The following text may have been generated by Optical Character Recognition, with varying degrees of accuracy. Reader beware!

A GUILTLESS PRODUAL’. B: the Author of “Hoxortxs vaxhuw ” ./ 9 “A CAPTIVE’S CAPTfYE,” ((17. ‘ ' “Ah, Grisel, my dear girl, how are you '1” drawls Captain Gifford, adjusting his eye- glass and surveying my brave array with apparent approval. “ Yorke, allow me the pleasure of introducing you to By J ore ! W'hat a. remarkable coincidence, that you should be name-sakes I” he exclaims, looking from one to the other, and forgetting to con- clude the introduction. “Scarcel Y, considerin that b 7 marriaoe . ‘ 3’ c we are cousms," I say with a cold lmutrur, born of desperation. Wilfrid Yorke'laughs uneasily, and, ad‘ vancing, holds out his hand. Oh, how I loathe its contact 3 . “ I had no idea I should meet you here,” he says Heprecatingly. “ Gifford, 1 was not awamj’thut you were acquainted with Mrs. Yoike." ' ~ ;’ ‘V‘Cohfidering that in two hours7 time I shall have the honour of being that lady’s brother-in-law, dear boy, I am very much acquainted,” laughs Captain Gifford, pulL ing his heavy blonde moustache, a favourite habit of his. ‘ A look, almost of consternation. crosses \Vilfrid Yorke’s dark, handsome face. “ \Vhat, is it Leâ€"Miss Churchill that you are going to marry ‘3” he stammers in dire bewilderment. “ By Jove ! Did I forget to tell you the lady’s name? Yes ; it is Miss Churchill. Awfully strange, Grisel, that Yorke and I should happen to fall across each other at St. James’ yesterday ! \Ve hadn’t met since we first made acquaintaince out in India some five or six years ago: and we had so much to talk over in the few minutes we were together that, ’pon my word, old fel- low, I don’t believe, beyond the bare facts of the case, I gave you any particulars. Never mind, it’s a pleasant surprise I” “ (y‘risel l" a soit voice calls from above. “1 must ask you w cxcusemc,”1s:iy, still with the same calm dignity. “Captain Gifford, Mal) asked me to come down for this” râ€"touching the paper-swathed flowers in his hand. “Aw, yes ; give it to your sister with my love,” he drawls, throwing a sentimental in- flection in his pompous tones, which at- any other time and in other circumstances would have upset my gravity; but, as it is, I quiet- ly take the bouquet from him and go slowly “up-stairs, my heart sinking at every step. What will be the upshot of this «wire temps :’ How am I to break the news to Leo ? “\Yhat an age you’ve been I" exclaims Mab, taking possession of the flowers. “If you were not such a little pink of propriety,l should think you had been indulging in a flirtation with Cctewayo. \Vhat is he like ‘1" “ Leo, I have a message for you ; but it, must be delivered ill the strictest privacy,” I say, with what I believe to be a pei'fecvtly natural laugh, and disregarding Mab’s ques- tion. “ So I am going to turn you all out, except,perhaps mamma, and she’s a privileg- ed individual. Now, no listening at the key-hole ;” and I playfully marshal out the troop of gay laughing girls and close the uoor upon them. 1 'r If rnLy own composure surprised me Leo's does still more. Mamma is the only one whom the intelligence upsets; but Leo scarcely changes colour. I shall never know what it costs her to maintain this unnatural calm ; I cannot even guess from that “cold and clear-cut face” gleaming like marble through the mists of her filmy veil; but oh, it must be a cruel struggle. Then the carriages. begin to arrive, and all is con- fusion. ’ Dear Old Joseph, in his simplicity, never dreams of connecting his nephew’s friendâ€" the man whom both I and my family treat with perfect courtesyâ€"with the hero of my unhappy adventure; and it would be cruel to enlighten him, he is so happy among us all, and the very life and soul of the pagty. m .