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“711th all her heart Muriel wished, at that moment, that she loved her husband more passionately, more wholly than she did ; she felt that She would have given any- thing she posaessed, if she could have thrown her arms about him and, in all sincerity, have told him that she could not let him go, that she could not lye-1r the agony of an in« definite separation ; and she could not do it. She was too truthful by nature, too inno» cent and inexperienced, to attempt to feign feelings that were not her own ; that thought never entered her mind; still she could not tell her husband the truthâ€"that the idea of p.11 ting with him did not bring to her any great agony of sorrow ; that though she would miss him, life without him would not he an all intolerable : no, she could not tell him th :t, and yet that was the truth ; so she only moved her l1. ad restlessly about Von his knee, nervously twistiua hcr heavy wedding-ring round and round on her fin- gerlas she murmured something to the effect that as long" as his brother was dying and wanted to see him, and as long as he had promised his mother that if he could ever do anything for Arundel he would do it, she felt that it would be wrong for her to say anything that might induce him to rennin at home. 1i Russel Authon 11ml thought about it at all, he might have asked himself why it is women generally bestow their sympathies most freely upon the weak and erring ones of the other sex, but he did not think about it ; his noble, unselfish hear; was filled with too many other thoughts of a sadder and more engrossing nature. Still, “a. sli‘n‘p, lmife~like pain darted through him at Muriel'e Words; although he had been only dimly conscious of it, the thought had been in his mind that at first his young wife would not be able to think 031me and quietly of his lowing her, she would cling to him, crying wildly, sobbing that she could not let him go away from her ; he had thought that he would be obliged to persuade her, using gentle arguments and loving words until the wild crying should cease, and she would lie quietly in his arms with 110w and then u chokmg. strangling sob which would t:ll so plainly that though for his sake she was trying so hard to be brave, she was none the less: almost hear? broken at the tlmught of being separated from him. Nor was this thought of Russel Anthon’s unnatural or extravagant; such a course of action would be perfectly natural in, and expected of, almost any young, impulsive, loving wife. Though Muriel’s tears were falling fast, 1131' husband knew that they were not; falling at the thought of his going away from her, they were shed out of deep pity for the erring man whose story she had just heard, the man whose recklessness and passionate thoughtlessness had done as much as pos tive wickedness could have (10110. Somethng of the pain that knowicig) brought with it found its way into Russel Anthon’s Iace, aslaying his hand tenderlyâ€" he could never speak or think of, or touch Muriel without tendernessâ€"upon the beautiful head bmvcd upon his knee, he “Muriel, would you be willing to have me leave you and go to my brother in Mexico? You know I might be detained there some time; I cannot; tell ; and knowing thh, would you be perfectly willing to let; me go?” HIS SACRIFICE : SZVU So it would have been very wrong under the circumstances ; Russel knew that, and he knew, too, perfectly well, the thoughts which were in his wife’s heart; he had won- derful powers for hearing painâ€"Heaven only knows how severely they were tested. Just as quietly as though his heartstrinqs were not quivering ; he said : “ Very well, dear, then I will go.” “ VVh 11?” murmured Muriel. “ Just as soon as I can, dear. I have some business that must be straightened out before I go ; it will take a. day or two, per haps.” “His letter tells me that, Muriel. I go from here to the city of Mexico; there I am to make inquiries of a gentleman whose name he gives me, a resident of the City, who will give me information cancerning him. For the last five years he has been living under an assumed name ; no one will know that I am his brother, nor does he wish them to know. ‘ There is no such nun as Arundel Anthon, tussel,’ he wrote ;‘ the night Percy Evringham (liezl, Arundel An- thon (lied too ; 11‘ one but you Mur- 01, will know the real object of my journey ; it is best that it should