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But her resolution gave way ; she wrapped herself in an old p'aid shawl and lay down on her bed to rest a. few minutes. She did not close her eyes, but lay studying idly the familiar details of the room. It was small, and one side ran in under the eaves ; for the parsonage was a cottage. There we. one window, with a white cotton curtain trim. med with tasselled fringe, and looped up on an old porcelain knob with a. picture paint- ed on it. That knob, with its tiny bright landsca e, had been me of the pretty won- ders of unice's childhood. She looked at it even now with interest, and the marvel and the beauty of it had not wholly depart- ed for her eyes. The walls of the little room had a scraggly-pattexned paper on them. The first lustre of it had departed, for that too was one of the associates of Eunice’s childhood, but in certain lights there was a. satin sheen and a blue line visible. Blur roses on a satin ground had been the original pattern. It had never been pretty, but Eunice had always had faith in it. There was an ancient straw matting on the floor, a. home-made braided rug before the cottage bedstead, and one be- fore the stained pine bureau. There were a few poor attempts at adornment on the walls; a splint letter case, a motto worked in worsteds, a gay print of an emintntly proper little girl hol iiug a faithful little dog. This last, in its brilliant crudentss, was not a work of art, but Eunice believed in it. She was a conservative creature. Even after her year at the seminary, for which money had been scraped togeter five years ago, ske had the same admiring trust in all the revelations of her childhood. Her home, on her return to it, looked as fair to her as it had always done; no old ugliness which familiarity had caused to pass unnoticed be- fore geve her a shock of surprise. She lay quietly, her shawl shrugged up over her face, 30 only her steady * light brown eyes were visible. The room was drearin cold. She never had a fire ; one in a sleeping-room would have been sinful luxury in the poor minister’s family. Even her mothrr's was only warmed from the sitting-room. She took it as usual loyally and energetic. ally, but there had always been seasons from her childhood- and she was twenty- five nowâ€"when the sccial duties to which she had been bein seemed a. weariness and a bore to her. They had seemed so tc-dsy. She had patiently and faithfully sewed up little lace bags with divers colored worsteds, and stuffed them with candy. She had strung pop corn. and marked the parcels which had been pouring in since daybrmk from all quarters. She had taken her pro- minent part among the corps of indefatig. able women always present to assist on such occasions, and kept up her end of the line as minister’s daughter bravely. Now, how- ever. the last of the zealous, chattering wo- men she had been working with had bustled home. with a pleasant importance in every hitch of her shawled shoulders, and would not bustle back again until half-past six or so; and the tree. fully bedecked, stood in unconscious impressiveness in the parsonage parlor. A comforblees dusk was fast spreading over everything now. Eunice rose at length, thinking that she must either dress herself speedily, or go down-stairs for a candle. She was a. tall, heavily built girl. with large, well-formed feet and hands. She had a. full face, and a. thick, colorless skin. Her features were coarse, but their combination affected one pleasantly. It was a. staunch, honest face, with a suggtstion of obstinacy in it. BY MARY E. WILKINS. At five o’clock, Eunice Fail-weather went lip-stairs to dress hereelf for the sociable and Christmas tree to be given at the parsonage that night in honor of Christmas-eve. She had been verv busy all day making prepara- tions for it. She was the minister‘s daughter, and bad, of a necessity. to take an active {salt in such afiairs. In sunny weather Eunice's room was cheerful, and its look, if not actually its at- mosphere, would u arm one a little, for the windows faced south-west. But t.