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[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] WHICH WAS THE HEIRESS? ..il.F OR, THE CURSE OF ADRIAN BLAIR BY EDITH C. KENYON, Author oj Jack's Cousin Kate," The Squire of Lonsdale," A Poor Pelatioit," etc. etc. CHAPTER XVII. IN THE WOOD AT NIGHT. OH, Dora. 1" said Doris, coming into Dora's bed- room, where poor Dora sat by the window in her dressing-gown, looking out into the moonlight night, I feel so uneasy about papa. You know he has never returned since he went off with your father into the woods this evening, and it is now one o'clock." "Is it? "said Dora, mournfully. "Doris, you ought to be asleep." "How can I sleep, darling," said Doris, who was also in her dressing-gown, coming up to her and throwing her arm about her neck, when you are unhappy, and papa is out like this with his worst enemy ? He is strong—a powerfully built man he can take care of himself," said Dora, listlessly. "Oh, I know you don't care for him much, Dora, because he has so often been unkind and even brutal to you. And to-night he was worse than ever. But he is my father, and although I have never been able to love him aa much as I ought— still, Dora, he is my father—he is my father. And what if that other man has hurt him, or, or," [shudderingly] killed him out there in the wood "Doris, can you think it possible ? exclaimed Dora. My father has a bad and cruel temper, but still, he is incapable of that of murder." "They have both such violent tempers," sighed Doris. Oli, dear, Dora, what can be done about papa?" Listen said Dora. A shot-two shots exclaimed Doris. "Oh, dear, Dora, what can it be ? Their fathers had withdrawn from the little crowd which soon surrounded them on the terrace, after Lord Herbert's departure, and, still wrang- ling, had withdrawn into the shelter of the nearest wood. Here one reproach led to another. Adrian blamed Ambrose for the stinginess and greed which had made him, in the first place, refuse to give him the legacy that their grandfather had once willed to him, but in a moment of bad temper had deprived him of. Tlier)fAiiil)rose stormed at Adrian for the curses with which he had at the time sought to revenge himself. You see," he cried, that they have come to nothiag Far from being miserable and God-forsaken, my child—my little Doris-is the happiest, most joyous, healthy, lovely daughter that ever a father had. She, my heiress, is all that I could desire. She is the pride of my life, the one treasure which I value more than all besides. And you-why, look you, your curses have recoiled on your own head, or rather, on your daughter's. Think what your Doris is now. You yourself shrank from her to-night with loathing." Be quiet!" shouted Adrian, almost beside him- self with rage. Be quiet, or I may tell you some- thing which you will not like to hear. You poor, gullible fool, you Then Ambrose struck him a blow across his mouth with his open hand, just as he had hit him in the mouth nigh upon eighteen years before. Adrian turned, and throwing himself upon his cousin, hurled him to the ground. Ambrose fell with his head against a tree stump, and lay insensible upon the ground. Adrian stood a few minutes looking at him, with rage and yet some terror. Would he come round? Would he ever again open those cold, pale-blue eyes ? As the master, the Squire of Waddington, would he ever appear before his fellows again ? Or had he finished his career for him in this world ? Had he sent him off on that last journey whence no traveller returns? With all his sins unconfessed, unforgiven, was he going to appear before his Judge ? Adrian's theology was of a very mixed and illiterate nature, but at least he believed that after death came judgment; therefore, necessarily a Judge. As for himself, would he not be a murderer in o few minutes, or hours as the case might be? He would not stay to see. If he were found near the spot there might be an ugly case against him. lie turned, therefore, and, without' once looking back, strode away down towarJa the village. Arrived there, perhaps be.orn?e he felt that if he had a pistol he would have the means of at least destroying his own life if he were overtaken and captured, he went into a shop and bought one. Then he wandered about, uncertain where to go, and curiously averse to leaving the place. Instead, therefore, of trying to make his way across country to Bradford, where he could easily get off by train, before anyone found the body of his unhappy victim, he turned into the wood again, at the end nearest the village. For some time he wandered aimlessly about in it, lost in thought, and still feeling quite unable to leave it and go away. It was very dark in the wood the great trees closed overhead, the paths were narrow and over- grown, gloomy thoughts oppressed him, as they might well. What a failure his life had been Always unlucky, until he had the great good fortune to start his gold mine, he for a time seemed to prosper, and became rich. But he had not used his riches well, and they had taken to themselves "wings and llown away. And his child, his daughter, was lost to him, too. As well might he never have had one. And Constance ? Well, he Was estranged from her. She was a most unhappy Woman her tempers, her caprices, had worn out his love. If she were to be poor again matters Would be worse she would never cease regretting that she had married him. I might as well be out of it all and take my life here in the lonely wood. Not a soul will care, and I shall be out of the way of any trouble about Ambrose," thought the wretched