be so. You will tell peep e. as I will, thth I have goneaway on busanessx” “\thre will you go first, Russel ? How do x 011 know where to find him ‘3” you '3 v “ I shall not be gone a day 1101‘ an hour longer than is absolutely necessary. Arm:- del may be dead beforel can get there, or he may die shortly after.” “ Ana you will not be gone very long '3” sai<l Muriel. wistfully. " Only think how lonely I will he in this grout house, all alone by myself.” ‘y‘ Russel,” shill Muriel, earnestly. “sup pose he skould not dievsupposc he should get Well, would you bring him home with or He shook his head sadly. “ He would not; come, dear ; his own act made him an exile from his own country. If he should come back, should be recognizad as the man who five years ago killed Percy Evringham, you know what the result would be. lut if, as you say, he should live, this I shall see to, Murielâ€"that he has enough to live with peace and comfort until he dies.” So, while the rain dashed against the windows and the wild March night wind shrieked about the house, Russel Anthon made his plans for his journey to Mexico. What a change an apparectlytrifling thin g will sometimes make in a. person’s life ! The postman brings a letter; hums lightly to himself as he waits at the door for some one to take it from him. Yet that innocent looking letter may have within it the dead- ly power of sweeping hope and happiness forever out of the life of the person to whom it is addressed. A message-boy goes run' ning along the street With a telegram in his hand, whistling merrily as he goes ; and that telegram may hrmg life-long agony into some limit. .80 the world goes ; so it will 17‘01‘ 140th of Her. 9)) CHAPTER VII. hlui‘iel’s dog Leo had been quietly lying hesi 1e Russel’s chair; he was still llei‘ pet and playthiugjust as he had been before she was married, and was; allowed the full sweep of the house; raising himself now from his crouching position the beautiful animal fixell his expressive eyes upon his master’s face. Su‘iftly the days went by ; it seemed to Russel Anthon that days never went so swiftly before. Th )ngh he called himself weak and unmanly the thought of leaving Mn~iel was almost like death to him. He could not help it, he could not shake it off though he tried hard to do so, a vague fear of something. he knew not what settled upon him as the time for his departure drew near ; in vain he reasoned with himself,told himself how foolish and childish it was, that vague, haunting fear remained the same, . The night before he was to start for Mex- ic, Mr. and Mrs. TFOWlJl‘ingO and a few other friends (lined with him thinking, as did all his friends, that he was going away simply on business, they wished him good luck and a speedy return. After they had all gone Muriel and he sat for a long time in the pretty bright back parlor ; Muriel of her own accord had gone to him and nestling in his arms, talked in her Own animated way, telling her what he must bring her, what she should do while he was away, and how quickly the time would pass to him ; and she sent messages to ArundeIâ€"little loving messages sueii as a sister might have sent. The time slipped by so rapidly that they were both surprised when the clock struck one. “ Ihld no idea it was so late,” said Muriel springing to her feef, “ yet now that 1 think about i, I believe I am a little slefpy ‘; £011.16, Bums} l" “ Good old L00,” Russel murmured, pat ting the ( g’s head, “you will miss me, wunt you, old boy, and 30u wm’t forget- mo will you, L00 ‘2” With a short, half bark, the dog put its fore paws upon his arm, wagging its tail, as if to tell his master he would never for- get him. So Murlel resolved t3 keep her secret a. little longer from her husband. She should have told him before he we 1t ; she had no right to keep it from him. He ought tohave known itâ€"he, her husbandâ€"still she did not tell him. Ah ! if she only had. “I wonder if I ought lotell him before he goez,” she said to herself at last, laying down the brush and sinking sack in her chair, her bright hair falling in wavy mains- es aLout her face. “ I suppose he ought to know; he surely has a right to know.” a. burning flush sweeping over her fair face, crimsonng even her white neck and the tips of her small ears, “vet I cannot hear to tell him. 1 am not at all certain about it myself: I cannot till 1‘05 Whether it is really so. No, I will not tell him before he goes ; 1 will positively by the time he know comes lzome, then 1 “ill tell him, and t'ia‘; Will be time enough." " It was only a trifling circumstance, yet: the time came when with terrible, bitter distinctness, Russel Anthon remembered it. “‘Vhy, Russel,” she said, wondering eyes at his pale “ you must not feel so badly ; be parted a little while ; you back again.”