-day all the light had come through low gray clouds, for it had been threatening snow ever sinca morning, and_the room had been dismal. neck. But it did not occur to her that any change could be made for the better. It was her best dress, and it was the way she did up her hair. She did not like either, but the simple facts of them ended the matter for her. . Eunice had come upstairs with the re- solution to dress herself directly for the festive occasion, and to hasten down again to be in readiness for new exigencies. Her mother was delicate, and had kept her room all day in order to prepare herself for the evening, her father was ineffichnt at such times, there was no servant, and the brrnt of everything came on her. She looked unhappin at herself in her little square glass, as she brushed out her hair, and arranged it in a smooth twist at the top of her head. It was not becoming, but it was the way she had always done it. She did Lot admire the efl'eot herself when the coifiure was complete, neither did she survey her appearance complacently when she had gotten into her best brown cashmere dress, with its ruffle of atarched lace in the After the same fashion she regarded her own lot in life, with a. sort of resigLed dia- apBroval. .On account of her mother’s ill health, she had been incumbered for the last five years with the numberless social duties to which the wife of a poor countrv minister is liable. She had been active in Sunday-school pic« nice and church sociables, in mission bands and neighborhood prayer-meetings. She was a church member, and a good girl, but the role did not suit her. Still she accept- ed it as inevitable, and would no more have thought of evading it than she would have thought of evading life altogether. There was about her an almost stubborn steadfast- ness of onward movement that would for- ever keep her in the same rut, no matter how disagreeable it might be, unless some influence outside of herself might move her. When she we :11: down-stairs she found her mother seated beside the sitting-room stove, also axrayed in her bestâ€"a. shiny black silk, long in the shoulder seams. the tops of the sleeves adorned with pointed caps trimmed with black velvet ribbon. "A muTmur of men’syvoicea came from the nextgoqm, whosegooLyQ clqsed: She looked up at Eunice as she entered, a. complacent smile on her long, delicate face ; she thought her homely, honest-look- ing daughter charming in her best gown. A MORAL EXIGENGY. “Fathei-‘a got Mr. Wilson in there,” ex- plained Mrs. Fairweathtr, in response to Eunice’s inquirrng glance. “ He came just after you went up-staiis. They’ve been talking ven busily about something. Per- haps Mr. Wilson wants to exchange.” Just at that moment the study door open- ed and the two men came out, Ennice’s father, tall and round shouldered, with grayish sandy hair and heard, politely al- lowing his guest to precede him. There was a little resemblance between the two, though there was no relationship. Mr. Wilson was a. younger men by ten years; he was shorter and slighter ; but he had similarly sandy hair and beard, though they were not quite so gray, and something the same cast of countenance. He was settled over a neighboring parish ; he was a widower with four young children ; his wife had died a. year before. ‘1 n v ,u ‘ Her. father routed himself then. “My dear daughter,” he said, with restrained eagerness. “ don’t decide this matter too lastily, without giving it all the considera- tion it deserves. Mr. Wilson is a good man ; he would make you a worthy husband ; and he needs a. wife sadly. Tbink what a wide field of action would be before you with those four little motherleas children to love and care for 1 You would have a wonderful opportunity to do gcod.”_ He cleared hls throat to hide his embar- rassment. He felt a terrible constraint in speaking to Eunice of such matters: he looked shamefaced and distressed. Eunice eyed him steadily. She did not change color in the least. “ I think I would rather remain as I am, fuller," she said quietly. "Thai." her father went on, “ you will fcrgive me if I speak plainly, my dear. You â€"are getting older ; you have not had any other visitors. You would be well provid- ed for in this wayâ€"" _ __ He had spoken to Mrs. Fsirweather on his first entrance, so he stepped directly to- ward Eunice With extended hand. His ministerial afl'ability was slightly dashed with embarrassment, and his thin cheeks were crimscn around the roots of his sandy hmrd. ' Eunice shook the proffered hand with calm courtesy, and inquired after his children. She had not a thought thafi his embarramment betokened anything, if in- deed she observed it at all. Her father atooi by with an air of awk- ward readiness to proceed to action, waiting until the two should cease the interchanging of courtesies. When