rather a novel sensation for you and me. This letter tells me my Uncle Herbert left a will Yes, Carrie speak quickly, child." In care of Everhard and Hill, to be opened upon my twenty-first birthday. John Everhard's father, mother, has had this will since Uncle Herbert died." I begin to understand, dear. You are heiress To £ 100,000!" There was a long, long silence, and Mrs. Hartley gently untied Carrie's shabby bonnet. After a moment of struggle for composure, Carrie cried hysterically "Make a fire ef the chairs and table, mother, while I spend the contents of my purse in a beefsteak. I have just discovered that I am awfully hungry." But there was no more hunger or cold for the heiress of her mother. It was three years later when Carrie was sought again for a wife by one who loved her and won the treasure of her love and the warm, true heart, under the appeal of sincere devotion, no longer held the silence that had once saved the lovely girl from becoming the unloved, unloving wife of an unscrupulous fortune- hunter.
MISCELLANEOUS EXTRACTS. (GERMAN BAUIES.—The German babv is a quaint and interesting little morsel of humanity, and is very well worthy of a few words of description. This is a recognised fact in its own country, where it figures largely in all picture-books, is exhibited in the bakers' shop windows at Easter-time in the form of cakes, with two great currants for its eyes, and dangles in sugar from at least one branch of every Christmas tree, besides being modelled and remodelled for a variety of other purposes too numerous to mention. It is wrapped up in a long, narrow pillow, which is turned up at the little feet, and tucked under the dimpled chin. Three bands of bright blue ribbon are passed round this pillow in different places, and Led in large bows in front. In this chrysalis state nothing of the baby is visible but the small, round face, and that is encircled and partly hidden by a cap. This mode of swaddling has its advantages. Baby's limbs are in no danger of being broken by an accidental fall; it cannot scratch its little face to pieces with its sharp, rosy nails, after the manner of English babies; and it can be placed on a table, a shelf, or the counter of a shop, like a plate of soup, or a loaf of bread, or a parcel of goods, or anything else inanimate. The other side of the question is this. Would not the baby prefer to kick its legs about in freedom, and stretch its arms and limbs, and would not they become all the stronger for the exercise? Besides this, there is such a thing as placing too great confidence in baby's complete safety when strapped up in its cushion. A party of peasants had once to carry their child some distance before they came to the church in which it was to be christened. It was winter and the snow lay thick on the ground. After the christening ceremony, the parents, the sponsors, and the friends took some refreshments at a neighbouring inn, to fortify themselves for the return journey. They then set out in great good humour, and reached home safely with the pillow, but there was no baby in it. Perhaps they had by mistake held the pillow upside, down perhaps the blue bows had become loose; Jlet this be as it may, the baby bad slipped out, and was found lying on the snow, half-way between the church and the village. Fortunately, he was a sturdy young peasant-child, and escaped with a co'd in his head, which the fond parents endeavoured to cure on teaching home by popping him, pillow and all, into the oven. that was still warm from the baking of the chris- teuing-cake.-Little Folks. A YORKSHrnR SAYING; THE SADDLKB OF BAWTRT.—A Bawtry saddier was accused of a crime he had not committed, tried, and sentenced to death. On the way to the gallows a glass of ale was offered to the supposed culprit, in order that he might not lose heart; but he had already done so to such an extent that, with averted head and downcast eyes, he declined the proffered draught. This little incident necessarily delayed the procession and had the ale been drunk—to say nothing of the saddler-of course more time would have been consumed. All had been over about five minutes, when a breathless messenger rode up with a reprieve, juot too btetobeof service; whence arose the saying that the ■addler of Bawtry was hanged for leaving his ale.—Notes and Queries. WYCLTFFE'S BIRTHTLACE.—The exact spot of the birthplace is now unknown, but is said to have been in the hamlet of Spreiswall, close to the River Tees, about half a mile from the present village of Wycliffe. Spresswall itself and its ancient chapel, though both were in existence in the 18th century, have passed away, and the Bite is now ploughed land. But the parish church of Wycliffe, in which the reformer was probably baptised, yet remains and the aspect of the country has been little changed. His writings contain c many allusions to the scenery, rnà the historic associa- tions of that region, the natural features of which must have influenced the formation of his character, which had mnoh of the sturdiness and strength of the men of these northern Yorkshire dales. The Wycliffe family were lords of the manor of Wycliffe, and patrons of the rectory, from the time of the Conquest. Representatives of the family continued to occupy the manor house, still seen