_ He folded his arms around her passionate- ly, almost despairineg ; he could not tell her it seemed to him as though they were parting forever. always go, I suppose, for as long as there are human hearts there will be human agony. Muriel cofild not quite understand her husband’s grief when the next day he bade her gggd-bsjc. ‘ “Gad bless you, my darling, my own dear love,” he whispered. “ God bless and kegp you.” “Liécle did Russel Antlzon think 111w that crumpled letter was to change the whole course of his future life. It was very late that nightâ€"long pas: midnigntâ€"when Muriel entered her 1'00 n. Late as it was, Russel had remained m the library to finish some writing, and she was alone in the large, quiet bed-chamber. Throwing herself down i; a. chair in front of the dressing-table, she began to unbmid and brush out her long sunshiny lliir, thinking very deeply the while. So he went away frum her‘his young wife whom he loved so deeply. It is two hours before sunset. Overhead the sky is of that «cop, pure blue, only to he found within or near the tropics, and the sun hanging like a. great golden hall miLl~ way between the zenith and the western horizon, pours down a. flood of hut, yellow sunshine. Far as the eye can reach stretch- cs a vast plain, and in the distance rise the mnuntains dim and shadowy. The burnished lance-s of the Min-gel struggle to pierce the thick, green foliage of a huge mimosa that shades the narrow door- way of u snnll hutâ€"4t is nothing more“ which is the only habitation in sight ; strug- gle, until half conquered. they fallin by 01(- cn flecks of gold upon the bare baked earth which forms the door of the little cabin, and upon the bent head of Russel Authon as he kneels beside a pallet of dried Mexican grass whereon a. man is lying, raving and tossing in wild delirium. Although the face of the sick man is flush- ed toadeep, purplish red, the lower part of it covered by a short, dark beard, so thick and heavy that it hides the expresv sion and beauty of the mouth and chin, the resemblance between it and the one bending so anxiously about it, is more than striking, it is. remarkable. There are the same straight, clear-cut features, the same broad, full forehead and dark, wavy hair, even the eyes of both are the same, though in one they are unnaturallv large and bright with fever, in the other (ieep and dark with cure and anxiety; no need to ask the relation- ship that exist between the two men ; one glance tells plainly that the same blood flows in the veins of bothâ€"Russel Authou has found his brother: the man tossing S’) restlessly upon his miserable bed is Arundel Anthon. The sun in momentarily shutout of the little room, the doorway 1s darkened by a slender, little figure, and Russel Anthea raises his head as a boy about seventeen years of age, half Mexican. half Judi-3.11 steps int) the cabin, bearing a jug of \mtex' CHAPTER VIII. looking with haggard face, we will only will scan be Wistfully. eagerly, Russel Anthon had watched tlu' boy’s face ; but seeing in it not the faintest Sign of encouragement, he sigh- ed he Wily, \\(!.)I‘ily, as he proceeded to mix a, portion at" the contents of a. bottle he took from his pocket: with Lorne 0f the fresh water the boy had just brought in. This done, he again bent over his brother, saying, in a low but clear and disfinct V0100. “ Arundcl l” The wild, fever-bright eyes met his, but there was no recognition in them, Thirst- ily the cool draught; was swallowed ; then, as the restless head fellbaek upon the pillow the hot lips began to mutter again as they had muttered all that day long. “Oh, Russel, if you would only come 1:) me ! You would, if you knew how terribly I have suffered for my sin, how weary I am of living this lifeâ€"a, stranger amongst strangers. It is such a lonely life and such a and one, if I could see your face again once more, my, brother, I would be willingâ€"be glad to die.” But it was to no purpose, and something very like despair rose within him, as wiLh hands as gentle as a. woman’s he put back from the burning brow the rings of hair that had fallen there ; then stepping to the door he leaned against the frame, his tired eyes wandering far across the plains until they lasted on the distant mountains. God help you, Russel Anthon, may God in mercy help you to bear what the Iuture holds _fO_r you !