the expected pause came be him- self placedaclmir for Mr. Wilson. “Sit down, Brother Wilson,” he said. nervously, “ and I will consult with my daughter con. cerning the matter we were speaking of. Eunice, I would like to speak a. moment with vou in the study." “ Certainly, sir," said Eunice. She look- ed surprised, but she followed him at once into the study. “ Tell me as quickly as you can what it is, father,” she said, “for it is mostly time for people to begin coming, and I shall have to attend to them.” She had not seated herself, but stood leaning carelessly against the study wall, qugstioning her father with 11m: s§oady eyes. 4 He item; in his awkward height before her. He was plainly trembling. “ Eunice,” he said, in a. shaking \oice. " Mr. Wileon cameâ€"to sayâ€"he would like to marry you, deear dangter." “'1 don"t think?" said Eunice, bluntly, “ that I should care for that sort of an op- portgnity._’_' _ “Exceedineg well.” replied Eunice, sfowly. "There would be six hundred a year and a. leaky parsonage for a man and woman and four children. andâ€"nobody knows how many more.” She was almost coarse in her slow indignation, and did not blush at it. “ I don‘t. know whether He would or not. I don’t think He would be under any obliga- tion to if His servant dellberately incumber- ed himself with more of a family than he bad brains to support." “The Lord would provide for His aer- vants." Her father lookel so distressed that Eumce’s heart smote her for her forcible words. “ You don't want to get rid of me, surely. father,” she_sa_id, in a. changed tone. Mr. Fairwelthcr‘s lips moved uncertainly as he answered : “ No, my dear daughter ; don’t ever let such a thought enter your head. I onlyâ€"Mr. Wilson is a. good man, and a. woman is best 011’ married, and your mother and I are old. 1 have rover laid up anything. Sometimesâ€" Maybe I don I: trust the Lord enough, but I have felt anx- ious about you, if anything happened to me." Tears were standing in his light blue eyes, which had never been so steady and hen as his daughter’s. There came a. loud peal of the door-bell. Eunice started. “ There! I must go." she said. “ \Ve’ll talk about this another time. Don’t worry about it, father dear." “ But. Eunice, what shall I say to him ?" “ Must something be said to night I” “ It would hardly be treating him fairly otherwise.” Her lather looked gratified. take itatq tpe L0r_d,_my _deax:." Eunice looked hesitatingly at her father’s worn. anxious face. “ Tell him,” she said at length, “that I will give him his answer in a week.” The fresh bevies that were constantly ar riving after that engaged her Whole atten- tion. She could do no more than give a hurried "Good-evening" to Mr. Wilson when he came to take leave, after a second ahmt conferente with her father in the Buggy. He looked deprecatingly hopeful. He returned to his shabby, dirty parson- age that night, with, it seemed to him, quite a reasonable hope that his affairs might soon be changed for the better. Of course he would have preferred that the lady should have said yes directly; it would both have assured him, and shortened the time to when his burdens should be lightened : but he could hardly have expected that, when his proposal was so sudden, and there had been no preliminary attention on his part. The week’s probation, thereiore, did not daunt him much. He did not really see why Eunice should refuse him. She was plain, was getting older; it probably was er first, and very likely her last, chance of marriage. He was a clergyman in good standing, and she would not lower her szcial position. He felt sure that he was Eunice’s lip curle'd cfiriously ; but she said, “ Yes, sir," dutifully, and hastened fxom the room to answer the door-bell, The poor man was really in a. sad case. Six years ago, when he married, he had been romantic. He would never be again. He was not thirsting for love and communion with a kindred spirit now, but for a. good, capable womap who would take care of his four clamorous children withoqt a salary. We will new about to be relieved from the unplea< ssnt predicament in which he had been ever since his wife’s death. and from which he had been forced to make no effort to escape, for decen ’s sake, for a full year. The yesr, in fact. ad been up five days ago. He actually took credit to himself for remaining quiescent during those five days. It was rather shocking, but there was a. good deal to be said for him. No wife, and foursmsll