\1 1 n! So everything passes ofl" smoothly and with brilliant eclat. A11 unite in saying that Leo behaves splendidly; and one pompous old dowager, glorious in old gold sat-in and Honibon lace, informs me that she considers my sister “most perfect form,” and that there is no such sure sign of ill-breeding as a. vulgar display of sentiment. WiTfi‘id Yorke’s handsome face creates no end 01 jealousy. It turns the heads of five of the bridesmaids, and Mnb whispers to me that he is “ simple divine.” After all, Sir Jose h is my escort; for, one of the lady guests ailingtoput in an ap- pearance, papa. takes mamma, and Gerald has to relinquish his bridesmaid to Wilfrid Yorke. Fortunately he is a youth of very phlegmatic temperament, and, on the whole, rather afraid of girls, so resigns his lady with AS] 5:: Mud-bro m the sualion 111:: m, mum” lown. And lagged away (1.0 {em (II-cps \Yhiic her hair 10)) he“ itch“ ‘ And she 100de m 1m:- so swot- ‘ Am": b id. “You win nut ‘ 1140i“â€" Iswt . to her I‘m btimzlrui, And (-21.1411 1.0. ' 4: (.( h)’ .Ilt (3 pct. down. Thnn thetmin bwt- me 13.10}: 10 the city To busy toil each day; Tut-r0 Was smxuny tune to remember My girl so 1111' a“ 1%; But who“ the day \ms Cndod. ~ And I sat in siicmc a. (me, Then I thought at tho Ame daisy I shoud umim some (my LS my own. Three nights] bore up bravely As I thought or the time to come; ’J‘m'cc nights I tried to be cheerful, But was only silunb and glnm. And then upon the fourth night. 1 gun: my moustache a twirl, PI): on 1' v liillingnocktiu Anc- filed on another 3," " very gopd gracAe'. The dejeuner is over, and, amid the regu- lation shower of old shoes, the newly-wed- ded pair have departed en route for Brigh- ton. It is barely four o’clock, the most de- pressing of intervals which ensues between the breakfast and the dance. No one seems to know what to do to pass the time. The men lounge about the drawing room all more or less in a state of suppressed bore- dom, martyrs to the politeness which pre- vents them from drowning Pnnui in the fumes of a fragrant cigar. Flirtation falls CHAPTER \‘II.â€"-C<>.\‘T1 N r121). Coltish Days. W 111ThLAW 112m, 0 < .w copâ€"â€" flat at this most matter-of-fact hour. Even Mal) Gifford puts up her little jewelled hand. to stifle a yarn. “I vote we take a tum round the gar- den. “'8 shall iall asleep if this state of stagnation continues much lgugér,” she say jumping up with her wonted aIu-crity. The suggestion meets with general ap- plause, and all the feminine portion of the conmnmity~â€"a1ways excepting matmgfll’mi/ias "departs m mum? in quest offlwrups and suitable boot~leather. ' {t is the fairest of autumn afternoons, the sun “ standing amid roses in the western sky,” the air :resh and invigorating. Sir Joseph (irifi'ord’s grounds are very extensive, consisting for the greater part of well-tini- hered park-land. The grand old trees are scattering their faded leaves broadcast to form a carpet for our careless feet as we fiit beneath their'venerable branches like so mar y gayvhued butterflies. I am walking with Rose Gifford,the second sister,’aud her/inure, one Lieutenant Moray, and juét in the rear are Mahaml\\'ilf1‘id Yorke. Mal) has thrown :1 soft white shawl about her head and shoulders, from which her gipsy face peeps out with tantalising coquetry, She is bright enough now; her dusky checks are flzshcd with a rare rich colorr, and her ripplng laugh floats lightly back to us upon the sweet air. “\Vhat a flirt Mail) is I” remarks her sis- 101‘ serenely. “She will singe her wings some «lay. (1‘ e1 dear, is your husband anything like 1‘ . cousin;in appearance, I mean‘” u again.” It Mantel} here. “ N0~0h, no ; not in the least I" I answer confuscdlyi “ Mr. Yorke, my husband, is fairwvery fair ;” and a, vision arises before me of that noble steady face, with its grave loving eyes and kindly smile a. vision that fills my hear with weary longing and unut- tcmble remorse. “ Rose dear, will you mind if I go in now? It is getting i‘ather chilly, and you know I must/take particular care of my troublesome lungs, or I shall be having another attack of inflammation ; and Sir Joseph may not care to have his house converted into a hospital again,” I say, with a dreary attempt at a laugh, stopping as I speak. “ How thankful you will be to have him home 'again ! A year must seem a lifetime to be parted from 0110‘s husband,” she says thoughtfully. I svee Liefitenant Moray covertly press the little white hand lying upon his coat»slee\'e, andi “filooki 10ij into eyeg‘tlm‘b .1001: love Rose offers vsome kind , protest, and her companion politely, but I fear not very truthfully, expresses his regret at my pro- posed return to the house ; but neither the one nor the other is sufficiently strong to alter my determination ; and