man. And now he walked forward more quickly, holding the pistol which was to put i period to his woes next to his heart, and looking for an open place where there might be enough aioonlight to enable him to load it. At last he found just the spot he wanted, and, ifter having carefully loaded his pistol, he walked )Q acrain a little way. Not to the ligkt, but in the iarkness would he take his life, Half-an-hour passed, and still he wandered on. It seemed a pity, he thought, to do that hastily which could never be undone. He must consider about, it well. Had life no longer any possibilities for him? What about the judgment which was to follow ? Well, this at least can be said of me," he told himself, "in one great matter I denied myself the desire of my heart for the sake of another's welfare. Heigho The exclamation was caused by the sight of Ambrose Blair leaning against a tree, straight before him in the path. Ambrose was breathing heavily one hand pressed his aching head; the great drops of sweat upon his brow testified to his agony. But still he was alive, and able to speak, as it turned out, for, the moment he perceived Adrian, he poured out such a torrent of abuse as Astonished even him. In a moment, almost before he had time to teflect Adrian met the torrent of abuse by raising his pistol and shooting, once-twice-at the man before him. Such was his agitation, however, that he could not aim straight. His shots whistled past Ambrose, one on the side and one above his head, and he laughed mockingly as they did so. "Aye, laugh, laugh," cried Adrian. "They may laugh who win." He flung the pistol away, and threw himself upon his foe. The excitement caused Ambrose to forget his tJl:round and fight desperately. Both were powerful 'Tien, and the struggle was a deadly one. First Ambrose was on the ground, then Adrian. Now blood was streaming from the former's head, then the latter was crippled by a well-dealt blow. And still they fought on, as men will fight when they are desperate, and do not think they will escape from the contest alive, if their adversary lives too. At last, a blow on Ambrose's head made all dark for him. He fell back stunned, and knew no more. After a while he came round, to feel air wafted leisure! across his face, whilst a gentle swish, Rv.ish, (11)\1 then a heavy growl was to be heard. slowly he comprehended that he was being fanned by the great tail of his Newfoundland doc. whilst its head from which the growls were proceeding, f hung over the body of his prostrate feo. j Call your dog off," said Adrian, feebly. He j might have been ready to take his own life, but it was quite another thing to allow himself to be worried to death by a dog. All the colour left his j face at the thought of it, and he tremble! with fear. Refreshed and delighted by the sight, Ainko-e j rose slowly from the ground. He could scarcely I see with one eye, but the other did good service. I Elsie, good dog, good dog take care of him," I he said to his deliverer. Call the brute off, will you?" cried Adrian, I "Not I," was the laconic reply. Will you call your brute off?" "No." ¡ Ambrose laughed till the tears rolled down his 'I face at the sight of his adversary's humiliation. He was wretched enough, with his bruised head and aching limbs, and the thought of all the indignity which had been put upon him—the Squire of Waddington. But yet he could not help laughing loudly, exultingly, and with great mockery, at his cousin's overthrow. He did not know in the least how his big dog (which was always chained in the yard at nights) could have come to his relief, but still it had come, and had turned the tables upon Adrian in a marvellous manner. By and bye, upon Adrian's solemn promise that he would follow him up to the Hall, he called Elsie to him, and allowed his cousin to rise. Then they went towards the house in a small procession, Ambrose leading the way, Adrian fol- lowing, with pale, crestfallen face and trembling limbs, the dog walking behind him, watching every step he took with jealous eyes. Once Ambrose altered the arrangement. He called Elsie to him and leaned upon the dog a ¡ little as he walked. This he did that Adrian might I have the opportunity to escape. The wretched man was not slow to avail himself of it. He ran I about a hundred yards down the path up which they had come. Then Ambrose said, Hist Elsie, hist and the great dog bounded after Adrian, knocked him I down, and stood over him, as it had done once before. I Ambrose went slowly up, and again his mocking laugh rang through the night air. Well, you are in my power," you see," he said, at length. And now you will please to come with me to the Hall, and keep your promise—because you cannot break it." ""What do you want to do with me at the Hall?" said Adrian. "Speak! What foolery is this ?" If you want to know, I want your daughter to see you thus in abject thraldom. You humiliated her this evening, now she shall see you humiliated in your turn." Ambrose groaned. The thought that his daughter would see him as he was now, a blood- stained, soiled, hatless, miserable object, was ex- tremely galling. Would she ever forget having seen him thus ? "Have mercy, Ambrose," he cried; "let me off now. You have had the best of it. Man he almost shrieked in his agony, "you have had altogether the best of it all through your life. You might have some pity." "You should have thought of that yourself when you were trying to kill me. Here we are, however." They entered the Hall, Elsie walking beside Adrian, watching his every movement jealously. Sit down." Ambrose pointed to a chair