_ V > N _ Aruudel Anthon had written that letter to Russelon the impulse of the moment. Sick, miserable, longing to see one of his own blood, he had sat down one night 3.11:1 almost recklessly written it, spurred on by that; impulse which always impels men to make onclast desperate effort when they feel that a crisis is at hand. “ He will never know me again this side of the grave,” he said to himself ; “ he will die and never know that I answered his piti~ ful callâ€"that I came to him. Oh, Arundel! my poor brother, what a, misirable failure your life has been l” Then Muriel crept into his thoughts, and a. dreamy look came into the tired eyes as he stood there thinking of his young wife ; and a. little prayer rose in his heart that du- ring his absence she might come to love him more than she had ever done before. Arriving at the city of Mexico he hai gone to the gentleman whose name Axundei had given him, and had received full informa- tion regarding his brother’s movements. He had fully intended at the time to leave Guaym-ss where he was staying and to go down to the city of Mexico, there to wait until some word could come to him from his brother. Just as he had said so many times before ’xussei said new again. “ I am here, Arundci ;R".sse1 is here close beside you.” But after his letter had gone on its way a. certain reaction of his feelings had set in ; he felt that he had been weak, unmanly, foolish, to write as he had done ;he blamed himself for doing it. In all probability that letter would never reach Russel. 01‘ even if it did, the chances were that he would throw it down in hot angef, not even read- ing itthrough when he discovered who the writer was. That thought born of his mor- bid brain grew upon him until it became a. certainty in hlS mind that nothing would ever come of his appeal, that it had been not only weak and cowardly, but vain as well. “ I will die as I have lived all these yearsâ€"alone,” he said to himself bitterly. So instead of going to the city of Mexico he went to El Paso thinking that he would cross the Rio G-rande into Texas; there he fell in with a. party of prospectors, who urg- ed him to join them, and, grown utterly indifferent to life, reckless as to what he- came of him, he left El Paso with them. Before he went away from Guaymas, how- ever, he wrote to his friend in the city of Mexi :o, telting him of his intention to go to El Paso ;so it was that when Russel arrived in the city he gained a knowledge of his brother‘s whereabouts. in his brown hands ; having set: it down up- on the earthen floor, he goes to the side of the bed and stands looking earnestly down at its suffering occupant ; a. moment or two he sands there in silence, then shaking: his head he turn: away and begins to busy him- self about Um room. \Vhatcver Russel Anthon attempted he generally carried out; having gone so far he resolved to go on until he found Arundel. He wrote to Muriel and to Mr. Trowhridge, giving the latter a brief account of what his business in Mexico really was, so that his long absence migh: he explained; then he started for El Paso, reaching there barely thirty hours after Arundel‘ haul, with the party of prospectors, left the town. Even then he was not daunted ; twking the M fixi- can boy for a guide he hur ieLl alter them ; he travelled rapidly night and day, following the same southerly course it was known they had taken, and at last reached the lit- tle hut Where Ai‘umlcl was lying very ill, for 011 the 3 com] (lay out Arundcl Anthou had been attacked by the fever which had pros- ti‘ated him at Guaymas. Coming to the little deserted cabin, the prospectors ha'l left him with one of their number to) take care of him, will had $003 on. As soon es the mzm who had remui ied behind with Arundel found his services were not actually needed, he hurrie'l on to over- take hlS party, leaving Russel with his bro- ther alone, with the exception of the Mexi- can boy who had served as guide. Thank Heaven, Russel had with him the very me- dicine which was most effectual in breaking up the fever which had seized Arundel in its deathly grasp, and no man ever worked