childrenI six hundred dollars a. year, moder- ate brain, and an active conscience, are a hard combination of circunisttnces for any man. He returned thanks, however. to-night to the Lord for His countless blessings with pious fervor, which would have been lessen- ed had be known of the state of Ennice'a mind just. at that moment: The merry company had all departed, the tree stood dismantled in the parlor. and she was preparing for bed, with her head full, not of him, but another man. Standing before her glass combine out her rather scanty. lustreless hair, her fancy pictured to her, beside her own homely. sober face, another, a man’s, blonde and handsome, with a gentle, almost womanish smile on the full red lips, and a dangerous softness in the blue eyes. Could a. third person have seen the double picture as she did, he would have been struck with a. sense of the incongruity, almost absurdity, of it. Eunice herself, with her hard, uncompromis- ing common-sense, took the attitude of a third person in regard to it, and blew her light out at length, and shut it out, with a bitter amusement in her heart at her own folly. There had been present that evening a young man who was comparatively a recent acquisition to the village society. He had been in town about three months. His father, two years befoxe, had purchased one of the largest farms in the vicinity. moving there from an adjoining State. This son had been absent at the time ; he was report- ed to be running a cattle ranch in one of those distant Territories which seem almost fabulous to New Enginnders. Since he had come home he had been the cynosure of the Village. He was thirty and a little over, but he was singularly boyish in his ways, and took part in all the town frollcs With gusto. He was popularly supposed to be engaged to Ada. Harris, Squire Harris's dsughter. as she was often called. Her father was the prominent man of the village, lived in the best house, and had the loudest voice in public mattors. He was a lawyer, with rather more pomposity than ability, perhaps, but there had always been money and influence in the Harris family, and these warded 03 all criticism. The daughter we; a. prettv blonde of aver- age attainments, but with keen wits and strong passions. She had not been present at the Christmas tree, and her lover, either on that account, or really from some sudden fancy he had taken to Eunice. had been at her elbow the whole evening. He had a. fashion of making his attentions marked: he did on that occasion. He made a pre- tense of assisting her, but it was only a. pretense, and she knew it, though she thought it marvellous. She had met him, but had not exchanged two words with him before. She had seen him with Ada. Harris, and he had seemed almost as much out of her life as a lover in a book. Young men of his kind were unkno vn quantities heretofore to this steady. homely young woman. They seemed to belong to other girls. _ So his devotion to her through the even- ing, and his asking permission to call when he took leave, seemed to her well-nigh in- credible. Her head was not turned, in the usual acceptation of the termâ€"it was not an easy head to turnâ€"hut it was full of Burr Mason. and every thought, no matter how wide astarting-point it had, lost itself at last in the thought of him. Mr. Wilson’s proposal weighed upon her terribly through the next week. Her father seemed bent upon her accepting it; so did her mother, who sighed in secret over the prospect of her daughter's remaining unmarried. Either through unworldliness, or their conviction of the desirability of the marriage in itself. the meagreness of the financial outlook did not seem to influence them in the least. Eunice did not once think of Burr Mason as any reason for her reluctance, but when the day but one before her week of probation was up he called. and when, the next day, he took her to drive, she decnded on a. re- fusal of the minister's pro 0331 easily enough. She had wavered a. little iefore. So Mr. Wilson was left to decide upon some other worthy nliable woman as a sub- ject for his addresses, and Eunice kept on with her new lover. How this sober, conscientious girl could reconcile to herself the course she was now taking was a. question. It was probable she did not make the effort; she was so semible that she Would have known its futility and hypocrisy beforehand. 