I am just turn- ing to leave them when Mali suddenly hap- pens to look round. “ Oh, Grisel, you are surely not going in yet?” she exclaims, with genuine vexation. “ \Ve must all go in ifyou do. It is so beauti- ful out here ; ever so much better than that hot drowsy drmving-room. “'ait just an- other ten minutesâ€"t0 please me ;” and good-natured Mal) coaxineg links her arm in mine7 and draws me forward to where \Vilfl'id Yorke is awaiting her, and, 11016113 rah/is, I am compelled to wall; on with them. “ I know why you were in such a. hurry to getback," she says when we are out of earshot of the couple behind. “ I am just the same myself. 1 hate playing third person to those two ; they’re so overpowering senti- mental.” \Vilfrit-l Yorke is not at all like himself today. He walks by Man‘s side with down- east eyes and knit brow aurl scarcely offers a. remark. \Vorrls fall to express the utter contempt and disgust in which I hold this man ; yet I can scarcely help pitying him, he looks so haggard and unhappy. The past ten months have madesad havoc upon his hand» seine face. It is thinner and sharper. and the month has grown set and almost hard in its cynicism. Not once since our first on- counter have our eyes met. I cannot look at him, and he dare not look at me Mab must think us strange relations. But then she always stigmatises me as a “little prude;” an what interest would it be to \Vilfrid Yorke to pay particular court to a married woman? She flits between us, laughing and chattering in her gay way, a girl who has no shadow of sorrow to mar the beauty-of this gorgeous autumn afternoon. I am younger, three years younger than she is; hut, oh, how old I feel beside herâ€"I who have felt the heart-thrust of a sorrow none the less poignant because it has been of my own seeking. All, could I but call back “ the days that are not,” how differently would I act! But they are gone for ever, gone beyond recall ; and this is but my requitul. “ Grisel, how about flowers for this even- ing? Suppose we go and hunt up Jenkinson and see it he has anything very choice. You must know that I am an especial favourite with uncle‘s crusty old gardener,”Mab laugh- ineg informs the man by her side. “He won’t cut his orchids for any one but me. “'e have been fast friends ever since I was in pinaforedom. I used to call him my sweetheart. You will see how nicely I can manage him. I am the only one who can, even including uncle.” “ The first sharp sorrowâ€" ay, the breakingmp Of that deep fountnin. never to be scal‘d 'l‘ill we with Time close up the great ac'- count"â€" But Jenkixrson is nowhere to be found ;‘ and Mab, not to be balked of her flowers, lea ls the way to the greenhouse and prepares to help herself. But she is hard to please ; and presently she pauses in dis- gust; U “ It is so annoying that the orchid-house is locked. I always choose themâ€"not for their beauty, for some of them are very ugly, but because they are out of the com- mon, and I like to be eccentric. I do won- dei where that tiresome old man has gone 1 Very likely, now I come to think of it, he has one home to his tea. I have half a min to run over to the cottage to see. I know he will give me the keys. It won’t take me five minutes. Grisel dear, you can be making Mr. Yorke a button-hole while I am one. I promise not to tell your hus- ban .” And, with a mischievous laugh, she darts away, leaving me tefe-a-twte with the man from whom I would fain fly as from a plagget ’ “Grisel, is it possible for you to forgive and forget?” “’Tviixt the gloamin and the mirk,” I raise two proud cold eyes to the handsome It i5 very Evident I am not ‘ In the dying light I see him grow a shade paler, and 'he half turns from me, muttering something, I do not hear what. Then he starts round and addresses me with fierce .oncentrated passion. ‘ “ Have you no mercy? I won’t say pity, because pit-y is akin to love; and that I know you have not for any man. You would have loved me onceâ€"~I would have made you ; but we met too late. You had sold yourself body and soul to a man old enough to be your father, for what reason is best known to. yourself. Perhaps, foolish little moth”â€"his voice softening and his dark eyes ‘ growing dangerously tcnderâ€"“ you were f caught by glare.’ No matter; I came, I saw, and was gonqueredfil, who never beâ€" lieved it was in me to love any woman. I had had passing fancies ; but I knew not the meaning of the word ‘ leve’ until I looked in- to your childish eyes with their ‘grent possi- bilities’ and their slumbering passion. and wondered at the strange sweet sensation which set all my pulses quivering as though they‘had hitherto lain dead and were sudâ€" denly quickened into life. I loved you, Grisel : and it was too lateâ€"you were an- other man‘s wife, a man whose passion, matched with mine, was ‘ as moonlight unto sunlight. and as water unto wine.’ It is not in him to love as I love.” face that once I might have learnod to love not wxsely but too well. Had I but been free when We first; met, perhaps I should have been his wife by now. Oh, thapk Heaven I am not! I answer with callous (lecision~ “The latter is impossible ; the former im- probable." “ Thank Heaven, it is not! He would not be worthy of the name of man if it wcre l” I cry with ringing scorn, my self-control all at once giving way. “It is not in ,him to love as you love ! Scm‘cely. ‘ ’Tislove com- bined with guilt alone that melts the soften- ed soul to cowardice.’ Do you think that he would have brought shame upon the wo- man he loved and left her to an unknown fate, exposed to far worse than deathâ€"the reproach of dishonour‘.’ Do \‘011 think that, \Vilfrid Yorke, 1 say?” My voice trcmhles with fierce indignation. “ I say do you think that 2’” He stands before me with bent head and folded arms, for the moment confounded. “You drove me to it,” he says at length, speaking \\ ith low intensity. “I was mad ; and who made me so but you? Heaven knows I sought for you the whole night through ; and, when I found my search was vain, fool,m:ulman that I was, I shrank from further investigations. I dreaded lest my worst fears should be realized, and that you had been found dead. Uncertainly was pre- ferable to that ; and, 0h, Heaven, that was bad enough ! Soon afterwards I was order- ed off to Africa. And what had I to keep me here? Even if living you were dead to mekyou who took all and gave nothing. Perhaps this is why I love you so, because you are my debtor and not I yours. I have nothing to thank you for, and you have‘ spoilt my life. I ought to hate you, but I can’t ; I 7’ “ Did you think I‘ was lost ?”brcaks in Mab’s gay voice. “ That old nuisance has gone up to London and taken the keys with him; so I can’t have my orchids after all. It’s too bad,” she says, p011ting like a spoilt child. “Don’t you pity me, Mr. Yorke 2'" â€"looking up into his face with arch c0- quetry. ‘ “Life is full of disappointments,” he an- swers, with a mirthless laugh: and he stretches out his hand and plucks a leaf of scented geranium standing near. “ “Thy, Grisel, you naughty girl, you haven’t done as I told you after all 1 Never mind, Mr. Yorke ; I’ll make you a button- hole if she won’t. She’s afraid of my telling tales. Do you know I have the greatest curiosity to see your cousin? I am quite looking forward to his coming home, that I may see Grisel’s ideal man. She is so diffi- cult to please, that he must be something quite out of the common. Let’s seewwhen is it you expect him, dear?” “ Expect- him ?” repeats \Vilfrid Yorke mechgmicglly: “ Yes; he has been away t<n months,” I say, looking him steadfastly in the face as I speak. “You can guess when he went and why ; and it is quite uncertain when he will return. Mab, this place is too warm for me ; I must get out into the air. My head aches to distraction. No, don’t you come; stay and get your flowers, and mind make me a pretty bouquet with plenty of maiden-hair fern and not too much colour. Now, don’t forget!” If she does, it is of no consequence, for I spend the rest of the evening in bed, my head throbbing with pain so violent that I cannot raise it from the pillows. \Vhen the festivity is at its height, there is a tap at my door, and Hawkins appears bearing a little folded slip of paper from \Vil‘frid Yorke. Vere it not that the woman is waiting foi‘ an answer I would not deign to open it ; but, as it is, I am compelled to scan the few peiic‘i‘lled'lvords.. “ For Heaven’s sake, Grisel, if you can- not forget, at least forgive I Come down and say just one kind word to me ; for, after to-night, I promise never to