in the j middle of the hall. Now, Elsie, take care of j him. Don't let him move," he said, and then j proceeded to go upstairs. j The butler followed him, saying, with much I concern, "Sir, what has happened? Your coat is torn, you are bleeding, and Mr. Adrian, sir, looks; scared to death." All right, Legott. Where is my daughter and Miss Dora ? Fetch them, will you, qukkly. By j Jingo if you don't make haste—" j The old butler hurried downstairs. Speedily he J bronghVthe two girls down, looking terrified, and still iri their dressing-gowns, for they had not gone to bed. What I want to know," said Ambrose, who was leaning against the balustrade at the bottom of the great staircase, is this—Who let Elsie loose ? Who let her loose ? Because whoever did so saved my life." "I loosened the chain," said Doris, "but it was Dora's idea. We heard two shots, so feared your life was in danger, and Dora suggested we should, go to the stable yard and unloose the dog. I just told Elsie to go and find you, and she tore out of the yard." Well, I must thank you, Doris, for my life," said Ambrose, ignoring the important part of the transaction taken by Dora. Dora," he added, come and see your father. I have amply avenged you on him." Poor Dora shrank back, but he insisted upon her going into the hall. He felt kinder to her now that she had refused Lord Herbert's impulsive offer. After all, he had no wish that she should leave his house. But he liked to torment her. This is your father," he said to her now, point, ing to his miserable cousin. But Dora turned her eyes away and would not look. Doris, however, looked, and her glance, full of reproach and disgust, made Adrian turn exceed- ingly pale. Then, at last, the girls were allowed to go away, and Ambrose again enjoyed the luxury of turning his cousin out of doors. Elsie followed Adrian to the carriage-drive gate, and then returned slowly, wagging her tail as she did so. t CHAPTER XVIII. I I THE MEETING IN THE WOODS. I PAPA, I want you to grant me a great favour?" said Doris, the next day, as she sat by her father's couch in the library. Well, my dear, what is it?" asked Ambrose Blair. His limbs ached so that he could hardly stand, and his head was confused in fact, he felt so dizzy when he walked about that his doctor had advised him to stay quietly in his library, reclining upon a couch as much as possible for two or three days. You know I told you about Mrs. Jones coming here?" said Doris. "She used to be my nurse when I was a baby, and she was in the room when { mother died—my own mother, I mean; then she went to America for years. But now she has returned, and her husband is a cripple. I want you to let them live in the old Summerhouse in the East Wood." "But, my dear, I don't know whether it is habitable. No one has lived there for the last two years. The floor of one of the upper rooms is quite rotten, and I believe the staircases are not quite safe." But they would only occupy the tw) rooms on the ground floor, and if they live there, it wfJI prevant people going up without warning, and perhaps prevent some accident happenillg-I will tell them always to warn people. And you could let them have it rent free, of course and when we have picnics there Mrs. Jones will boil the kettle for us and do lots of things. Oh, papa, do let her live there with her poor husband." But what will they live upon ? "They have saved a little money. And Mrs. Jones will knit and sew for me. I have always had to put out a little work which the servants haven't time for." "Haven't time for! Really, Doris, I think if we keep a few more servants we shall have to do all the work ourselves, for it seems to me the more we have, the less they can find time to do. It used to be different when your poor mother was alive. Ah, she was a good housekeeper And still he sighed, even at that distance of time, to think that he had not allowed her to have all the help she required for the housekeeping." "Papa, let Mrs. Jones live here," persisted Doris. Well, my dear. She may have the house, but she must understand that when any of us, or our visitors, want to go up to the top of it, she must be willing for us to pass through her dwelling-place S and must place every facility in our way." j "Oh, thank you, papa," cried Doris, delighted j that he had consented. The Summerhouse was a picturesque old building, built like the keep of some old castle. It was a considerable height, j winding stairs conducting up to story after story, containing round chambers with turret windows, in which there was now no glass. At the top a magnificent view could be seen of all the surround- ing country. The place was in the very middle of the Squire of Wadding ton's largest wood, and it the Squire of Waddington's largest wood, and it was only by his special permission that visitors could see over it. Usually a gamekeeper, or wood- man, occupied the lower rooms. But the position was a lonely one, and they generally found some excuse for wanting to live near the village. "I don't know about that Mrs. Jones. Her name was Bennet, I believe. When I allowed her to accompany you to Miss Carrington's in your infancy, it was in the belief that she was at least as devoted to you as that lady, and that she would remain in her service for your sake. But it appears she did not stay long at St. Leonard's. Papa, tell me all about it-what happened when I was a baby, I mean," said Doris, earnestly. "I ought to know-for-f or there are some things I cannot understand." Her father somewhat briefly related to her the incidents of her babyhood, as far as he knew