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By I" r-. ’Vlnry J. ll nlmw, author of "Tempest and Sunshine,” " Ethel) u‘s Mistake,” “ Forrest House." etc. 11m mmnvmw. Reinette had thought, and thought. and thought. till heir head seemed bursting with the v flan to bolve the myslery of her nurse ’8 silence. Had sue d ne amth nu that she was ashamed to speak or let her identity I 9 known, and in 5) what was it, and did it GODCCTD any one but hexself? “ No. I will not believe it," she mid more than once. With a striking out of her hand as} if Ihrueting sum thing usnde. “ I will not; believe it. Tue-re is eome good reason for her conduct which she can give me, and I am uoiug to her to know the truth, but the world will not be as charitable as I. and will any bad things of her, no doubt. So to the World the must remain Mrs. La. Rue, and no- body Wlll eVer know that she is Christine. except Mr. Beresfimd. who, of course. knows it now, for that. Louis Aruaud has written to him. no doubt. Why couldn’t. be mind his own business, I wonder? But I can tru~t him. and Ishall go to him and tell him he knows. and ask him to keep the knowledge to himself." Reiuette reached th's decision at the very time “hen Margrry was talking of her to Mr. Beresfmd. and telling of the scarlet. cloak. and the ride on the Champs d’ Elysees. After 1h‘s decisron Rdnette grew calmer ; the 17:01th throbbing in her temples ceased, and she slept comparatively Well that mg ht. But though the morning found her stroguger and better, she felt nervous and unstruug, and shran k with a gleut dread from confronting Mrs. La Rue, and wringing her secret from her, If Secret there were to wring “ I am so hurt and disappointed,” she thought, as sue dressed hersell for her calla. “ I had lmed Lhristine so much, and had such pleasant hncies of her. and wanted so to find her. and,now she is this woman whom I never liked. and from whom I shrank the first lime I saw her. and she tried to be so familiar with m:-, just as she has dam so often since. I understand that. now. She has: some afiecti -n for me, but why this silence on her partâ€"lb s advising me not. to try to find my nurse? There suiely is somsthing wrong, and I am going to find it out.” Thu waiting for Mr. Bereaford seemed a long time to tha excined girl, though in reality it was not more \han ten minutes from the time she emexed the office before she was clouded with the lawyer in his private room. where he recei\ ed his clients who came to him on special bu~iness. And Reinette’s was very special. or at 'n-ust ver private, and when the dour was closed ghe piunged into it at once, by saying : . -.. ., If." __, “WW ‘- Mr. cBarresi'ord, you have written to Mon- situr Albrech, in Mentone, and asked about Christine Bodine.” ViShVe did not put itintenogatively, but as an as~ertion, and blushing guiltily, the lawyel reulio d : “ Ye-. I did write to him, asking informa- tion vi the woman‘ a whereabouts You were so anxious to find her, you know.” “ Hush I" quenie said. pouring the fuli scorn of her blazing eyes upon h m. " Don’t try to excuse yourself in that way. It was curiosity rather than a. d'sil‘e to serve me which prompled you to “rite, and you have had your reward. Luuis Arnaud. Mon- sieur Albrech‘s clerk, has answered your letter.” 7‘" Yes, he has.“ Mr. Beresford replied, B‘ inune continued : “ I know it, I have one from him. Hera it. is and I Will read it, to you." ShérdirreW the-3 letter from hér pwcket, and rearlit through in a cleans‘eady Voice,“ if its cautems were just wlnqt. she 113d expected, ‘ You me non -urp1i.-1ed of caunw," 511: said, when she had fini: 111d ”He toldy than Christine was Mrs. La Rue, but did yhe tell you anything more than me ? When h51helfittÂ¥lfl8nd will you 1-h1w it to me? and how an )ou make it 0111 ‘2" '7 Ir. wué wuxinteu parlly in English and partly in French. so I did pretty well." Mr. Belesfnrd replied. and she continued: " D.d he wrize you nuthing more than he- did me ? I have a. right no know if thrre is anything Wrong about Christine â€"any reason why she should have kept herself from me in this unaccountable manner. Show me the letter, Mr. Btl‘flSfUl‘d." She was cunfrout-nq him steadily with her great. black ages, and he knew she would per rist in but demand untl samething was done to quiet. her. . . .. .. -. So he nrose at last. and going into the ad- iniuing loom, where a file was burning in the mate, to :k Louis Amaud’s letter from his pocket and threw it into the fire ; then, making a. faint of hunting through pigeon holes and on the tahle where piles of paper lay. he asked his ulerk. so loud that Rrinetle could distinctly hear him, if he had seen a certain letter whichyha deslaribed. The clerk had not, but we-I finally dhveu to admitting that he might have torn it up that morning with other letters of nu importance. He was reprimanded for his curlessness. and then Mr. Bereeford returned to Beinette, feeling like a. hypocri 6. but thinking the end justifi ed the means, for Mr. Heiherton’s daughter must never know the insinuation that that letter contained. But Queenie was not de ceived, and with a meaning rmile. which had much bitterness in it, she said to him before he could sneak : “ Yes, yes, thank you. Reinette said, eagerly. “ h was somvlh'ng of that nature no doubt, and you lawyers are shrewd enough to see it. while I might have groped n the dark forever. Yes. thank you; I am glad you thought of that, but I shall make her tell me all the same, and. Mr. Beresford. what I wish of you is that you will tell no one what you have heard from Louis Arnnud. It is Iuficient for me to know that the is Chris- “ Don‘t trouble yourself with more decep~ tion. Your clerk never destroyed that letter. for you are not. the man to leave It lying round. In is safe somewhere, as you know, and you do not wish to show it. to men But no matter ; I bhtll get it from Christine. 