on the height above the parish church, till the beginning of the 17th century, when the estate was carried by marriage to the Tonstall faml y. The Wycliffes con- tinecd in the communion of the iiomish Church. Even after the Reformation they, together with half the people^of the village, regained Romanists, afld their con- duct bears fruit to the present day. The eld parish church belongs to the but the Roman Catholic inhabitants worship in a chapel of their m adjoining the manor house. Little is known of John de Wyeliffe's early life. The date «f his hirtb 4* variously given, but be probably went t* Oxford about l?S5t entering as a student in the college then reeently founded by John Balliol, great-grandsen of the builder of thi > imposing edtfioe from which the town of Barnard's Cathelic inhabitants wership in a chapel of their m adjoining the manor house. Little is knewn of John de Wyeliffe's early life. The date «f his hirtb 4* variously given, but be probably went t* Oxford about l?S5t entering as a student in the cellege then reeently founded by John Balliol, great-grandsen of the builder of thi > imposing edtfioe from which the town of Barnard** Castle derived both its name and its existence,—Sunday at Home. A SrANisH PAINTER.—Since long the MadralO have been representative Spanish painters. Facile draughtsmen, dexterous and showy colonrists, with a vein of pleasant, rather trivial invention, they produce work that is fashionable and even popular, and that is sometimes almost as good. The world they paint is a world of carnival and opera: a world al) light loves, and flying follies, and Cynthias of a minute, and such passion as abides in a liable of ch.impagne a world made uP, of reminiscences of Watteau, and suggestions from Thl a- dore de Banville, and inspirations from the Op ra- Comique, and imaginings from Wardour-stre^t and Quartier Er da. Theirs are the virtuosi in powder and silk breeches who play quartetts in cham hers bright with brie a brae and pleasing textures 'ih^irs the ladies in masks and blue satin domu oes who sit on lonely Ottomans, to look rhic and have their portraits taken theirs the Columbines who listen, in green arbours and rosy bowers, to Harlequins making love over grapes and Venice glass theirs the brisk and gallant barbers who strum eternally upon guitars among brass basins and soapsuds and curling-irons and towel- lings neatly painted theirs the students in picturesque black, and the bull-fi jhters in picturesque pink and blue, and the Don Juans in picturesque white and scarlet; theirs the serenades and dicings and dances, and cheap and particiileured pleasures generally. You may come upon their work in any picture-shop you care to explore in Paris or Loudon, in Rome or Kew York or Madrid— in fact, wherever picture-shops exist and picture-dealers ply their honourable and far from lucrative calling. It is odds that seeing them once you will think of them well and cheerfully bu.t that you will like them less the more you see of them and that you will end by wishing the Madrazos and their innumerable following -for the original Madrazo, as Hugo says of Judge Jeffreys, a fait des petits had never been born. For at best they are but confectionary of art—the chocolate creams of painting. And of these pretty kickshaws the stomach does not exist that is not soon disgusted—disgusted even at the adoration of beef and pudding; of Hogarthian moralities, and solid family portraits, and the heroics of Maclise and flaydon.- Tiet Magazine of Art. A TRUE WOMAN'S IDEAL OF LIFE.—So many talents are wasted, so many enthusiams turned to smoke, so many lives spilt for want of a little patience and en- durance, for want of understanding and laying to heart that it is not the greatness or littleness of the duty nearest hand, but the spirit in which one does it, that makes one's doing noble or mean. Shall I tell you how it came into my head ? Perhaps it may be of comfort to you in similar moments of fatigue and disgust. I had gone with my husband to live on a little estate of peat bog. It was sixteen miles distant on every side from all the conveniences of life, shops, and even post-oiiice. Further, we were very poor; and further and worst, being an only child and brought up to "great pios- pects," I was sublimely ignorant of every branch of useful knowledge, though a capital Latin scholar and very fair mathematician. It behoved me, in these astonishing circumstances, to learn to sew. Also, it behoved me to learn to ct okJ no capable servant choosing to live at such an out-of-the-way place, and my husband having bad digestion, which complicated niv difficulties dreadfully. So I sent for Cobbett's Cottage Economy," and fell to work at a loaf of bread. But knowing nothing of the process of fermentation, or the heat of ovens, it came to pass that my loaf got put into the oven at the time myself ought to have been put into bed and I re- mained the only person not asleep in a house in tho middle of a desert. One o'clock struck, and then two, and then three, and still I was sitting there in an im- mense solitude, my whole body aching with weariness, my heart with a sense of forlornuess and degradation. That I, who bad been so petted at home, whose comfort had been studied by everybody in the house, who had never been