them, omitting, however, all mention of Adrian's cursing her, and dwelling but slightly upon her mother's impassioned words about her as she lay dying. Doris listened with great attention. "Papa," she said, when he paused, this woman, Mrs. Jones, who was my nurse when I went to St. Leonard's, says that I used to have a mark upon my shoulder—a birth-mark, papa—which isn't there now." Her father stared at her in a puzzled way for a moment or two, but there was no room in his mind for the faint suspicion her words might suggest, so he could not entertain it. "I suppose it wore off," he said. But, indeed, Doris, there was no need for any birth-mark, or anything by which you might be known. When I went abroad I left you in the care of Miss Car- rington, a lady in whom I had perfect confidence. In fact I had known her all my life, and, on my return, she assured me that you had never been from under my roof." Will you tell me about your return, papa? I was such a little girl, and so much has happened to me since, that I only dimly remember it." Accordingly, Ambrose Blair related to her all about his return to England after his long sojourn abroad; his futile visit to St. Leonard's, futile as to finding her there, although he obtained her address, which was the next best thing. Then he described his visit to Miss Carrington's house at Barmouth his waiting in the room in which was her portrait; his feelings about it, and his delight when Miss Carrington assured him that it was indeed the likeness of his little Doris. "Then you came in, my darling," he said fondly, and I saw you had the same coloured hair and eyes and the same kind of features, considering you were a girl, as I had myself. From that time you were my little queen. You know you were." Doris smiled. "I know how delighted I was to find I had such a father to love me and give me everything I wanted," she said. "It seemed to me just like a fairy tale, in which everything turned out in the most brilliant and delightful manner, owing to the advent of the Deus ex machina of the story. I think there never was such a happy child as I was, when you took me away from Barmouth to this place, which seemed to me like a palace of delights." You cannot tell how happy I was to have such a very creditable little daughter to bring here." Suddenly Doris's face grew graver. And about Dora," she said, what did you think of her when you saw her ? Papa, tell me all you know about Dora in her childhood." "Dora!" he cried. "Dora! Oh, she was a hideous little brat! I remember I nearly fell over her, as I went up the steps to the house at Barmouth. The ugly little thing was squatting upon the steps. She paid me out for it, however, afterwards, you know, when she threw that big Noah's Ark at my head as I passed under the nursery window. By Jingo that was a blow I remember," said Doris. But it was partly my fault. I had been behaving unkindly, snatch- ing what she was playing with away, or something, and she flew into a passion. Poor little Dora You whipped her for it, papa," and there was great regret in the girl's tone. Well, Miss Carrington put the cane into my hands, with a request that I would use it, and I was mad with the ugly little thing Besides, she had no right to be there—no right at all. Miss Carrington ought not to have taken in Adrian's child." "Why not, papa?" "Adrian was my enemy, even then, as he is now. Why, whin he left here, lie cursed—cursed—" Whom did he curse ? Ambrose was silent. "Did he curse you, papa? "No. Bother it, child, don't ask any more questions," lie cried, irritably. Doris was silent, even-she dared not run the risk of making him angry. Miss Carrington must have liked him," she said, after a pause, because you see she married him." The more fool she growled her father, but she only did it because she could not get me." Papa ?" Well, it's a fact. She was awfully spoony on me." Was she? Well, she must have had good taste, you know," and Doris smiled at her hand- some father, handsome in spite of his bruises. ] suppose that was why she was so good to me," she went on, thoughtfully; "but, papa, I did not really love her. When I left her I was not at all sorry. But then I'm so queer." You are queer if you don't like Lord Herbert," cried her father, suddenly. Doris, I have been a good father to you, try to please me in this matter Try to like him for my sake." "But, papa," protested Doris, he loves Dora." "Nonsense. He is too young to know what he loves yet. Ard she's a sensible girl; she won't have have him." Don't you think you're a wee bit inconsistent," said Doris, slyly. "Not at all. Both you and he are too young to take any steps yet-but what I feel about you, Doris, is this," and he looked at her with some concern, I don't want you to prejudice yourself by getting fond of anyone else-an unworthy attach- ment would unfit you for being the wife of a pro- spective marquis." "Unworthy cried Doris, blushingly, knowing well that he was thinking of Archie Scott. Believe me, papa dear, I shall never forget that 1 im your daughter," and, to herself, she added, and Archie Scott's beloved." Long after Doris had left the room, to go and see after her arrangement for Mrs. Jones's benefit oeing carried out, Ambrose lay, thinking with what satisfaction he might of those last words of Doris's co him. She would never forget she was his laughter That surely meant that she would not 5hrow herself away upon a penniless young man ike Archie Scott. How beautiful she looked when she said it! Well, she was indeed a daughter to oe proud of How he loved her His own Doris He was glad he had