1 am going next to her, and she cannot keep from me why she has made no sign that Sh? was my old nurse when she knew how much I Wlnhed to find her.” ‘ “ Perhaps Christine was married unknown to your father, who when he found it out, was angry, as it took a. valuable nurse from his chald.” HShe put this question more to hersel ban to Mr. Beresfurd, “ho nevertheless. re‘ p1ied_: » you arv,’ replied : ‘- I have thought of that. but she should have kmmn me better 1hm to think anything could change mv love for Margery. Nn,th+r.a is home other reason. She might have done something uftu‘ mother died, and when she was tdkiDL' care of me In Pmis and at Chateau des Fleur's. and papa diamisned bu for it. but pald her money all Ihe same, becnu-e mother wished it. Yea, I am sure thatia it, and that explaina why father never was willing to talk to me ab« us her, and. always said he did not know where hhe was ‘2" “ Yrs; and he would tell me nothing, Evi- dently he did not like her. bub I know how Itrong his prajudims were if once he book a dislike to one, and so I attached no impor tance to them. She must, have displeased him in some way." " How long did she live with you as your nurse after your mother's death ?” Mr. Bel-es lotd asked, with an object in new which, however, was unsuspected by Reinetle, who replied : “ I do not know; a year or so, I think. though all my knowledge of that part of my life seems to be a blank ; andwhera was Mar- gery: hen? She is not much younger than I I‘VPo‘ssibly she feared you might not think as much of Mnrgtry |f you knew she wnyour nursu’s daughter. She_ must_ see how proud , '; You used to question him of her, then?" Mr. Beresiord said, eagerly, and Reinette unswn'e‘i: QUEENIE HETHERTON. ," Mr Beresford sand, and Reinette CHAPTER XXXI. too and tine. and others need not know it. There are many auspicious people in the world who would say hard things of Christine, andâ€" possibly--connect the trouble in some way withâ€"Withâ€"iatherâ€"and I won’t have it. Mavbe he quarrelled with her, and maybe he did’t. At all events I will not have his name coupled with here in any way. My ‘futher wasa gentleman and a Hetherton." She said this as if more to reassure herself than to imprwss Mr. Bere-sford. who bowed an acquiescence to thefactthat her fmhei- was a gentleman and a Hethvrlon. If there Was any merit in being (me later she certainly was a very fair representative of it as she stood up so proud and calm, and uttered her protebt against her father’s name being mind with that of Christine Bodine. “ I am going there now,‘ she said, adjust- ing her shawl and drawing on her cloves. “ and when I see you again Ishafl know everything there is to know of Christine Bo- dino " Mr. Beresford felt a little doubtful on that subject, but said nothing, and going with her to her carriage. helped her in, and then in a. thoughtful mood returned to his office. won- dering what would be the result of the call on Uhrisuine Bodiue. cunts-nun. It was more than a headache and swollen face Wbil‘h had ailed Mrs. La. Bus, and sent her to her room on that night when Mr. Beresford called upon Margery. The head ache was there. it is true, and something of a faceache. too, for the woman was suffering from the efiects of a. seveve cold. under cover of which she hid the terrible pain which was laceraning her heart and making her sick with nervous appr‘ hension lest, at last. she was to he found out and confronted by the girl whom she feared and shrank from more than from all the world beside, unless it was Margery. her dearly loved. beautiful child, who had brought her the letter which had affected he! so strangely. It had been forwarded from Oak Bluffs. and post- marked originally at Mentone, and it read as follows : “ Msnsua LA RUE.â€"Inclosed find a note from Miss Hetherton, who has written asking your whereabont and that this might be for wanded to vou. In my absence fur a few days, my clerk. Lou's Amend. took charge of my business letters. and, it seems, answared the young lady. telling her your address. Had I been home this would not have occur» red, but it cannot now be helped. Hoping no great harm will come of it, I am " Your ob't servant, “ M. ALBascu.” This letter Margery had taken from the of. 609, and wondered in a vague kind of way what it contained, and why M Albrech hal written to her mother again when she had supposed her business relations with him fin ibhed. Since the time when Margery first learned to write. it had been a. distinctly un- derstood thing that both the and her mother Were to re<pect each other's correspondence. and Margery would as soon have nroken lhe seal of a letter directed to a stranger as to her mother, consequently she had never known just what was in the letters which had passed between Mrs. La hueand M. Albrech, of Men- tene. She had always known since her father’s death that her mother had at stated times received a certain amount of money from some source unknown to her; and she knew, too. that laiterly the annuity had ceased, be- cause, as her mother said, the person who i paid it was dead. That the sum was very lamall she had been made to believe, and he: lmother had told her once. when she asked 1 what became of it, that it was safely inVested ‘in stocks and hands in Paris. and was to be kept for her as a dowry when she was mar l lied, or to be used before if absolutely neces- ‘sa'y. “A gentleman in Paris. whose wife wa; wry fond of me. 1 was her maid first, and after she died took care of her child.” And Margery, wholly unsuSpioious, ac cepted this explanation as all thrre was to tell, and received the impression somehow that the gentleman 8 name was Puliguec and never dreamed of what lay behind, of the guilt. and sin. and terrible remorse, which haunted her mothvr so continu clly, and had made her grew old so fast. Mermr‘v could remember her When she was bright and pretty. with a. sparkle in her eyes and s bloom upon ht! cheeks which now were sunken and pile, while her long, black, abunuaut ban- was streaked with gray, and withiuthe last few months had been rapidy growing while She had brought the \leutuue letter, and given it to her mo'her. with the simple remark : ‘- It Was forwarded from 0 .k Bluffs.” Then she went to her work without so much as looking at her mother. who felt a kind 0" nervous fear taking possession of her as if in that forelizn letter more was danger lurking for her. She was always expecting danger now, and her face was very white as she'took the letter fvom Margery and went up to her room to read it alone. '1 But where doesit come from? Who gives it to you?" Margery had once inquired, and her mutuer ball replie! : “ Probably it has something to do with my money.” she thought. seeking to reassure herself as she broke the seal and opened the envelope from which Queenie’a none dropped into her lap. “Papa is dead. as you perhaps know. He died on the ship before we reached New York. and I am living alone at Hethertun Place, whxch is almosl: as lovely as Cha'eau des Fleurs. with a much finer view. Christine, did you know my mother was an American ‘2 She was, and her home was here in Merrivale. where my father found her and where I have a host of relatives on her side ; such a. dear darling old grandmother who calls me Rennet, and wears purple gloves, and loves me asreat deal more than I dvserve. and an Uncle Tom, who sells molasses and soda. and a cousin Anna Ferguson. who is about to make a great marriage anal an Aunt Mary Rossiter. who is just like some grand duchess. so refined and dignified and her dauuhters Ethel and Grace thh faces as pure, and saintly, and sweet as the lanes of some of the Madonnas in the Picking it up she read the address : “ Christine Bodine. care of M. Alhrech," and recognizing the handwriting. which she had olten seen on notes sent to her dnughter by Reinette. she gave a low, gaspinu cry, while fora. moment everything