look upon your face again. Surely you can’t refuse the cniy crumb of happiness I shall have to live upon for the xest of my three-score years and ten! Such as I never die broken-hearted. Fate is not so kind. \Ve have to live on as best we may. “ You may tell Mr. Yorke I am not com- ing down again to-night. Hawkins, and say that, as he will be gone tomorrow morning. before I am I) p, I trust he will have a pleas- ant journey ;” and then I crush the paper in my hand and consign it to the flames. Once more it is Christmas Eve, and in, spite of the sad memories it recalls, I cannot repress a childish delight in the gay brilliant- ly-lighted shop windows and the general state of excitement which prevades our busy crowded metropblis. I have come -up to town to buy Christmas presents ; and. as I wish to keep my expedi- tion a. profound secret, I have set out alone from a friend’s house where I have been taking teaâ€"a proceeding the propriety of which I begin to doubt. Although I may feel quite a staid matron and have not sufâ€" ficient beauty to render me by any means conspicuous, I find I am young enough and pretty enough to attract fnr more notice than is agreeable. Ihhurry along Cheapside until I reach St. CHAPTER VIII., AND LAST. It is a very serious business, for I have so many tastes to consult ; but at length it is satisfactorily concluded, and I turn my steps'homeward. I have so many parcels to carry‘that Iam compelled to put up with the unpleasantness of being stared at and to walk at a more rational pace. There is a dainty cap for niammaâ€"mthe latest nouceuum (le Pariahâ€"a Russia leather pocket-book for papafihis presents always .take me double as long to decide upon as any of the others â€".a pair of fur-lined gloves for Gerald, {L penknife with , innumerable blades for Jack, a picture-book for Algy, a Noah’s Ark for Charlie, a huge baby-(loll for Trixie, and wool lamb for baby. My thoughts are so pleasantly occupied in picturing the delight of each recipient that I am‘ quite surprised to find how short the distance appears to Liverpool Street Station. Fortunately I am just in time to save my twineâ€"another minute, and I should have been too late. “Here you are, miss ! Be quick ! First class}! Right_!”___ Paul’s Churchyard, where 1 purpose making my purchases, and then begins the serious bugiilpss of shopping. _ There is only one other person in the car- riage besitres myselfâ€"a man, but what man- ner of man I have not yet had time to notice. I am too busy depositing my parcels in the wicker-work above. I only catch a glimpse of a. rough i'au'ircOlOllr ulster and a round felt hat. His face is hidden behind a news- paper; and he does not trouble to look up at me, the invader of his solitude. It is only when I happen to cough that he gives a quick start and lowers his paper, and, to my disma 7, I recognise \Vilfrid Yorke. “)Iyâ€" :‘rrisel, is it really you ‘3” he ex- elaims, with an expression of glad as- tonishment, which meets with no response save a haughty stare of surprise and dis» pleasure. A bang; shrill earâ€"piercing whistle, and thg _10ng frai11_slowly moves off. “\Vho else should it be 1’" I say coldly, not attemptng to offer him my hand ; and the last of my parcels being disposed of, I take my seat in the compartment next the door, at the extreme end from where he has been sitting. But to Iliy annoyance, instead of returning to his former place, he takes the seat Oppo- site to mine and abandons all idea of resum- ing his paper, folding it up and putting it in- to his pocket “ Have you quite recovered from your headache yet ‘1” he asks, with a cynical smile, and his eyes fastened upon my angry face with a passion that terrifies me. “ Long ago.” “ Do you know you were very cruel to me that night ?”