given her her own way about the old nurse's future home. The more of her own way he allowed her the more she would love him." Meanwhile Doris was busily conducting Mrs. Jones to the Summerhouse to look over her future home. She drove her to it in her own little pony carriage, with only a page in attendance. See, Nurse, I may call you Nurse, may I not ?" she asked. You see it seems to make you belong to me. This is the way up the tower. Shall we go. Afterwards we will more carefully examine these lower rooms, in which you are to live. Now follow me up the winding stairs. Mind they are a little broken in places. Take hold of the rail. Look what nice rooms on this second floor. Why you might take in lodgers, and keep them here." Mrs. Jones laughed. What a shame for these good rooms not to be used!" she said, "but perhaps the Squire mightn't like it, Miss, if I took in a lodger?" Oh, of course, I was only joking," said Doris. Who would care to live in such a lonely place ? Now, Nurse, we will go higher." Up and up they went, examining each round chamber-there were two in each story-as they came to it, and looking out of the little windows, on the tree tops and woodland scene beyond, untn at length they came to the last flight of stairs. Then they were slower in their movements, for the staircase was broken in places, and somewhat dangerous. Take care, Nurse Let me go first. Now follow. Doris led the way, and was the first to go through the open trap-door at the top. As she did so, she nearly fell back in surprise, for there, all alone, with a book in his hand, sat Archie Scott, on a rug thrown upon the stone flooring. Miss Blair he cried, delightedly, springing up, or is it an angel ? 11 Doris laughed. The wind blew her pretty red- brown hair almost down over her dark-blue velvet gown, which fitted tightly to her lovely figure. Who would have thought of seeing you here ? she cried, with flushed cheeks. Or you here ? he cried, in his turn. Nurse," said Doris, this is Mr. Scott, the son of our good clergyman." Mrs. Jones curtsied, and looked keenly at the young people. Do you know, Archie, she is going to live here ? explained Doris. Live here —on the top, looking over the trees ? Poor beggar exclaimed Archie, the last word being under his breath. No, stupid cried Doris, laughingly. But down below. She and her husband are going to live here." "Indeed? I'm glad to hear it. Then there will always be someone to boil the kettle for me when I want a cup of tea here." Selfishness, thy name is man cried Doris, seating herself on the stone ledge which ran round the chamber, looking like an old-fashioned window seat." I'm afraid," said Mrs. Jones, it has given me rather a turn finding this young gentleman on the top. How shall I know, when I am living here, but that there is someone up above all the time ?" "Well, people cannot fly up," said Doris, "and you can keep your eye on all who enter during the day-time." The woman smiled. "Poor Mrs. Jones," exclaimed Archie, "what an expansive eye she will require whenever it pleases the Squire to throw open his woods to the public. That will be a nice time for you, Mrs. Jones," said Doris, for I daresay many people will give you money for showing them the way up." Yes, and the way down again," said Archie. "By the bye, you might make tea, and sell it to the people who come-" "I don't know about that," said Doris. Papa might not like this place treated like a common show place. But we can see a tremendous way from the top with a telescope. Just look at big smoky Bradford on your right, and Saltaire there, with its modelbuildings—and She stopped short. Archie's hand was in hers. He had slipped a shilling into the old nurse's hand, and bidden her go down and tell her young mistress's page not to allow the ponies to eat grass, which would certainly make them ill-a fact the good woman could hardly believe. "Doris, I was thinking about you, dear, as I sat here," said Archie. "Do you know, your father wants me to go away. He has been trying to persuade my dear old dad to send me away on the Continent for six months. He must want me to go awfully, for he offer to pay my expenses if I go at once." "Don't go," said Doris, earnestly. "I don't want you to go, Archie." "Don't you?" His tones trembled with glad- ness. No stay here and be my friend. Archie, I am so young, much too young to think of such a thing —I haven't even had a season in town—but papa is already planning and wanting me to look for- ward to a great marriage, and he wants me, Archie, to care for someone I don't particularly like." "I know," said Archie, "It's Lord Herbert. Well, he is a good sort, but he won't do for you." "No," said Doris, he won't do for me." "But I wonder who would?" said Archie, stroking the pretty hand still resting in his. "Why, you know, Archie," said Doris, looking at him with all the light of love in her sparkling eyes. "My darling He took her in his arms that moment. No thought of propriety, or even of honour, came into his head to prevent him. Doris loved him. That was all he knew. (To be continued.)

Mr. F. J. Pigott, District Engineer in the Public Works Department of Ceylon, goes to the Straits Settlements as Deputy Colonial Engineer and Surveyor-General of Penang, in place of the late Mr. F. S. B. Gaffney. Mr. Pigott entered the Ceylon Service in 1887, and has acted' as Provincial Engineer of both the Southern and Eastern Provinces. He will take up his new appointment- in January next, and in tha meantime Mr. C. W. Anderson, Resident Engineer, Penang Harbour Improvements, acts ? as Deputy Colonial Engineer.