around her grew black. and she could neither see nor hear for the great fear overmastering her. " My DEAR Dmnmo. OLD 0312131st 2-â€" Have you forgotten all about the little baby you used to bear in your arms years ago, in Paris and at Chateau des Fleurs ? Liltle Queenie they called me, though my real name was Reinette. and I am the daughter of Mrs. Frederick Hetherton, who died in Rome twenty-one vears ago, and to whom you were 90 kind I have it in mother’s letter written to father. in which she tells him how good and true you were to her and bade him al- ways to be good and kind to you for her sake. And I think he tried to be. for I have ascer- tained that he set apart a certain amount of money for you which was all very well though I should have shown my gratitude in an alto nether difierent way. I might haVe given you money if you needed it,but I should also have made you come home to us. and should have loved and potted you because you knew my mother, and were so good to her. And that is whatI Mall to do new. “Tracked at last.” she iniapered, as she tried to read what M. Albrech had written, and could not forizhe blur before hgr eyfs. For weeks and months Mrs. La. Rue’s remedy for nervousness had been morphine, which she took in constant yincreasing doses, and she had resorted to it now, and, swallow ing half a. grain, grew calm at last. and read her agent‘s letter -, and then piuking up the pink-tinted, dainty note wizh Reimtle’s monogram upon the seal. kissad it pas sionalely. and cried over it as if it had been some living creature whom she loved speaking to her instead of a bit or perfumed paper, in which these lines were written: HETHER‘I‘ON PLACE, “ Mnnmum, Worcester county. Man, U CHAPTER XXXII. galleries of the Louvre, and Philâ€"but I can’t. tell you about him now. He is a young mun six fret high. and I liked him so much, and he has gone to India, and I am very. very lonely, and I want you to come and live with me here in America. I will try and make you so happy‘ and you will seem to bring me nearer to my mother, for you will tell me of mother ; what she did and what she said of me the few days she had me before she died. I am sure to love you because she did, and in her first letters to her mother and sis- Ler after she reached Paris she spoke of her gnoJ Christine, who was so much to her ; so do come at once, and make her daughter happy. "You see that I am writimz on the assump‘ tion the; you have no other ties. I do not believe you are married, and I always think of you as my dear old nurse, Christ n9, whom I sometimes fancy I can remember. Did you not come to me once in the B013 when another nurse had charge of me. and hug, and kiss and cry over me, and call me your dear cbih and give me a quantity of bou- b ins ? Some such scene cumes up to me how the misty past, and you had sucn blight black eyes and so much color in your cheeks. Was that. you and why did you nm stay with me always ? “Write immed'mely and answer all these qua-Itiuns, and Iell me you will come to your lovmg foster-child. “Rmnmm.” Oh, how the wretched woman wmhed as she read this loner, with thuds of pain bean- i -g in her heart and her eyes dim with burn- mg tears. It was so kind, so affectionate in its tone. and so familiar, too; so unlike what Reinette's manner toward her had been, and so unhke what it would be if she knew. " Q neeniv, my darling, will you call your- self my foster child when you know the truth 7” she moaned. as she rocked to and fro in her anguish, while at her woxk below Margery sat singing alittle song she had learned in the Tabernacle an Oak Bluffs: " There is rest for the weary, There 15 rest for you." “ Rest for the weary,” Mrs. La Rue re pented, as thp clvar, sweet tones floated up to her. ” And 1 am weary, oh! so weary ; but there is no rear. for me.exceph in death. which is a long. drwmless rest, and that I can have so soon, for my friend is always near me." and she, glunceJ toward the shelf where stood a vml of luuulauum, to which she had resort When morphine dui not avail to quiet her and bring forgetfulnvss. “ But. I must see Mar- gery once more," she thought. “ I must kis her again and hmr her call me mother” It was nearly time now for the evening meal, and, summoning all her strength and calmness. Mrs. La Rue went down stairs, and, under cover of the fast-increasing darkness. managed so Well that Margery suspected noth- ing, and attributed her mother’s pallet and weakness to the neuralgiafrom which she was suffering. I am 570ng to bed early to-night," Mrs La Rue said, when supper was over. and the table clegged away. A“ I_ am fgeelmgAquirte i113: Then Margery lowked at her clorely, and asked if in “as anything more than neuralgia which ailed her. Was there bad news in the letter ? “ Noâ€"yes; but nothing I can now ex- plain” Mrs La. Rue ieplied; then going up [0 her daughter, she kissed her twice, and ~afd : “ Good night, my darling. Don I speak to me when you come up to bed ; I may be asleep." Margery kissed her back, with no thought of what was in the mind of the miserable wo mm] as she slowly climbed the stairs, and. going to hur room, shut the door. and, taking down h+r friend, poured out what was to give ner forgetfulness and test. Drop by drop the dark liquid fell into the glass until there were foxty drops in all and she held it to the light, and looked at. is, and smiled as she thought of the morrow. “hen she would be deaf to L0 Margery's call. and deaf to Queenie's re- proachss if :he should come, as she mightdo now at. any time. -‘ But I shall be gone from it forever. and Margery will think it is an ov+rdoae take-n ac- cidentally to ease the pain. Yes, this is better than the river; and yet I am so hot and feveridz than the cold water would be grate- ful to me. and this is just the night for such a deed, only Margery would know I man: it and I must not. lose her respect. I must earny that with me at least. No. to sleep and newer waken is the best. So, Margery. darling, and you, too, Queenie, good-by l” It was Mr. Beresf )rd speaking to Margery, and even in her excitement the half-crazed woman wondered what had brought him mere, and, stealing noiselesst into the hnlL listened 'o the jenting going on brlow as the lawyer explained why he had come and Margery answered him playfully. It wa~ an honor for him to call upon them. Mrs. La Rue thought, and there flashed into her mmd : “ What if he fancied her more than the other one ; the 1ruth, then. if it comes out. Would bring her nearer to him. while if I die and leave eVsrythiug to conjectureâ€"if no ex ulanations are ever made, no excuses given‘ he would shrink from the child of a suicide and imposter. I will not. die to- mght ; that bloke!) gla-s was an omen that I need not. I will live for you. Margery. for you. as I was going to die for yen." Accmtomed as he was to the World, he saw at a glance that Christine Budine kuew