â€"his voice low and seductively sweet. I do not deign to reply. Averting my head, I peer out into the darkness, longingâ€" oh, so fervently l~for the journey to come to an end. “ Haven’t you ever repented of you hard- heartedness, Grisel ‘i” I do not even turn my head. “\Vould it give you any satisfaction to know that you robbed me of my night’s rest Still I do not answer. “Griseriand lie bends forward until I feel his warm breath upon my cheekâ€"â€" “ won’t you be satisfied until you have eith- er broken my heart or sent me headlong to ruin ?” “ Bishopsgit ! Bis-hops-git !” “ Confound it ! \V'hat does the fellow want poking his nose in, here? Goodâ€"” I tqu frovm the window with a low ago- nized cry,a11d fall back against the cushions, seized with a deadly faintness. “ The fellow” has pasSed on, and that fellow is my bus- band. “Let me get out. Let me get out. I mustfil will 1 ” I cry “ildly, in an instant recovering myself, and not heedng that the train is already in motion. “ You may if you want to be killed,” says “'ilfrid .Yorke sneeringly ; and it is only by main force that he prevents me from throw- ing open the carriage-door and umpng out upon the line. A“How dare you keep me from my hus- bandâ€"~you, who have wrought our misery,” Igasp, my voice hoarse with passionâ€"“you, the man I most despise on earthâ€"you, whose very presence I loath, whose touch is pollutionhyou that I hateâ€"yes, hate‘ W'il- frid Yorke, base coward that you are 2” And I wrench myself free from his detaining grasp, flinging of? his hands with a shudder of aversion. \Vilfrid Yorke merely elevates his brows and smiles with a sort of cool indul- gencg. “So you hate me, do you, little one? \Vell, it is but natural, since upon excellent authority we have it that it is the nature of the human disposition to hate him whom you have injured, and, if you haven’t exact- ly injured me, you have injured my heart and honour. If I am, as you say, a base coward, what made me so but my love for your It was your brown eyes and gipsy face that made me jilt the ‘mistress all mankind pursue.’ Honour versus Love and Grisel! The contest was unfair, anrl “Bethnal Green ! Bethdial Gre-en E’: This time I am too nick for him. Ere he can interposc, I have nng open the carriage- (loor and am on the platform. I never give so much as a thought to my parcels; my only fear is that he will follow me. And, in that fear, forgetful of all else, I push my way through the crowd of labouring men who are pouring in and out of the train. and am soon lost in the motley throng. When the train steams out of the station, I take courage and look round. Thank Heaven, he is not to be seen ! W'ith agasping sigh of relief, I sink down upon one of the now- empty benches and try to collect my dazed senses. It is of no use. I cannot think ; my brain is in a perfect whirl. I must be going mad. I press my trembling hands across my dry burning eyeé, and try so hard, so very hard to think~on1y think. “ Child I” V One wordâ€"a word of five letter ; but 011, what does it not express? Anger, reproach, Fity, contempt, and yearning unutterable ove. Yes ; that one word is compounded of as many sentiments as letters. And I, “ guiltless prodigal” that I am, dare not so much as raise my eyes to the face of my husband, the man whom I have learned to love with the love that only comes once in a. lifetimeâ€"a. love perfected through much tribulation “ var‘ise], here come‘s the train. I am going r,” to take you homeâ€"to your father’s home, I mean,” he adds sternly. “Come, follow There is no disobeying that firm command, and, sltaggering dizzin to my feet, I follow hirp $9 an empty cpmpartment. \Vhy will the wbrds not come? \Vhy do I mower and tremble under those son- searching eyes, my very silence condemnilg me ? “ .ave yofi ficthiu‘g to say to me, my w1f “Grisel, Heaven only knows what my love for you has been ; but, believe me, I would far soonerâ€"oh, far sooner Eâ€"have clos’cd your eyes in death than you should have come to thisâ€"you, my wife, whose honour is dearer to me even than my own Great Heaven, it is more than I can bear 1” he cries in tones of cruellest anguish ; and burying his face in his hands, his strong frame is shaken with emotion. ‘ ‘ Robert 2” Ah, the lesson I once found so difficult is easily enough learned now lâ€"and I stretch out a timid trembling hand and lay it upon his knee. He recoils from my little touch ; and, rebuked, I crouch backamongst the cushions and wonder why I cannot shed one single tear. me ! “ Behold her guilty looks, for guilt will speak Though tongues were out or use 1” “ Robert, my husband, hear, and then, if you will, condemn!” I cry, throwing myself once more upon his breast. And, fire min- utes later, my judge is at my feet. I do not pass a very severe sentence upon him, for can I not afford to be generous? “ To have the power to forgive Is empire and prerogative ; And ’Lis in crowns a nobler em To grant a pardon than can emn." â€"â€"‘-Oo<~.