'She knew her lover had bean engaged to Ada Harris; that she was encouraging him in cruel and dishonourabla treatment of an- other woman; but she kept steadily on. People even came to her and told her that the jilted girl was breaking her heart. She lietcnad,her homely face sec in an immovable calm. She listened quietly to her parenzs' remonstrance, and kept on. There was an odd qua‘ity in Burr Mason’s character. He was terribly vacillating, but he knew it. Once he said Eunice, with the careless freedom that would have been al- moatinsolence in another man: “Don’t let me see Ada Harris much, I warn you, dear. I mean to be true to you, but she has such a. pretty face, and I meant to be true to her, but you haveâ€"I don't know just what, but; something: she has not." Eunice knew the truth of what he said perfectly. The incomprehensibleness of it all to her, who was so sensible of her own disadvantages, was the fascination she had for such a man. A few days after Burr Mason had made that remark, Ada. Harris came to see her. When Eunice went into the sitting-room to greet her, she kept her quiet, unmoved face, but the change in the girl before her was terrible. It was not wasting of flesh or pal- lor that it consisted in, but something worse. Her red lips were set so hard that the soft curves in them were lost, her cheeks burned feverishly, her blue eyes had a. fierce light in them, and most pitiful thing of all for an- ether woman to see, she had not crimped her pretty blonde hair, but wore it combed straight back from her throbbing forehead. When Eunice entered, she waited for no preliminary courtesies. but sprang forward, and caught hold of her hand with a strong, nervous grasp. and stood so, her pretty, dea- parate face confronting Eunice’s calm, plain one. “Eunice l" she cried, "Eunice! why did you take him away from me? Eunice! Eunice I” Then she broke into a. low wail, wiyhout any_ teary. “You had better take a chair, Ada," she said. in her slow. even tones. “When you say him, .you m_ea:n Bug M‘asop, I_uppoae:’: Eunice réleased her hand, and seated her- self. '“You' linow I do. Oh. Euniéa, hoav-could you 2 how could you? I thought you were so ggod l” _ “You ask me why I do this and that, but don't you think he had anything to do with it himself?” Ada stood before her, clinching her little White hands. "Eunice Fairweather. you know Burr Mason, and I know Burr Mason. You know that it you gave him up and re- fused to see him, he would come back to me. You know it." "Yes, I know it.” “You know it ; you sit there and say you know it, and yet you do this cruel thingâ€" you, a minister's daughter. You understood from the first how it was. You knew he was mine, that you had no right to him. You knew if you shunned him ever so little, that he would come back to me. And yet you let him come and make love to you. You knew it. There is no excuse for you : you knew it. It is no better for him. You have encouraged him in being false. You have dragged him down. You are aplainer girl than 1, and a soberer one, but you are no better. You will not make him a. better wife. You cannot make him a good wife after this. It is all for yourselfâ€"yourself I" Eunice sat still. Then Ada flung herself on her knees at her side, and pleaded, as for her life. “Eun- ice, oh, Eunice. give him to me. It is kill- inglme. Eunice, dear Eunice, say that you wu ." Then she went slowly up stairs to her own room‘ wrapped herself in a shawl. and lay down on her bed, assne had that Christmas- eve. She was very pale, and there was a strange look, almost of horror. on her face. She stared, as she lay there, at all the familiar objects in the room, but the most common and insignifi- cant of them had a strange and awful look to her. Yet the change was in herself, not in them. The shadow that was over her own soul overshadowed them and pervertei her vision. But she felt also almost a fen- of all those inanimate objects she was gazing at. They were so many reminders of a better state with her, for she had gazed at them all in her unconscious childhood. She was sickened with horror at their dumb accusa- tions. There was the little glass she had looked at before she had stolen another woman's dearest wealth away from her, the chair she had sat in, the bed she had lain 1n. At last Eunice Fail-weather’s strong will broke down before the aocusations of her own conscience, which were so potent as to take_upon themselves material shapea. As Eunice sat looking at the poor dis‘ bevelled golden head bowed over her lap, a recollection flashed