no- thing of the customs of the beau mendeâ€" knew nothing of the habits of a fine lady. such as he meant his Wife to he. now that she was removed from the Fergutou's. a. thougm bf whom made him shudder. Indeed, Chla- tine, when questioned for references, and the _address of her last employer, acknowledged Returning to her room. she cleared away all traces of the broken glass. wiped up the stains of the dark fluid from the carpet, and then, undressing herself. she went to bed, but not to sleep. for her thoughts were busy with the past. the years ago when she was young and innocent. and first entered the services of Margaret Hetherton. She had seen an ad- Verttsement in the morning paper to the ef it ct that a waiting maid, who could speak some English, or at least understand it, was wanted by a young American lady, who could be seen at the hotel Mentice ewry day for a .veek netween the hours of twelve and two. As the terms ofiered were unusually liberal she resolved to apply for the situwtion, trust- to her good nature and readiness to do any thin{ and everything, to overbalance any lack of pulish in her manuets, for Christine was lowly burn, and had lived more in garrets than salons. but she was honest and good, and kind, and these qualities showad them- selves upon her face, which then was bright and pretty, and looked like a. face to be trusted . And Margaret Hetherton was won by it at once, for Christine went to her at the ap- pointed hour and found the ante-room to Madame Hetherton’s apartments crowded with applicants waiting for an audience. From these. as they came one by one from the interview, she gathered some idea of the lady. She was young. and beautiful and limld. and more afraid of Monsieur than she Was ol Iha maids. But when at last it was Christine’s turn to be admitted, she was not prepared for the wondrously lovelv, girlish face which emiled upon her. Atured in a morning wrapper of blue, which matched her eyes, Margaret reclined upon a white satin c inch, while partly behind her Mr. Hetherton stood with folded arms, watching the aspir- ants for office as they presented themselves. She raised the glass to her lips just as the doorbell rang a loud, clanging pea], whinh made her start so vmlemly that. the glass druppr'd from her trzmblinz hand, and the poiwn was spillud on the floor. The door was shut below by this time. Mr. Bereafoud was in the sitting room With Margery, and only the sound of their voices reached her as she stood a. moment. longer leaning over the bannister, But she oouldhearthe silvery ripple of Mai-guy‘s laugh, and Mr. Berenford's deep-toned voice as he replied, audit seemed to quiet herand turn her mind away from the 1102'. "Id contemplation which had been assailiug her. freely that she had never served as maid ex- hope cept as she was once a. nurse in an English as s (amply wyo took her with they} to Rouge: » ’wbos " But I can learn.” she said ; “ and I will try so hard, and serve madame so faithfully. I should so like you to try me." and she looked imploringly at Margaret, who saw something in the girl which pleased her._ ‘- Oh, Frederick, I like her so much better than the others. I am sure she will suit. Let us take her.” She was so young, and tidy, and plain in her dress, and looked so good and trusty that her heart warmed toward her. References were nothing to her. or grand ladies whom she had served, and, turning to her husband. she said, in a low tone : ‘- But she is gmd, I am sure, and I want her," the young Wife pleaded, and Christine was retained, and entered upon her duties the next day, smartly aouen up in a. new con- tume which Margaret. selected for her, enter- ing into all its details with a great interest. for. knowmg by this lime what dress could do, she meant to surprise her husband with the melamorphose in hu' maid. But Fredmick demurred, urging that she had 110 style.» no appefuanoe of a majd._ And she did surprise him, though this was perhaps as much due to u‘hristine herself as to ihe pretty dress, and muslin apron, and cap with scarlet ribbons, which the girl wore so jauntily. Christxne had overheard and understood much which had passed in asides between Mr. and Mrs. Hetherton with regard to herself. and knew that the gentleman did not think her fine enough or attractive enough to be a waiting-main, and with her pride aroused, she vowed that he should some ,day change his mind. To this end she bent every energy until her object was secured. and more than secured, and she began to tremble for the result. How peaceful, and happy, and innocent those firrt few months spent in Mr. Hetheiton’s service seemed to Uhristine now as she looked back upon them.and how sweet, and kind, and patient her mistress had al- ways been with her, treating her more as an equal and a friend than as a servant, and thereby frequently calling down upon herself sharp reproofs from her husband, who did not approve of her familiarity with a maid. It showed at once a lowborn taste. he raid. and he Wishvd his wife to conquer all such feelings and, lorgexting the past. remember that she was now Mrs. Frederick Hethertou, of Paris. But Margaret could not forget the past, or cease to pine for the dear ones at home, the plain. old-fashioned mother, whose ways she knew were homespun in the ex treme, and not at all like the elegant man- ners of her proud husband. but who, never- theless, was her mother. for whom she cried every day of her life. Laying her head on the lap of her faithful Christine she would sob her homesickness, and talk by the hour of Merrivale and its people, until Christine knew every rock, and orag, and winding brook in the pleasant New England town. and knew pretty well what the Fergusons were, and how they stood in Merrivale. They Were of mutual benefit to each other â€"this mislress and maid, (or while Christine anticipated every wish of Margaret, waiting upon her as if she had been a dnchess, and teaching her the French language as well as the German, of which she had some know- ledge, Margaret in turn taught her to read from English books. and during the many weeks win-n she was alone and her husband away with his iiiends she gave her lessons in writing, and history, and geography. and anthmetic, so that Christine. who was apt and bright, became a much bet- ter scholar than was common to persons of her class. and aston'shed her master with the great and rapid improvement so perceplible in her. He no longer thought her ignorant. or commoxplace, or void of attractions. and when he was home he invariably found him- self lingering longer in his wife‘s apartments when Christine was there, with her saucy smile. her bright eyes. and pretty, p'quant way of saving things. She made herself necessary to him, and, carefully studying his wishes, ministered to him. with the alacriiy of a slave, and when he ofiered her moneyior vxtra services she refused to take it. and said