HOME HINTS. When binding up cuts and wounds use linen.' instead of cotton rag, for the flat fibres of cotton are apt to irritate a sore place, while those of the linen are perfectly smooth and rounded. To Prevent Chaps.—Camphor balls to prevent. chaps may be made as follows: Take three drachms of spermaceti, four drachma of white wax, and one ounce of almond oil. Mix three drachms of camphor with a little spirits of wine to. dissolve it, and pour this into the other ingredients, then pour the whole into small jars so as to turn out into the form of cakes. A Good Remedy for Scurf.—For dry and scurfy hair the following lotion is much recom- mended: Take a teaspoonful each of borax and sulphur (powdered) and eight ounces of rcse- water. Mix. Apply every night to the roots of the hair with the fingers, and brush with a fairly stiff, not too hard, brush till the scalp feels quite in a glow from the friction. For any woman to become liable to neuralgia is a most terrible thing. It that while it lasts life is not worth having. It paralyses the power to work, it deprives her cf the power to enjoy anything, it tends towards irritability of temper, and it tends to the use of narcotics and stimulants. A girl who finds herself subject to neuralgia should at once change her habits, if but to grow strong in body. Olive Oil and Bruises.—In the treatment of contusion where there is extensive discoloration of the skin, if olive oil be freely applied without rubbing, the discoloration will quickly dis- appear. Absorbent cotton may be soaked in the oil and applied. If the skin is broken, a little boric acid should be applied over the abrasion. A black eve thus treated can be rendered normal in a ^ew hours, especially if the oil be applied warm. How to Treat Lumbago.—One of the best known remedies for lumbago is spirits of tur- pentine sprinkled on a piece of flannel wrung out of very hot water. This should be applied to the seat of pain, and renewed till relief is obtained. A small dose of sweet spirits of nitre also may be taken. If more convenient, the back of the patient may be ironed with a hot iron, taking care to place several folds of blanket between the iron and the skin, so that there may be no fear of causing further trouble in the way of burns or scorches. For Tired Feet.—When the feet are weary and tender through long standing or walking during the day, there is nothing which will give more relief than a warm foot bath, in whicu has been dissolved a handful or two of sea sa.lt. Bathe the feet and legs with this for about ten minutes, and then rub them well with a good rough towel. The effect is delightfully refresh- ing, and, if you do this just before going to bed, insomnia, for that night at any rate, is not likely to trouble you. Sore Throats.—Some folks are continually having sore throats. When, despite all pre- cautions, at attack seems imminent, he should dip his wetted finger into baking soda, and rub each tonsil well with this every hour or two. Many attacks may be cut short thus. A rough dry stocking, or a cloth wrung out of ice-cold water wrapped round the neok and covered with something dry, worn for a night will d'o good. Frequent sore throats occurring in a household should suggest an examination of the sanitary arrangements. London Journal." Prunes in Jelly.—Soak half an ounce of gelatine in a little cold' water and dissolve; heat in half a pint of boiling juice over from the prunes, add three ounces of loaf sugar, and the juice of a lemon. Strain, and let grow cold. Have ready half a pound of prunes that have soaked overnight, cooked till tender, and had the stones carefully removed. Wet several small cups, set two or three prunes in each, fill up with the gelatine and prune juice, and set aside. To serve, turn out, stick each mould with blanched almonds, and pour a good custard round. Mock Duck.—Scald the large lobe of a calfs liver; when cold, lard it with strips of unsmoked bacon on one side only. Fry two onions in an ounce of dripping in a stew-pan, put the liver in it, nearly cover with water, or, better still, stock, ad a tablespoonful of chopped sage, which has been previously scalded, two green onions, and three rashers of pork. Season all with pepper, and simmer slowly till tender, probably about two hours. Pour off the liquor, remove all fat from its surface, thicken it with flour, add a few drops of brown colouring. Place, the meat on a dish, trimming it as much as possible to resemble a duck. Pour some of the gravy over, and serve the remainder in a tureen. Meat Shape.—Take three-quarters of a pound of cold cooked meat, free of all skin and gristle, mince it finely; mix it with three ounces of boiled rice, three ounces of breadcrumbs; season with a teaspoonful each of anchovy essence, Worcester sauce, chopped parsley, mired1 pickle, powdered' sweet herbs, with pepper, salt, and celery salt to taste. When quite blended stir in twTo beaten eggs, mixed with a gill of brown gravy. Grease a pudding basin, sprinkle it with browned breadcrumbs, fill it with the prepared mixture, cover with a piece of greased paper, and steam for an hour. Turn out, pour a good brown sauce over, scatter chopped capers over, and serve any nicely boiled vegetables round. Baked Celery.—Thorough cleanse two heads of fresh crisp celery, and cut the stalks into pieces about an inch long put these into a good supply of boiling, slightly salted1 water, and boil briskly for ten minutes, then drain and return the celery to the saucepan with a, season- ing of salt and pepper, half a pint of milk, and an ounce of butter rolled: smoothly in an ounce of flour; stir constantly until boiling point has been reached, then draw the pan aside and simmer gently until the celery is nearly done enough, after which turn it into a pie-dish, and when slightly cool add a large fresh egg beaten up in two tab-iespoonfuls of milk, and mix wel1 -her, then cover the surface' with a thick layer of fine breadcrumbs and grated cheese in equal quantities, and bake in a moderate oven until just nicely browned and quite bubbling hot, then serve at once. Celery on Toast.