across her mind oddly enough, of a. certain recess at the village school they two had attended years ago, when she was among the older girls,and Ada a. child to her ; how she had played she was her little girl and held her In her lap, and that golden head rhai nestled on her bosom. Ads Harris, in her pretty chamHer, lying worn out on her bed. her face buried in the pillow, started at a touch on her shoulder. Some one had stolen into the room unan- nouncedâ€"not her mother, for she was wait- ing outside. Ada. turned her head, and saw Eunice. She struck at her wildly with her slender hands. “ Go away l" she rcreamad. “ Ada. l” “ Go away 1" “ Burr Mason is down-stairs. I came with him to call on you.” Ada sat upright, staring at her, her hand Btlllllplifted. “ Eunice, oh. Eunice, he loved me first. You had better have stolen away my own heart. It would not have been so wicked or so cruel. How could you? Oh, Eunice, give him back to me. Eunice, won’t you?” “ No.” Ada. rose, staggering, without another word. She moaned a little to herself as she crossed the room to the door. Eunice ac- companied her to the outer door, and said good-by. Ada. did not return it. Eunice saw her steady herself by catching hold of the gate as she passed through. " I am going to break my engagameut with him." “ 0‘1. Eunice l Eunice I you blessedâ€" Eumoe drew the golden head down on her bosom, just as she had on tint old school- day. Don't get down in the mouth, man! Don't lose your faith in men and thing just because for a time you have seemed to lose your hold. All broken up it may he ye: are, and insurance seems to be the best way toward breudgetting and paying the ex- penses of that little family that are now housed inn. flat; but don’t you show the white feather. Stick! Up, and at ’em again 1 The long road must turn, you know. You have been at it quite a. good while, and somehow you fail to get your work in, they don’t sign applications yet, andgou are blue. But keep at it! Pluek and patience mfist win the day. Then just screw your courage up to the sticking-place, and peg away ; and keep on pegging away and onI and on, and on; for there is no good in halting for an instant. It's all nonsense about you not being suited to the business. What you lack is just a, little tact, most likely, and that will come to you soon. You have legs and brains, aod there- fore you can get around and do life insur- ance business. Having a hard time of it, you say ? Yes, but how much harder time would that little woman have without you 7 Think of it, It will help put you in sym- pathy with your work; help you build a wall of rotection around some other home. to shiel when the worker and bread-getter has gone farther along and out of sight on life’s road. Don’t get blue: but if you must, don't look blue. That wlll be death to you. Fight against odds with a smiling face, and don’t slack, but keep fighting' You will awake some sunshiny morning to find you have conquered. :‘Love me all you can, Ada," aha aids. “I wantâ€"something." “ Mary," said Mrs. Sharply to her maid. “ you really must put some sort of a dish out on the step to hold the ice, so there won't be a. puddle of water left there every morning." “ What dish shall I use. mum!" “ Anything would _do. Suppose you use a tea cup." Keep up Your Spirits. Some Definitions. Wages.â€"Sweet oil for humsn machinery. Poverty.â€"Deatb in life. PAtronage.â€"A big boy helping a. little boy to raise his kite. Lamâ€"A trap baitel with promise of profit or revenge. Debt.â€"The example set by Government to me people. Taxes.â€"Periodica.l bleeding, as prescribed by Government. Congreaslâ€"Men assembled to prevent each other from doing anything. Experience.â€"Life’s daybook. Soldier.â€"A target set up by one nation for another to shoot at. Prisonâ€"An oven in which society put: newly made crime to harness. Dinner,â€"The breakfast of the poor and the supper of the rlch. Luxury.â€"â€"The labor of the wealthy. Pawnbroker.â€"Ths man who holds your coat while you fight. Revenge.