that what she did was done for love of him and madame. Margaret had meant it for a blessing, but it Was really a curse, and it had followed Christine ever since. until now. when her sin was finding her out, and making her writhe with anguish and fear: .. Her mind was disordered. and she raved incoherently of Rome. and Chateaudes Fleurn, and Paria, and Margaret. and Reinette until she was utterly emanated, and growing quiet, at last fell into a sleep so deep that she did not hear Margery when she let Mr. Beresford out and came up 30 her room. And so the mischief grew before the very eyes «i the *“hfi'aspeoting woman to whom ho h husband and maid were finally false. while she trusted both and clung to the letter with a love which made the poor woman shiver with remorseless pain. as she remem- bered it now, when the sins of the past were overwhelming her so fearfully. Wham: dark chasm she bridged over. not daring even to to look at it. lest she should shriek aloud, and how fast her burning tears fellas she re- called those days in Rome, when the feithless huebmd was seeking his own pleasure. while the wife, who was so plainly dying.grew paler and thinner each day. and yet strove so hard to keep up. by talking of the great happiness in store for her and surprise for him. if all went well with her. and she lived through the trial awaiting her. Christine could see that baby now, and feel the touch of file soft hands, and see the white, worn face upon the pillow. and the great bme eyes which followed her no wistfully and ques- tioningly. and at last had in them a look at tenor and dread, as the days went by and no strength came to the feeble limbs. or vitality to the nerves. She was dying, and she knew it at last, and throwing herself into Christine’s arms, she subbed like a little child. ‘ And yet I was kind to her." she whisper- ed ; “and she died in my arms. with her head upon my breast. and she kissed me twice upon my lips; one was for me, she said, and one for the baby when she was old enouszh to know Ah me. those kisses 1 how they burn like fire 1 and I am burning, tooâ€" burning! Is there a hell I wonder. and is it worse than theAtormentAI an; exyiuring?’_' “ Frederick is so fond of children, and hp will be so happy and surmised when he hears nf it. I am glad I did not tell him," she said, when atlasn the waiting and suspense were over, and a little girl baby was pillowed on her arm. "No, no lâ€"don‘t, don‘t! I am not so good as you think. You will kill me if you talk to me so 1" But Margaret only talked on of her love for her, and her trust and confidence in the girl, who, knowing she was unworthy, stopped her ears at last to shut out the sound of Mar- garet’s dying voice, which. after that voice was hushed in death, she heard it repeating over and over the words : "God bless you, Christine, and reward you according to your kindness and faithfulness to me!" But Margaret knew better. She would never go to Chateau des Fleurs~never see her husband again, and that grieved her the most. for all h a neglect and coldness had not killed her love. and she longed for him now so much when she lay dying in Rome, with only her baby and Christine with herâ€"Chris- tine, whom she blessed for all she had been to her, calling her the dearest maid a min tress ever had, and talking to her until the conscious-smitten girl cried out, in an agony of remorse : h In is hard to die.” she said, "when I am so young and have so much to live for, now baby is born. And home is so far away, and mother, :00. and Frederick â€"where is he. Christine? Where is my husband? He ought to be here. and I s) sick and lonely.” Chris ine knew that very we11.and her tears fell like rain upon the golden head resting upon her bosom, while she tried to comfort the young mother, who was puebiug so surely away “Monsieur must come soon,” she said; “and then madame will be better, and we shall go back to Chateau des Plants and be so happy there." _ “Poor mothu: she is resting sweetly, uni I hope Will be better to-morrow.” Margery said as she bent over the sleeping woman, whose face looked so white, and worn. and pinqhed. - The next morning. however. Mrs. La Rue did not attempt to get. up. She was too weak and sick. she said, and should keep her bed all day. “And, Margery.” she added. with quivering lip and a pleading tone, “don't let any one in here, w111 you. if they come asking for me ? Not any one ; promise, Mar gery.” “ No, mother. no one shall disturb you ; I promise " Margery laid. soothingly, looking It her mother in some alarm lest her mind was wandering. “ No: yes. I think I did ; the psih was so bad.” -‘ Did you n31: take morphine last night ‘2 ” Mnrggry asked: g1;d_M_r{.Pa Bus rqplied : This would account {or her strange de- meanor, and with her fears alloyed Mmery dad what she :oul l to make her comfortible. A tempting breakfast was brought up to her. and Margery washed her face and hundamnd smoothed her hair. which it seemed to her, had grown grayer during the night, and tid- ied up the room,and then. with a kiss, mated to leave her. " Fortunately I have not much work on hand today. and can stay wish you a great deal. I must. finish Miss Ferguson’s soque. Ind that is all. Now try to sleep again so as to be brighter. I can’t have such a. woe- ful looking, pale faced little mother on my hands. I shall have to send her (IE and get another one.” She spoke playfully, but every word was a stab to the miserable women, who said again: " Remember, Margery, nobody is to come up here." “ No. mother. nobody. You are safer than the old bishop in his castle on the Rhine. for the rats did reach him there, and not so much as a. mouse shall harm you here, so an rwoir,” and with another kissâ€"the lastâ€"the very last she would ever give as she gave that, she ran down stairs just as a carriage stopped at, the gate and Reinette came rapidly up the walk. The London Iron Exchange his an inter- esting history of the manufacture of tin plates from aboutthe year 1600 up to the present time, from which we extract a de- scription of the methods now employed in the manufacture of this useful article. The British have recently visited the Dy- feryn Iron and Tin Plate Works at Swansea situated on the river Tawe, with a View of informing themselves regarding the practi ca1 workings of this important industry. The same association met at Swansea 32 year- ago, since which time great advances have been made in the processes of manufacture. From the 40 mills now running within a radius of three miles in the Swansea valley about 20.000 boxes of finished tin plate are turned out weekly, or 1,000,001? boxes an nually. whiehie estimated to be equal to about one-third of the entire exnort. Now comes the last process. The sheets are iron only so far. They next reach the tin house. and are placed in a trough containing clean water. ready for the tinmen, as he is termed, who then