harder to save a human life than he did to save the life of the brother whose {me he had not seen in five long years. The sun was sinking troyvamd the west ; al- ready the sky was beginning to flush really, when he turned from the doorway and went to Arundel’s bedside. He was sleeping, a restless sleep, broken by moans and starts and hoarsely muttered words, yet his face was not so deeply flushed, his skin so hot and dry, his pulse so uneven, as it had been an hour before, and a sudden hope sprang to life in Russel’s heart that his brother might live. He was certainly better. All tha‘, night Iussel watched him, and when the day dawned, Aruudel was sleeping quietly, and there were drops of moisture upon his fore- head under lus wavy hair. The Mexican boyvhad gone out to look after the horses, the room was close and hot, and seeing Arunde‘. slenping so q'xiet- Something dark red was lying near him, half hidden by 1110 soft woollen folds, and an expression of wonderment came into his eyes, hitherto expressaonless, as the thin hand reached out and grasped a, small vel- vet ease. The thin fingers trembled us with some difficulty they opened ir, then the sick man started violently as a woman’s pictured face smiled out at him from the case, a. face which seemed to him the loveliest he had ever seen. ’L‘hatpictured face was Mur- iel’swthe face of his brother’s wife. It had been taken shortly after her marriage; it was painted on porcelain and was a perfect likeness ; even the hair and eyes were Mur- iel’s own. Since Russel had been away from her that picture had lain very near his heart. not a day that he had not looked at it with loving, tender eycs. ()nEe that previous night he had thrown himself, fora few moments, upon the bed beside Aruudel, and the littl: case, which, because of the pictured face which it held, was his dearest treasure, had, unnoticed by him, slipped from his pocket; it. had lain there undisturbed under a fold in the blanket mull those dark, hollow eyes dis- covered it. Tightly in his hand Arundel held it, his eyes fastened upon the lovely face with its soft eyes and smiling mouth; even un- der this small excitement the poor, sick braln was beginning to grow dizzy and reel again. Suddenly he pressed his lips to the picture ; a crimson flush was setting upon his face, his eyes were growing wild and bright, his pulse throbbing fiercely. 5 “\Vho are you, my beautiful one ?” he Whispered passionately. “ Only in my dreams have I seen faces lovely as yoursfi will yours fade away as they have done? Will I awaken and find you gone ? Ah, stay with me ; do not leave me! Never have I seen your face before, yet your sweet eyes awaken new feelings within me.” In a description of the Hungarian parlia- ment in the Nouvcllc Revue, M. Nemenyi after iegretting that eloquence has dis- appeared from that assembly with Francis Deak and Jules Andrassy, thus describes the most powerful man in Hungary at the present day, M. Tisza. A friend of Ger- many, who had accompanied me to the gallery of the Hungarian parliament, cried: “\Vhy, it is asouf-caslc master! ” (One who teaches several village schools in turn. wall;- ing from one to the other.) A running schoolmaster ought to be extraordinarily well-booted, but does not usually strike you as prominently about the regions of the waistcoat. Here the comparison is exact enough. The matters garments were not made to raise the authority of the wearer; the principal one is a very short gray coat, buttoned to the top. He is thin and dry looking. His face, ornamented with spec- tacles and surrounded by a gray beard, looks twenty years older than he really is. He stands as straight as an arrow, but look- as if the least touch would upset him. His eloquence accords admirably with his appearance. In spite of the silence which prevails directly he rises, it is almost im- possible to hear him. His veice is stifled as if he were conversing without concerning himself about theell'ect of his words.’ Let us take the case of a stranger listening in the debate without knowing the language. Suddenly he sees one of these murmured phrases followed by a sudden thrill through the assembly . Three hundred members rise at once, gesticulating and manifesting the most opporel sentiments, these appl ul- ing with joyful acclamations, those by \‘c- licment declainzitions showing how disagie; ably the orator’s words have affected them. He incanwhileds impcrturbal 1e; i hellatiefing contradiction can not irritate him ; he con- tinues in the same stifled tone, and his auditors never CCLSB listening to him with breathless attention. Members approach on tiptoe from the farthest corners of the hall to catch the words more distinctly which fall from his lips, tor the interest in whatlie says is as great to his adversaries as to his friends. His self-command rarely deserts him;then he raises his voice and gesticulatcs a little. But his voice never fills the hall â€"it becomes hoarse and forced while his gestures are awkward; he seems to menace his opponent with the pencil which he holds in his hand, as if wishing to trans- lix him “ith that redoubtable weapon. Nevertheless, the stranger, whose surprise augments, aliens that these phrases, pro- nounced in a uiiagremhIe voice, and ac- companied by gestures anything, but cle- arant, make an iinprcss1 in on the chamber, and that at the end of the speech, generally very short, he produces What is called in France a. mouuemcnt prolonge, so prolonged, indeed, and so intense, that the debate is perforce suspended tor several minutes. This oratormuecd 1 name him?â€"â€"is K010- man Tisza, lor ten years the all-powerful president of the council. in this country no other politician can boast of having been so vigorously hated in his time, no other has in an equal degree experjenccd the incon- sistency of popu ar favor; and no other has shown, as he has done, pirieverance under all difficulties in the hour of misfortune.” He had scarcely lelt t’ (2 room when slow, ly, wearily, the long-lashed lids misc themselves over Arumlel’s eyesâ€"eyes mm, or which the wild fire had all died. Smwly those dark, hollow eyes wandered about the room, resting first: on one object, then on another, last of all upon a curiously wrought blankct which was thrown lightly over him. And {hen with Muriel’s face in his thought}, he drifted back again upon that wild sea. of delirium. Then a few 1110111ents later Russel crept into the room, thinking to find Arundel still quietly sleeping ; he found him sitting upright, muttering wildly tender words, pressing now and. then to his lips something he held tightly in one burning hand. \Vas it prophetic ? He did not stop to think, he W115: only half consciom of the swift, icy chill that went over him, as gently unclasp- ing the thin lingers he took from his bro- ther’s hand his wife’s picture. (TO BE CONTIN WED.) 1y, Russel went outside to walk up and down In front of the cabin, thinking the fresh morning air would dissipate the faint feeling: that was the result of the long night;- watch. The D'Jminion l’ax‘Iiament will mic”; for the despltch of business on szrsday, Feb- ruary 8th. A Hungarian Grater. 90 74"»bvm There are two classes of venomous snakes â€"â€"â€"those Whose bite is certain death, those whose bite can be cured. The only veno- mous snake inhabiting Europe is the viper, but its bite is seldom fatal. In the United States, with the possible exception of New Mexico and Arizona, there are only three venomous snakesâ€"the rattlesnake, the copperhead, and the moccasin. All our other snakes are harmless. In some places the copperhead is known as the flat-headed adder, but the other species of snakes to which the name “adder” is often given by cauntry people. are as harmless as the pretty little garter snake. Central and South America have many venomous snakes whose bite is always fatal. Among these the best known are the coral snake, the tuboba, and the damablanca. A British naval vessel, on its way up a South American River a few years ago, anchored for the right, and a number of the oliicers thought they would go ashore and sleep in a deserted shanty that stood on the bank, where they fancied that the air would be cooler than it was on board the vessel, When they reached the shanty one of them said he thought he would go back to the ship, and all the others, with one exception, said they would fol ow him. The oflicer who determined to stay swung his hammock from the beams of the roof, and was soon asleep. He woke early in the morning, and, to his horror, found that three snakes were sleeping on his body, and that others were han inq from the rafters or gliding over the cor. He recognized among them snakes whose bite meantdeathwithin an hour or two, and he did not dare to move a fin- ger‘ He lay in' his hammock until the sun grewwarmandthcsnakesigliiled back to