required to do anything but cultivate my mind, should have to pass all those hours of the night in watching a loaf of bread—which mightn't turn out bread after all Such thoughts maddened me, till I laid down my head on the table and sobbed aloud. It was then that somehow the idea of Benvenuto Cellini sitting up all night watching his Perseus in the furnace came into my head, and suddenly I asked myself: "After all, in the sight of the Upper Powers, what is the mighty difference between a statue of Perseus and a loaf of bread, so that each be the thing one's hand has found to do?" The man's determined will, his energy, his patience, bis resource, were the really admirable things, of which his statue of Perseus was the chance expression. If he had been a woman at Craigenputtock, with a dyspeptic husband, sixteen miles from a baker, and he a bad one, all the same qualities would have come out as fitly in a good loaf of bread. I cannot express what consolation this germ of an idea spread over my uncongenial life during the years we lived at that savage place.-J anc Welsh Carh/le. CAREYLE'S HOME AT CRAIGENPUTTOCK.— Fifty years bave come and gone since this londy moor- land farmhouse was tenanted by Thomas Carlyle and his newly-wedded wife, Jane Welsh. Very little changed is anything outward quiet Craigenputtock was then, quiet it is still. You hear the wind moaning among the trees, the haves falling to the ground, a distant murmur of water, the bleat of some sheep on the up- lands. These are the sounds by night and by day all else is silent. Very simply were the curious im- pertinent once baffled, but now the doors stands open, and, though few indeed venture near, a visitors' book lies on the lobby table, where those who make a pilgrimage to the spot can register their names. Craigenputtock. meaning the wooded bill of the put- tock, a kind of hawk, is a small estate on the borders of Dumfriesshire and Calloway, some 1600 acres in extent, mostly moorland, and lying 700ft. above sea level. Its precise situation is on the valley, running from the parish of Dunscore in Glencairn to the river U-rr-floiving from the adjacent loch of the same name. Fully seventeen miles from Dumfries, the nearest railway station (save Auldgirth, which may be somewhat less), it will be seen to be sufficiently inaccessible. The nearest village, Corsock, is between three and four miles away. The house itself is not beautiful, not even what may be called picturesque. Where it stands, neverthe- less, it looks far from amiss, seems not out of keep- ing with its barren surroundings. Still guarded by fine old trees and tianked by the orange and purple moors and Galloway hills, there is about it a quiet dignity which does not jar with its associations. The front of the honse, facing the north, com- mands no view whatever, and looks into a grassy bank, rising immediately towards a now spare plan- tation. To the back, where there might have been preserved a wide panorama of moorland and hills, *11 outlook is forbidden by the farm buildings, girdled again by trees. Indeed, so surrounded is the house, and so sheltered is its little hollow, that no sign of a habitation is visible from any distance, save from the moor above, where one may indeed see the roof and a window or more. On entering we find ourselves in a somewhat spacious lobby, hardly deserving the name of hall. To the right is the former drawing-room, and entering from it is the old study, a very tiny room which looks into the yard. On the left of the lobby is an apart- ment used by the Girlvles as the dining-room, and behind it is a bedroom. The kitchen, a large, cheerful place, now the pleasantest room in the house, is built out at the back. Ascending a narrow stone stair from the hall, we find ourseh-es on a small landing, whence four doors open into four several bedrooms, which complete, the modest accommodation of Craigenputtock.—Good Words. STORIES OF ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE.—A cor- respondent supplies up with the following instances of intelligence In the lower animals Looking out of my window one spring morning, my attention was drawn to a little finch perched on a low bush near. The bush is a prickly shrub with many bits of cotton and woollen lint upon it, the remnants of clothes laid out from time to < time to dry. The finch had selected one of these bits of lint as evidently suitable for nest-building, and was pul- ling at it with all itsHttiemight. The thorns and prickles, however, held it fast, and the effort was in'vain. Seizing it fast again wi'h its beak, it began to sway it from side to side, and then. still holding it, threw itself off the branch, giving a great jerk to the lint thread, and at the same time beat the air with its wings to increase the force of its persuasion. The threads proved too Strong, and it flew away after a little time of this violent effort with a very small reward for its industry and ingenuity. What a number of j natural laws this little creature showed a knowledge of and a power of putting in use There was strength of fitue, muscular energy, weight of precipitated bodies, and resistance of the air all exhibited at the same moment, as well as the gripping power of the beak. I have an old terrier dog very fond of lying on a skin rug btfore the parlour fire. His place is, however, in the kitchen, and thither he is unceremoniously dismissed. This he does not like, and has found out a wav of open- ing the parlour door for himself. The spring is worn, and suffers the catch to open if a stTong push is applied. The flog has found this out, and takeR his own wav of getting the door open. First he tried pushing, and, finding this insufficient, he does just what a man would do. He draws hack some little distance, and, with a shert rnn tbrews the weight of his body against the door; which rarely fails to yieW to him. Partly open, he finds a boekcase in the way, and not apparently wishing te open the door to# wide, he squeezes close to the wall, pushes back the doer with his paw, and BO clears the i corner of hit bookcase.