picks them up and puts them singly in a grease pan containing palm oil, to soak. and after being there for a short time the tinman places the sheets in a large iron pot containing molten tin. with a covering of palm oil. Here it unites with the tin. to which it has a strong aflinity. When he has performed his part the plates are handed over to the next man, called a wash- man, whose pot contains pure molten tin ; after they have soaked in his pet a little, he raises them with a tongs on to the hob as he requires them. brushes the surface of both sides of each sheet. and after dipping them into another pot containing molten tin again. they are sent through rolls which work in a large pot containing palm oil, and the speed at which the rolls move regulates the quanti ty of tin to be put on each sheet. They are afterward raised from the rolls (under which they have been passing) by a youth. called a raiser, handed to two young women. who tab then in bins or boxes containing bran. one But how tin plates are made is informa- tiop likely: to most interest the reader : In the first place, says the writer, we have what is termed bar iron. several feet long. about 7 inches wide, and from 1} to g of an inch in thickness. rolled according to the plates required at so many pounds per foot. It is cut in what. may be termed a jack-in-the- box or steam shear, say about 19 pounds, to a piece which will eventually be rolled into 16 sheets of 20 inches long by 14 inches wide. 112 of such sheets forming a box, and weigh- ing when txnned nearly 1 cwt. This piece of iron is first placed in a rever- beratoty furnace, heated to redness. put through the chilled rolls. and rolled in what is termed thick, five times; reheated and rolled in singles twice; doubled. reheated and rolled, three times; d‘nubled, reheated and rolled, twice; doubled. reheated and rolled in eights, twice, until they are stretched out to the required length and thickness. The length oi the bar exceeds by about one inch the Width of the sheet to be made. so as to allow for the shearing process, and the bar is therefore rolled with its axis parallel to that of the rolls. Great attention is necessary in the construction and management of the mill furnaces. so that the heating of the bar and sheet for rolling may be effected with the utmost regularity. and without the formation of scale on the surface lo! the bars or sheets ; for when scaling takes place from the draught in the furnace being too keen or the heat raised too high. the quality of the iron is injured ; the scale, it subsequently rolled into the iron. leaves a rough surface on the plates in the after process of separating and pickling. The plates are then sheared. and the rough edges taken of. The iron of 19 pounds or thereabouts makes 16 sheets which, being cut in half. leaves 8 sheets in a piece closely wedged. Girls with small iron hatchets open them. They are then termed black plate From one ton of bar iron about 16} cwt. of black plate is made ; the loss is termed shear- ings, and is worked up again in the forge fineries. The plates are next sent to be pickled. i. 9., immersed in heated dilute sul. phuric acid. known as oil of vitriol. They next pass singly through cold rolls. three. four, or more times, as may be deemed requisite. These rolls are highly polished. and must be set in accruate order to give the plates a perfectly flat set and well polished surface. Avein they are annealed or softened at a lower temperature than the first, as their surfaces would be damaged by being in any de- gree stuck together. Pickled again as before excepting that the liquid is considerably weaker than previously, placed in cast iron troughs containing clean water renewed by a stream constantly flowing through. they are then taken in hand singly. and scoured if necessary with sand and hempen pads before being delivered to the tinman. This process is done by aid of a patent, known as Hutchings’ patent pickling ma- chine. The plates are placed in a brass cradle or receptacle, lifted by hydraulic, then dropped down into a round wooden or lead tank containing the o. v. ; the cradle is then made to revolve by means of steam power, to enable the liquid to ruse between the sheets. which revolution is retained. They are lifted again by the hydraulic. dropped into a tub, a little apart from the last containing water only, the cradle revolving as in last tub, so that the water may rush be. tween the sheets to cleanse or wash away all trace of the acid, when taken up again the plates are clean and bright as silver. They are next suhjwted to a bright red heat, which lasts from 12 tn 2; hours. in closed iron an» nealieg pots in a reverberatory furnace ; they are well covered on the top to prevent the plates from being burnt ; the heat is kept as high as it can be without softening them to such a degree as to cause them to stick so fast togezher as to prevent their separation when cold. now TIN PLATES ARE MADE. [To my communal alter the other. which takes 03 the grease -. ' another girl, called a dilator. gives them a further polish with a skin duster, and takes them to the asserting room. where every plate passes inspection, and. it not up to the ‘mark, is sent back for rectification. After passing through that ordeal they are counted and Weighed by young women. made up into boxes according to the different sorts, handed to boxers and packers. who pack them in elm boxes. marked by branding irons as per order, and finally placed in the railway truck to be forwarded to their various destinations. It nmay be a surprise to some to know that a tin plate passes through about thirty hands from the bar to the railway track. but is handled no less than 105 times. Such is a simple ac count of tin plate making. PROF-REES!!!" CO‘I‘TI’N SEED Olh MANUFACTURE. The industries of the South have, since the close of our civil war, been extending in dif» ferant directions. while some peculiar branches have attained a degree of impor- tance never dreamed of in the days of slavery. One of these is the manufacture of the oil of cotton seed and the art of refining the same, by which it is made as sweet as olive oil. and not only used as such in the United States, but is now largely exported to Italy to com‘ pete with the native olive oil.which is a staple article. It is there used for adulterating the native article, and then it is exported again as genuine olive oil. This has already be- come a serious matter, as of the six million gallons of cotton seed oil which were ex- ported from the United States during the last year, the greater portion went to Italy. ‘The Italian Government. therefore. in order to check this adulteration, has imposed a heavy duty upon the importation of cotton seed oil from the United States. The expor tation, which in 1877 and 1878 was about one and a half million gallons per year. reached in 1879 nearly six millions. and will be sur- passed in 1880. Our home consumption of the article is over two million gallons per year. At present 410,000 tons of the seed are pressed, yielding 35 gallons of oil and 750 pounds of oil cake to the ton of seed. This oil cake has admirable fattening qualities. and is largely used for cattle.