â€"â€"The only debtit is wrong to pay. Joseph Comoski, J r., though but a. boy of 14 years, swore solemnly to avenge his mother‘s death, even should the murderer seek the most distant spot on earth. In pursuance of this resolve he bade a tender adieu to his betrayed sister and sailed for America. Fortune favored the brave youth and after a time he discovered his mother’s murderer in Pottsville. He at once made known his discovery to the Polish Consul at New York and acqusinted him with all the facts in the case. The sympathy of the oflicial was enlisted in the boy’s behalf and he promised his assistance. The boy kept a watch over the mnrderer‘s doings, tracing him from town to town. Finally the fugi- tive was apprehended while engaged in the commission of a robbery and sent to the Philadelphia penitentiary for a term of three years. The consul, in the meantime, had written to Poland and learned of the correctness of the boy’s story. He then securred the extradition papers, and the boy came to Mount Csrmel, where so many of his countrymen reside, to work while the three years were passing. He found em- ployment at the Pennsylvania colliery as an ash-wheeler. By his industrious habits he gained the good will of his bosses, and was finally pro noted foreman, a posrtion which he__now satisfactorily fills. Miser.â€"-0ne who makes bricks that his heirs may build houses. Tobacco.â€"One whose life is consumed in establishing its character. Time.â€"To the aged an atom; the younga world. Poetryâ€"Thought in blossom. Ireland.â€"The Actaeon of nations. torn to pieces by its own dogs. One morning the little Polish village was excited as it hid never been before. Some one during the hour of sleep had foully murdered Widow Comoski. Suspicion at once attached itself to the Benin-law. Parsned by the law and a. guilty conscience, he fled from the land of his birth, crossed the ocean and founi employment in the mines of Pennsylvania. Here he considered himself secure. Bachelor.â€"A wild goose that tame geese envy. Family,â€"Matrimony doing penance. Marriage.â€"The only lottery not put down. Chiliâ€"The future in the present. Coshâ€"The scabbard that offers no guar- antee for the blade it sheathea. A Young Founder's Faithful Watch and. Prospectus Revenge. Fourteen years ago Joseph Comoski, Sn, died in Poland, leaving a snug estate and Joseph Comoskil Jr., his sister, and. the two children’s mother. The hours of mourning had scarcely passed when Michael Shsmolio turned his eyes upon Miss Comoski. He wooed and won. To possess the estate now became his unholy ambition. The widow stood in the way of the successful accom- plishment of his foul object. He meditated and finally determined to resort to foul means for the removal of his obstacle. Theatre-â€"Nature in the “House of Cor- rection. " TRACKING HIS MOTHER’S MURDER. ER. Inkâ€"The Black Sea on which Thought rides at anchor. The young men is scrupulously careful in saving his earnings, and. it was a knowledge of this, followed by an inquiry from an official, that led to a recital of the above facts. The young man has succeeded in keeping his secret from his countrymen, and this account will probably be to them startling. He has collected a snug little sum by his economical habits, and. with fire in his eye, one day this week remarked to our informant that upon the completion of the murderer's term of imprisonment the extradition papers would meet him in the face and the villain should swing from the Polish gallows if it took every cent he earn- ed at the Pennsylvania colliery.â€"Mount Curmel News. The observation of a great writer on hav ing half a dozen bottlesof brandy sent him by an anonymous admirer ls well known. “ This,” he said with complacency, “ is true fame." For my part, as is only in accord- ance with the rules of proportion, I have had to be content with much inferior liquor â€"mere ginger beer, a drink which is effer- vescent no doubt, but while it lasts is re- freshing enough. I once lost a. Persian cat. which (I had almost written “who,”) was very dear to me, and went to a suburban police office for professional advxce as to hand-bills and rewards. “ What is your name, Sir 2’” inquired the intelligent Inspec- tor. (It is cynically obserVed that Inspec- tors are always called in the newspapers “intelligent ; ” but this one, as will be seen, fully deserved the title.) As my business was a. lawful one, I of course gave him no alias. “James Payn?" he echoed. “Are you the story teller ?" I modestly mur- mured that I was. “Then I tell you what,‘ he said, in a. tone in which generosity and gratitude were finely blended, “ you are out of my district, but I'll take the case." And he took it. That was my brandy. I have also had sums of money borrowed of me at various times by admirers of my geniusâ€"but that has given me less satisfac- tion.-â€"James Payn, in the Cornhill Magazine. True Appreciation.