LADIES' COLUMN. DRESS AND FASHION. A recent issue of Le Moniteur lie la A/ode adverting to prevailing fashions in Paris. has the following: Bad weather is always inimical to la mode, and it is jierhaps partly for this reason that almost the only dresses one sees are worn either at small soirftes or on Tuesdays at the ThNltre Fran^-ais. Lace bo'!it'i; worn with a low-ctrt corselet are very much in vogue on these cessions the style is more or less successful, but it may be pronounced to be at its best in a dress of red faille completely veiled with Florence lace. The faille corsage is cut very low and without sleeves, the shoulders an,l arm appearing through the meshes of tile fine lace. Red ribboa velvet is used to tie up the bouquets of scarlet poppies with which the dress is ornamented on the left hip, on the shoulder, and on the pouf. A band of red velvet round the neck is fastened with a diamond buckle, and a wider baud at the waist is clasped with a similar br:t larger ornament. This same dress is itiso made with black lace over a coloured or black foundation. Laceisufedin immense quantities, as flounces, or scarves draped round the dress, and for covering bodices; great skill is needed to do this gracefully if the lace is too costly to be cut. The lace is either left in its original condition or studded with jet embroidery, which enriches it, but at the same time makes it much heavier. Chenille fringes and maearous are also occasionally mixed with it and have a very rich and refined effect. Black dresses naturally prevail at this season, and many of them are as charming as they are simple. One for evening wear is of satin merveilleux with a tablier of cheni11 vered tulle, combined with the flat moon-shaped glittering pendants that have been so much worn of late, and which are so light. The tablier is bordered on each side by panels of satin, divided inbe two parts, gauged at the ends and meeting under a double tuched heading. At the edge of the skirt are narrow flounces and bouillonnfa, and at the back a graceful puff. The corsage is made with a long point and Moliere waist- coat of the spangled tulle, and the short sleeves are also of tulle, Fur caps have been much adopted in Paris, but long-haired furs are avoided, and sealskin, or its plusb imitation, is almost the only kind of fur used. The next vetcment in favour is the long redingote of Cellini velvet with large velvet flowers on a satin or ottoman ground, lined with plush or antique silk. Then there are the ever-popular visites made from Indian shawls, which look especially well with black dresses. Long pelisses and visites of embossed velvet will be worn throughout the month of March, but the redingotes will certainly supersede these when the weather begins to brighten. With cloth redingotes ladies have adopted movable collars and part-ments; the collars are rounded and cio-sed in front, and rre made in beaver to wear with grey or fawn cloth, and in fox or lynx for redingotes of black cloth. Young ladies espe- cially delight in these fur adjuncts to a cloth pak-tot. Evening toilettes are frequently so arranged that they can also be worn by day for ceremonious calls or afternoon" at homes." A becoming toilette of this class has the skirt of black poult de soie bordered with two lace flounces: the tablier is of silk gauze, draped and edged with lace, on either side of it being long pleated robings of poult de soie, ending at the points under bows of ribbon velvet. The long plain train is of Cellini velvet lined with poult de soi; the corsage is pointed, with a plastron of lace and short sleeves. This model with a high bodice would be admirable for afternoon receptions or as a visiting toilette for a matron. It is also an admirable model for a bridal toilette the tablier of satin or lace, the panels of satin, with bouquets of orange blossom at the points, the train and high bodice of embossed velvet or white plush- the very acme of elegance for bridal toilettes. In place of the plastron of lace there should be one of orange bloisollis, and a bouquet to correspond on the left hip. A style of costume in great favour at present is the skirt of plain velvet with a tunic and corsage of cashmere, and cape of plu h lined and coloured satin, and fastened with brandenbourgs or metal chsp", The mode is copied from the fur capes worn in England, but the Parisian imita- tions in plush are far mure elegant in themselves, and more becoming to the figure. The skirt of the costume is bordered with