â€"Scientific American. l ~Aceording to the Pall Mall Gazette, the ‘dimculty experienced by the youth of Eng- Iland in finding a career in the old country increases every day. In every country town may be witnessed the painful eight of sev- erel young surgeons struggling for I liveli- hood, and only just succeeding in securing it. Two eoliciteu are Idmitted annually now where one wee added to the ranks of the law tmht‘fitteen ”mega. Therein but one pro- One of the most remarkable features of the discovery of the band of Thebans who fell at Chmronea is that. according to the report. all the teeth 0! each member of the sacred band are sound and complete. Either these gallant patriots were exceptionally lucky, or the con- dition of teeth in old Greece was enviably dif- ferent from that 0! later and more degenerate days. The Romans were well acquainted with the evils that attend on the possession of teeth, and had some considerable know- ledge 01 the use of gold in counteracting these evils. If we remember rightly. an exception to the rule of not burying precious objects with departed Romans was made in favor of the gold that had been used for stopping teeth. We modems may compare tavorably with the Romans in the skill of our dentists. but we ‘cau not pretend to rival the defenders of ‘ Thebes in their superiority to the necessity for these gentlemen. Rare indeed are the happy mortals of today who can truly boast that their teeth are in the perfect condition that nature intended, and that the craft of the dentist has never been employed upon them. It would be a difficult task to select from our army, or any modern army, three hundred men with teeth as sound as those of the Theban warriors are reported to be.â€" London News. â€"Some two years smoe the Russian Gov omment sent two musicians to Siberia to col- lect and write down. the national melodies. By traveling from village to village, and sttending the various festivities of the peas- ants, they have obtained a large number of tunes. including about thirty which were previously unknown. The collection is to be published during the 0( ming winter, andfis looked for with much curiosity in Russian musical circles. ’I‘lll 'I‘EE'I‘II 0' TH. ANCIENT GBEEKs. The Protean nature of the vowel sounds is familiar to all. A few amusing examples will show that the consonants Ire nearly Is bad : B makes a road broad. turns the ear to a bear, and Tom into a tomb. CVmakes lime climo. hungod changed. a lever clever, and transports a lover to clover. ' D turns a bear to heard, a crow to a crowd, and-makes anger danger. ‘ F tmns lower regions to flower regions. G changes a son to a song, and makes one gone. H changes eight into height. K makes now know. end eye keyed. L translers a peer into pearl. N turns a line into hnen, a crew to a crown and makes one none. P motsmorphoses lumber into plumber. Q of itself hath no significance. 8 turns even to seven, makes hove shove. and word swcrd,a pear a spearmakes Ilsugh tor of laughter, and curiously changes having I lg). to shaving e shoe. _ T makes a bough bought, turns here there, alters one to tone. changes ether to telnet. transforms the phrase “to allow his own” "to tnllow this town." The following mode of tying hyenu in their dons as practiced in Afghanistan, is given by Arthur Connolly in his Overland Journal, in the words of an Alghnn chief. the Shirkaree SymLDaond: _ Hyena! are also taken alive by the Arabs by a very similar method, except that a wooden gang is used instead of a felt cloak. The similarity in the mode of capture in two such distant countries as are Algeria and Afghan- istan, and by two races so different. is remark- able. From the fact that the Afghans con- sider that the feat requires great presence of mind. and no instance being given of a man having died of a bite received in a clumsy at- tempt, we may infer that the Afghan hyena is more powerful or more ferocious than his African congener. W does well. e g.. hose are whose 2 are be- comes wars, on won. omen women. so sow. vie to View; it makes In sun wsnn. and turns a hat intoâ€"whst ! Y turns In: to fury. I man to many, to to toy, a rub to a ruby. can to yours, and a. lad to a lady. “ When you have tracked the beast to his den, you take a rope with two slip-knots upon it, in vour right hand. and with your left hold ing a felt cloak before you, you go boldly but quietly in. The animal does not know the nature of the danger and therefore retires to the back of his den, but you may always tell where his head is by the glare of his eyes. You keep on moving gradually toward him on your knees, and when you are within distance throw the cloak over his head. close with him and take care he does not see himself. The beast is so frightened that he eowers back. and, though he may bite the felt, he cannot turn his neck round tohurt you ; so you quiet- ly feel for his forelegs, slip the knots over them. and then, with one strong pull, draw them liuht up to the back of his feet and tie them there. The beast is now your own, and you can do what you like with him. We gen- erally take those we catch home to the kraal, and hunt them on the plain With bridles in their months, that our dogs may be taught not to fear the hrutes when they meet them wild." â€"-The part of Ireland that is most thought at this wemher is Ulster. IIOW THEY CAPTURE BYENAI. ALPHABETIP CUBIUDITIEE. The Change- and lmprovcmenls 0! Thin! l can. From the Belleville Intelligencer. Thirty three years ago, in the early mom- iugs, the writer. with a fellow apprentice, used to climb the mountain side at Hamilton, and gaze upon the beautiful panorama which the eye took in from the summit, and for in beautiful pictures of the fairy scenes before us~picrures of not only the future of the “ambitious city” whe . the vast plain below us would be filled with a teeming population, and hives of busy workmen, and im so workshops and factories, and palatial ores and warehouses ; but pictures of other kinds, l the dim outlines of which he often transferred in imagination to canvass, and wrought up in fantaistic shapes, and made for the figures who played thereupon a conspicuous part, a bright and glorious future. They were for the most part boyish-built castles, and while some of the pictures still stand out in all the lustre and glory which the most fexud youthful imagination could gild them wi h, others have crumbled into ruins and mouldered into ashesâ€" burnt. dead ashes. Then Hamilton had but some 12,000 inhabitants ; there was no railway then, but great lumbering stages brought the mails and passengers