>“â€"-â€"-â€"~ WE AIM TO PLEASE. Presently he raises his face, all marred with heart-wrung agony, and looks at me with hunng pq§sion§t§ eyes. Those gentle love-fraught epithets are too much for me. In an instant mylzu‘ms are round his neck, and I am sobbing upon my husband’s breast as though my heart would break. For a moment he strains me to him in a fierce close embrance, forgettmg all but his great love for me, his supposed faithless wife. But it is only for a moment. The next he has cast me off with a bitter moan, and his face is terrible to look upon in its fierce pain. “Child, why do you tempt me? Between you and me is there not a great guilt which even a love strong and boundless as mine eannot~nay, dare notâ€"bridge over ‘1 Oh, my wife, once so pure, once ” His voice élxddénly fails him, and then only thpn, my oxyn qomgs back to me. The lady who uses her husband’s meer- schaum pipe to drive tacks with is no gentle- man. The French are gaining ground rapidly in Tunis. One reglmcnt has buried three hun- Llred men. 2 “ Yes, sir,’ said Mr. Gallagher, “it was funny enough to make a donkey laugh. I laughed till I cried.” “ Indeed, sir, I would box your ears”â€" (pausing, reflecti\’ely)â€"“ but where could I find a box large enough?” “ My Htilé Grisel 1” Be murmcrs softly. “ beloved child-wife 1” From the prices that some physicians charge (me can readily imagine that high heels are fashionable. Patrick 011 the zebra : “ \Vhat kind of a haste is thatâ€"the mule with his ribs 011 tl%w. outside of his shkin entirely !” “ \Vhy don’t you have stile about you?” said the man who had looked along a mile of barbed fence for an entrance. Dr. Johnson once speaking ofa. quarrel- somc fellow, said: “If he had two ideas in his head they would fall out with each other.” If you judge of Brown s character by the umbrella he carries, you will form a \‘61‘3’ poor opinion of Smith, for it is Smith’s um- brella. \Vhen a man tells a story he thinks is funny and the crowd does not catch on, his face falls, naturally. It is affected by the fqrce of gravity. First Playerâ€"I dreamt last night I was playing Hamlet. Second playerâ€"I am thankful to say that I did not dream I was one of your audience. Insects are becoming fashionable for jewel- lery, but then it is not pleasant to find this kind of fashionable jewelry ornamenting the mattress of the summer hotel. Brakemanâ€"“The train is now about to enter the state of Missouri. Gentlemen who have not. provided themselves with carbines will pass forward to the locomotive and crawl into the tender.” The train-robbers have opened the fall season in Arkansas by robbing a train near Hope. As the robbers wore masks, and could not be identified, several prominent members of the legislature have come out in cards declaring their ability to prove satis- factory alibis. At a banquet the late John Brougham was seated next to Coroner Crokcr. A toast was proposed, and Brougham asked the coroner what he should drink it in. “Claret,” said the coroner. “Claret,” was the reply; “that’s no drink for the coroner. There’s no body in it.” In a. primary school not very long ago, the teacher undertook to convey to her upils an idea of the use of the hyphen. ‘hc wrote on xhe blackboard “ bird’s-nest,” and pointed to the hyphen, asked the school, “ \Vhat is that for?” After a short pause the young son of the Emerald isle piped out: “ Plaza, ma’am, for the bird to roosht A Deadwood man saw another reach for his hip pocket, thought the fellow meant to draw a revolver on him, and so shot him dead. Then he found that the man was about to draw a flask to treat him, and he much re- gretted his hasty not. But he remarked that the last wishes of the deceased should be carried out, and he took a drink from the flask. A Hamilton editor last week started to ac- complish the oft-attempted feat of \eating thirty quail in as many consecutiveldays. The experiment failed in consequence (of the singular behavior of a restaurantkeeper, who refused the quail for nothing. Thus it is that the progress of scientific inquiry is defeated and retarded by the narrow pre- judices of the ignorant and debased. Va