three narrow pieatings of satin pieced close to the edge. The tunic is cut with a shawl point in front and small puff at the back, and the bodice is a short Brservite jacket fastened round the waist with a band and metal buckle. The plush cape must of course harmonise with the toilette, and the costume is universally adopted by young ladies. Ottoman and sicilienne are still the materials choson for useful costumes they are quiet and ladylike in appearance, and can be worn at all times. Embossed plusb on an ottoman ground is employed only for skirts, there it has an extremely good effect; for corsages it is not well adapted. As a model of the kind of dress made with this material, we may take the following The skirt of iron grey embossed plush, lightly draped at the back, and finished off with three very narrow pieatings of sicilienne. The tablier quite flat, and bordered at the sides by two redingote panels in pleated sicilienne, lined with silver grey satiu. The corsage is of sicilienne, pointed in front, and ending at the back under the drapery, which is fastened up on the corsage. A rich iron grey dull passementfrie encircles the neck, and is carried down to the points of the corsage and continned thence half-way down the panels, where it ends with rich motifs and pendants. For morning wear in town, no style of costume has as yet superseded the plain cloth dress. Tartans, however, continue in vogue that is to say, those with very large chequers; the ordinary plaids and tartans are already things of the past Some of the woollen damasks and embroidered cashmere's are also accppted by elegantes, but they have abandoned cashmere with open-work embroidery and also braided costumes, un- less they are exceptionally rich, and covered with the finest w«rk. Visiting and reception toilettes are all made with demi-trains or with very long trains; young ladies who dance wear short dresses still, except for minuet parties. Toilettes of black or dark-coloured velvet look best with a long plain train in the Princess style, and the corsage trimmed with Venetian guipure: It is a great and much-practised economy to have two corsages to a velvet dress—one to be worn by day, the other in the evening. Black velvet costumes for evening wear have a long square or rounded train, and open in front over a satin skirt in some contrasting colour, ruby, pale blue, lilac, old gold, or cardinal, veiled by jet em- broidery, or a network of glittering beads in other cases the tablier is of rich brocade with gold flowers, bordered with ruches of pale gold-coloured satin, with little golden pendants in the ruches.
USEFUL HINTS. COLD ROAST REEF B')ILEn.-Cut slices about a quarter of an inch thick from the undone part of the meat; strew salt and pepper over it, and place it over the gridiron and let it heat very quickly turn it over four times in as many minutes, and serve it up on a hot dish in melted butter it must be put to broil when the dinner- bell rings, and served the moment it is to be eaten it will then be found to be very nice. To MAKE TEN GAIJDOXS OF PARSNIP WINF.—Take thirty pounds of sliced parsnips, and boil them until quite soft in ten gallons of water: squeeze the liquor well out of them, run it through a sieve, and add three pounds of coarse lump sugar to every gallon of liquor. Boil the whole for three quarters of an hour. When it is nearly colu add a little yeast on toast. Lft it remain in a tub for ten days, stirring it well from the bottom every day; then put it into a cask for twelve months. As it works over, fill it up every day.—G. M. S. in Gardening Illustrated. STKAWHKERY CuEAMlcE.—Ingredients- One pint of cream, lib. strawberries, 607.. sugar, a little cochineal. How to use them Pick the stalks from the strawberries, crush them in a basin, add the cream, sugar, and a little cochineal; strain into a freezing-pot, bed the pot in powdered ice with some rongh salt added twist the pot round wkh the hand until the contents are frozen, occa- sionally cutting down with a broad knife to keep the ice quite smooth; when frozen fill in a pewter ice-mould, I and bed it in ice and salt; cover the tub with a damp cloth. When required for table turn out as directed for jellies. i INK S TAiKS.—Ink stains may be removed from woollen table covers, carpets, kc., hÿ rubbing the places with milk until the stain disappears.- -Girls ow-77, paper. MUdLAGE rOlt LAREI.C.— Macerate five parts of good glue in eighteen or twenty parrs of water for a day, and to the liquid add nine parts of rock candy and three parts of gum arabic. The mixture can be brushed upoa paper while lukewarm it keeps well, does not stick together, and when moietened adheres firmly to bottler. For labels of bottles it is well to prepare a paste of good rye flour and glue, to which linseed oil, varnish, and turpentine have been added in the proportion of fialf an ounce of each to the pound. Labels prepaied in the latter way do not fall off in damp cellars.—Oil and Colourman''s Journal. USING A NEW PEN.—Before dipping a new pen into ink, thrust it into a fresh cut potato, and the ink will never cling. When the pen is thickly (tImmed with dried ink a few thrusts will clean it perfectly. When not in use, some accountants leave their peas sticking into a potato kept on the desk for the parpose.