from Buf- falo. and Toronto. and Detroit. A daily steamer ran from Hamilton to 1‘oronto com- manded by Capt. Harrison, now of Bellevulle, and occasionally one came in from Niagara, while a regular line ran between Ham [ten and the St. Lawrence ports. Those were the days when the SPECTATOR flourished under the management of B. R. Smileyâ€"the old Gazette was in its palmy days under the con trol of Mr. Bull. and the Express vigorous with Mr. Brena at its head. What chan res have taken place during these thirty-three years lâ€"in the life of individuals â€"in the life of the city-in the life of the nation 1 Who can record them ? As we stand upon the mountain summit on this bright and beautiful October morning, and contrast the scene which greets our eye with that of thirty-three years ago, we can form some conception of the great change which has come over the life of the city. From a population of about 12,000 it has swelled to hearty 40,000. From com- paratively a small collection of houses scat- tered over a vast plateau. it has become a populous city, with princely residences and beautiful lawns adorning the slope and lying at the foot of the mountainâ€"whole streets of magnificent blocks of stone and brick have been built upâ€"the tall chimneys which 8.1- imost meet the clouds, and acres of buildings point out influense manufactories. where thousands of busy hands are employedâ€"the spires of elegant and costly churches and the piles of magnificent public and private build- ings tell their own story of progression. The old stage coach has given way to the iron horse, and Hamilton, too, has its railway ser- vice, which has done and is doing much to expand the trade and commerce of the city. From our vantage around we can see the smoke of the locomotive coursing its way along the western slope of Burlington Heights, another plunging into the very depths of the city, an- other crossing a fairy-like structure which spans Burlington Canal, and another thread- ing its winding way up the mountain side; while at your very feet, you behold the Toy Railway which traverses its devious way through various streets, half hidden by the foliage of the trees and connects the trade of Dundas with that of Hamilton. To the west lies the thriving town of Dundas, which is the seat of many important manufactories ; to the north is the Crystal Palace. and east of that is Dnndurn Castle, once the home of Sir Allen Napier McNab, who played no unimportant part in the history of Canada thirty years ago ; .and to the north of that lies Burlington Cem- etery, the city of the dead, where the changes in the life of the indivicual can best be noted. Looking towards the lake, you see Burling- ton Beacb, which appears as a faint line. separating the Bay from Lake Ontario. The shore on the nothern side is a high bluff, and in the background the hills rise still higher forming a continuation of the mountain so called, which stretches away east to Niagara. Half hidden in the forest can be seen the village of Waterdown. and north of that is Burlington, formerly called Welling- ton Square, and on a clear morning Oakville and Toronto lighthouse can be seen. In the foreground lies the business portion of the City. not much like the City of thirty years ago. Whole streets of masstve buildings fill up the space between the slope and the rail- way line, and rising amidst the mass of brick and stone and towering way above others are the spires of several churches. the new Court House. the F emalc College and other public and private edifices. To the east the Hamil- ton dz Northwestern Railway courses its wind- ing way up the mountain side, and the pla- teau stretching away to the east and lying between the mountain and the bay, which thirty years ago was covered with forest, is now laid out into beautiful avenues and streets. with handsome boulevards and eleâ€" gant residences. and filled up with business houses and a thickly settled population. Con- trasted with the scene of thirty-three years ago the picture is simply marvelous. What will it be within its next thirty years ‘2 Who can tell Active, marvelously active, as his intelli- gence is. it is not so remarkable as is the in- tensity of feeling which he throws into every- thing he does. He is all aglow, and always airlow. Any one meeting him in company, or hearing him speak for the first time, would think that the subject he might happen to be descanting on was one which had been upper- most in his thoughts for years, such is the earnestney of his manner. When the same person heard him again and again equally fervent upon other subjects, he would natur- ally take this fervor for a mere oretorical habit or device. At last our observer would perceive that it is neither, but ,{the spontan- eous expression of a nature which throws its whole weight upon whatever it touches. and which has such a. reservoir of force behind as never to su Her from this continual drain. It is this power of concentration,of being wholly absorbed by what is for the moment before him, thst is perhaps the main source of his efiectiveneu."â€"-Scnbncrfor November. “ Mr. Gladstone is a Scotchman on both his father's and mother’s side, and half a Highland (that is to say. a Celtic) Scutchman. He is (with the insignificant exception of Lord Bute, who was a mere royal favorite). the first Prime Minister of England who has come from the northern half of the island. He is, indeed. the first Scotchmau, except Brougham. who has ever playcd a leading part in English politics. Bolinebroke, VVal. pole, Pulteney. Chatham, Lord North.Charles James Fox. William Pitt. Lord Liverpool. Canning. Lord Grey, Lord Althorp. Lord Melbourne, Sir Robert Peel Lord Derbv.were all of them English by blood. The Duke of Wellington angd Lord Palmerston. though nominally Irish. were really English. Burke was an Irishman. and Burke’s career (unlike as. in many respects, he is to Mr Gladstone) strikingly illustrates some of the features of the Celtic character. This Scottish stram in Mr.Gladstone has had two remarkable effects. It has kept him from ever quite understand- ing and being in full sympathy with the ordi- nary English character, and it has prevented the English from ever quite understanding him. It is not merely because Scotland is Liberal that he is welcomed there with such transports of enthusiasm. It is because. in spite of the contrast between his High Churchism and their Presbyterianism. the Scotch enter into and enjoy his modes of thinking and feeling in a way which h nglish- men. and especially Englishmen of the upper class, do not and cannot. He is not a typical Scotchman ; but his intellect belongs so much more to the Scottish than to the Eng- lish type that the average educated Eng lish- man is perplexed, even frightened by8 fea- tures he cannot account for. because he finds nothing in them like himself. HAMILTON’S PROGRESS GLADSTONE