-Thoroughly cleanse the celery and trim it neatly, then cut it into pieces about three inches long; tie these together in bundles like asparagus, and boil in the usual way until quite tender, then drain well and arrange neatly on pieces of hot, well- buttered toast which have been placed in readiness on a hot dish; pour over the whole some well-made cheese sauce, sprinkle this lightly with finely-chopped parsley, garnish round about with more toast or daintily-fried [ crisp croutone and sprigs of parsley, and serve I as quickly as possible, otherwise the sauce will become quite tough and so entirely lose its I daintiness. Celery Fritters.—Cleanse and trim the celery I in the usual way, then boil it until quite tender, after which drain and cut the stalks into pieces I about two inches long; when cold, season the I vegetable pleasantly with salt, pepper, and nut- I meg, dip the pieces separately into thick rich frying batter, drop gently into hot clarified fat, and fry until well puffed out and nice and brown. When done enough, drain carefully so as to ensure crispness, pile up lightly and tastefully on a very hot dish-paper, garnish j freely with parsley, and serve at once. These fritters are exceedingly nice when served alone, and they are always welcome and fully II appreciated when served, as an accompaniment to hot meat of various kinds; they are there- fore to be very highly recommended', only to le eaten in perfection they should never be fried until the last moment, because if the fritters I have to be kept waiting the batter—which ought, of course, to be very light, puffy, and quite .crisp-will become flat, sodden, and not at all nice. a

WOMAN'S WORLD. DA-Y"S BED. Long ago the doctors pronoiraos4 cra.dies unhealthy and said that many a baby had did of brain fever brought on by continuous rocking. So his highness the baby dreams beauti- ful dreams in a tiny bed of his own that does not rock. Sometimes these are of brass, sometimes of iron, enamelled white, or of rattan, but always standing on strong legs. Curtains cf silesia of the colour chosen for the baby are overdraped with dotted muslin trimmed with fluted ruffles. These curtains are not only dainty to look upon, but they keep draughts away, while they aro not so thick as to forbid the entrance of fresh air. Feathers are counted too heating, and so the tiny pillow and small mattress are filled with carefully- picked white horsehair, fine as possible. The small blankets are bound with ribbon of the proper colour, the muslin sheets are hemmed by hand, and there is also provided a dainty comforter made of cheesecloth this is filled with lamb's wool, tied with Tom Thumb ribbon and bound like the blankets. A rubber sheet is a convenience also. If be should have appeared with the summer time the pillow-cases may be of linen, but for any other months they are better made of fine cambric or muslin of one of the soft brands, GROWING OLD GRACEFULLY. To the woman of middle cge who desperately clings to the millinery and vanities and coquetries of youth, life is a penance. Shejaas idle hands, an empty head, and a sad heart. In clinging to a vanishing remnant of her youth, she lets slip by the countless interests and benefits, the dignity and peace which belong to the middle period of a well-spent life. I kno w a woman (says a writer in "Spare Moments") who is no longer young, but who turns no lingering backward glance at the past. There is no pretence whatever about her appearance, no dreadful contrasts of colour, no effort to seem other than what she really is. No peevish, rebellious tears for the loss of youth have dimmed the sparkle of her kindly brown eyes, which look so shrewdly and humorously at the world. Siie is fond of young people and merry with them, but she dees not try to copy the eomp exion, manner, and dress which belong to the period of sweet seventeen and twenty. She is extracting every bit of sweet- ness she can out of life, and keeping step with Time. Which of these two women is the wiser and happier ? One spends her life in a torment of vain regret for her departed youth, flattering herself that she is guarding the dreadful secret of her age by her transparent trickery of juvenile dress and complexion powders, yet only succeeding in adver- tising both her age and her weakness to the world. The other accepts the inevitable serenely and without a thought of disguise, making the most of her experience as she calmly views the passing procession of years, and finding so much to interest in the present that she has no time to either regret the past or dread the future, FURS. Perfectly plain fur coats are seldom seen now; they are nearly always lightened by trimmings of some description. Russian sable, perhaps, is one of the few exceptions; it is so beautiful in itself that it requires no further adornment. Ermine is often enriched by heavy Irish laee. Russian lamb and broadtail are shown off to greater advantage by a little border or vest of coloured and em- broidered cloth. I saw (remarks Crepe-de- chine" in the "World") a charming little broad- tail bolero with just a suspicion of cerise trimming all round the edge and a very handsome sealskin three-quarter length coat, which fitted the waist, had a belt, collar, and cuffs to the full sleeves of passementerie. TIDY SKIRTS. There is a happy tendency towards less fulness of skirt in the newest models of gowns. This is excellent, because, if we have to face winter with material flying wide ail round us, it will be very awkward. Pleats, which are neat and tidy, are being substituted for gathers. Such minor matters as these are so far all that there is to record. Severe taik*made coats and skirts will be much worn and the long basque to coats will be quite correct but not- necessary. It is a trying style to all but slender women. JAP -i WOMEN. The vomen of Japa,n, in contrast tot' Occidental sisters, have lo!i;j I)-;en noted for their perfect poiae and self-possession. Their placidity under what would ordinarily be con- sidered trying circumstances has surprised J tourists. Patent medicines guaranteed to cure nervousness in its many forms have little sale in Japan. The meaning of the term" nervous prostration" is unknown. Japanese physicians j are rarely rich. An explanation of this happy state of affairs has been made by a returned traveller. To begin with," says