their holes. His companions had noticed that the place looked as if it was infested with snakes, but had cruelly refrained from warn- ing him. The officer was one of the bravest men that ever lived, but he could never speak of his night among the snakes with- out a shudder. Venomous snakes are those which have two hollow teeth in the upper jaw through v. nv'ch they eject poison into the wound made lg, .2 Cir bite. The great majority of snakes are 11111, \x-nomous, but nevertheless there are more venomous snakes in the world than most men really require. In one of the \Vcst India Iblamls Marti- nique»â€"therc is a. snake called the lance- headed viper, which is almost as deadly as the coral snake. The East Indies are full of venomous snakes, and in British India nearly 20,000 persons are killed every year by snake bites. of the East India. snakes whose bite is incurable the cobra is the most numerous, but the diamond snake, the tubobn, and the ophiuphuyus are also the. cause of a. great mmny deaths. The British Government has ofi'croi a large. reward for the discovery of an antidote to the poison of the cobra, but no one has yet been [Life to claim it. statistics of the Numbers of Folk they Kill. Africa, like all tropical countries, has many species of venomous snakes. The horned c. msies is the snake a-(nn whose bite. Cleopatra. is suid to have died, and from its small size and its habit of burying itself all but its head in the sand, it, is peculiarly dreaded by the natives. Tl: ugliest of these snakes is the great puff-adder, which often grows to the length of live or six feet and Whose poison is med by the natives in making pmsoned arrows. It isa very curious fACt that the poison of venomous snakes cannot be distinguish- ed by the chemist from the white of an egg. And yet one kind of snake poison will pro- dnc‘é an efiect entirely unlike that producetl by another kind. The blood of an animal bitten by a. cobra is decomposed and turned into a thin, watery, straw-colored fluid,’ while the blood of an animal bitten by a. coral snake is solidified, and looks very much like current jelly. Nevertheless, the pois- of the cobra. and that of the coral snake seem to be precisely alike when analyzed by the chemist, and are apparently com- posed of the same substances in the same proportion as is the white of an egg. Coal was $22 a ton last winter when the syndicate had things all their own way, but the contractors are running the Thunder Bay Branch this winter, and therefore it only costs from $14 to 10' now, which “'1” save the people of Winnipeg. over $150,000 in one year. If we had a competing line to Duluth, coal from Cleveland cOuld be sold here retail at good profit for $10 to $12 a. tan. Poor poplar wood is from $7 to $10 a cord. Many other things are equally dear. Bread of course is about as cheap as in the east, and it should be cheaper. By the way, the best bread in the wide world is made in Manitoba, ms the wheat is by far the hard- est and best that grows out of the ground. Our ordinary loaf bread would pass for Christmas cake in the east. But We have to pay for our luxuries, especially if they come over the C. P. R. and its step- brother, the St. Paul road, which is virtually a branch of it. Two things at least must: come Clown 50 per eenu before people can live in the cities and towns of the Northwest in any degree of comfort. I mean rent and fuel. The rents in \Vinnipcg are simply outra- geous. The most wretched houses mere shells and as 0 Id as Dante’s infernoâ€"being about 40 per cent on the cost of house and lot. In spite of all the buildings put up this year the city is crowded, and on an average there are three pg» sons in every house for the one there ou.ht to be, on sanitary principles, and we ham enough populanion already for a city of double the size of \Viunipeg. Every parlor ainl spare room is sublet to men who board in hotels, and I knew small, seven-roamed houses with noless than twenty people sleeping in them, with double windows and no ventilators. The steamship Gellert was twenty-nine days upon her passage from Hamburg to New York, having lost some of her pro- peller blades. During this time there were eleven deaths and live births on board. and upon the arrival of the ship four dead bodies were landed. Diphtheria and pneu- monia were the principal causes of the morâ€" tnlitv. A Death Infested Steamer. POISONOUS SE RPEN TS. Living in Winnipeg.