he, there is never any change in fashions, so the Japanese woman has no worries at all on that score. Then, housekeeping is greatly simplified, so the | Japanese housekeeper is hurt by none of the jar3 and frets that destroy the j nerves and prematurely age her Western sister. The Japanese house has no draperies, no dust traps in the shape of superfluous ornaments. People all put off their shoes on entering the house, so no mud or dirt are brought in. Japanese women have no heartburnings over euchre prizes and bridge' stakes. They never have to com- pose club papers on subjects concerning which they know nothing. They never sit up nights plan- ning how they may outshine their rivals in dress at some social affair. They do not bother their brains with schemes for marrying their daughters to rich foreigners. They never have to give eight- course dinners with two-course purses. They live simple, happy, peaceful, domestic lives, and live them long." While we should be sorry to see our own women restrict their lives to the narrow j sphere of the Japanese, there is no doubt that three-fourths of their nervous worry is caused by | trying to do too much." Simplicity is the key- j note of sanity and health, and we may well profit j by the example of the happy Japanese. | n CONCERNING COATS. í In the new models that the season has brought forth the title rain- coat seems a misnomer. Of course there are some that re- tain most if not all of the lines of the original garment, but there are others, those fascinating productions in silk and satin, in the sheer cloths and sieiliennes, that do not give one single hint of their utilitarian qualities. Bather do they loox like exquisite carriage coats, like smart automo- bile wraps, like made-to-order ulsters, like amost anvthing. in fact, but the traditional rainproof I coat. One has only to pass a glance backward at the hideous things that formerly constituted a rainy day wrap, at the rubber circulars and the other makeshifts, to appreciate the beauty, the practicality and the delightfully smart and stylish lines of the present day productions. 'For the woman with a slender purse rainproof coats must have been especially invented, and coats must have been especially invented, and trul_y it would seem as though the dictators of fashion had kept her in especial remembrance when they dictated the styles for the coming season. Not only are there severely plain ones, but there j are dressy ones in fine cloths that can be made to compass almost every occasion, and fill every requirement, where formerly a variety of wraps was almost a necessifcv. Now these new-fashioned surtouts-for that is what the fairParisienne very j cleverly and graphically calls her waterproof—• will take the place of several garments. And they are presented in such a charming variety, both as to material and make, that the trouble doubtless will be not to select the most becoming one, but to keep from ordering quite s, number. There will be the plam tailor-made style for morning and wet weather wear. Then there will be one of these- good silks, the monoybak variety which are said to outwear the fashions, or perhaps a chiffon eloth for the afternoon carriage drive or calls, while for the evening really exquisite creations in the white and delicately tinted chiffon cloths, made in exact reproduction of the best Parisian models for such wear, are offered in styles that are distractingly pretty, with the | utilitarian qualities of the waterproof "added. —_

I Never allude to a dressmaker as Miss Sexi &a £ f Sew.

THE BISHOP OF HEREFORD AND CRICKET. The Bishop of Hereford is not generally known as a great cricketer, but when he was Headmaster of Rugby he took the keenest interest in the game. In those days winter practice in a covered shed was not as popular as it is now, and Dr. Percival, as he then was, anxious to improve the standard of Rugby cricket, which was at the time at a low ebb, generously presented the school with a completely equipped shed, in which Tom Emmett used to bowl at the boys. There was a good deal of dis- cussion as to the advisability of playing cricket in winter, but Dr. Percival clinched matters by re- marking, Shrewsbury and Gunn, I understand, practice in the winter, and they are pretty good, aren't they ? A remark which endeared him to the boys for ever after.

I GHASTLY DISCOVERY. The German police are occupied in a search for a well-dressed man, who a few days ago left a trunk in the cloak-room at the railway station of Baku, in Russia. As the trunk began to emit an offensive smell, says the Express," it was opened by the police, and the dismembered body of a young woman, covered with a few rags, was found inside. A rope was drawn tightly round the neck, and a handkerchief was stuffed in the mouth. Medical investigation revealed the probability that the murderer first gagged his victim to pre- vent her making a noise, and then strangled her with the rope. Afterwards he cut the body in pieces for the purpose of packing it in the trunk. Another trunk left by the same man con- tained letters, photographs, and other articles, providing useful clues to the identity of the perpe- trator. From these it appears that the victim was the young wife of the murderer, to whom she had been married a very short time. Further clues lead to the supposition that the murderer fled across the frontier to Germany, on his way to London for Liverpool and New York;

I TURTLE FACTORIES. Though the majority of the turtles that are being sacrificed to the civic appetite at this season of the year come from the region of the West Indies and from the Gulf of Mexico alive, and are killed in this country, there are, nevertheless,according to this week's" T .A. T. several large "turtle factories," as they are called, in operation, in which the animals denned for the more modest soup tureen are butchered and bottled for shipment to all parts of the world. One of the largest of these is at Corpus Christi Bay, an inlet of the Gulf of Mexico. Outside, in pens filled with seawater to the depth of five feet, are the live turtles. Each pen contains from 10 to 20 turtles, which lie upon the bottom, coming to the surface only to snap at the food thrown to them at meal times.