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That night was a violent, stormy Novem- ber nightâ€" blasts of snow driving against. the windows, and the fierce gale rushing back through the bare trees, which groaned again, and sending melancholy echoes through the house, kept up a. continual conflict of sound through the dark long wintry night. I did not sleep much, but, so far benefited by this new interest, lay awakeâ€"half amused, half disappointed, and very considerably puzzledâ€"thinking of our visitor. I did not “take to her” cer- tainly at first sight, but I did my best to oonvmce myself that it was, and must be, self-restraint stretched to an uulovely and undesirable extent which made Lucy so calm and self-possessed. “It will be diEer- out tomorrow,” I said to myself; “when she knows us better, she will know that nothing which is unnatural is looked for here; it willbe different toâ€"morrow.” But even while I said so I become aware that my heart, in- stead of opening to her, began to rise in in. voluntary antagonism against this friendless young creatureâ€"though she was friendless and of Derwent’s blood. I was dismayed to feel this: I ought to have loved her, re- ceived her, been as my husband said, a. mo- ther to her. Can any one command love? Ibecsme disgusted with myself. Was it not enough that Derwent liked her, that she was his near relation? But reasoning did not improve the matter. At last I found my spirit so unmanageable, so ill-natured, so determined to dislike and condemn, that I burnedJ my head from the light. and obstinately Went to sleep. Our breakfastroom next morning was as not th’g wbrli pleasant an apartment as could be supposed in such weather. Hilfont, it has an admirable View. A great broad snow-covered slope of country,drop- ping downsoftly,withevery angle cushion ed into roundness by that wintry veil; from the heights where we stood, to the lower level of the plain through which the .river, no longer in motion, stretched its preper line, with one icebound barge in the centre of the view, and lines of benumbed pollard willows, smitten to their hearts with the apathy of cold, tracing the chilly lines of its further banks. gray vault of clouds. The trees and scat tered houses, and even the far-off pin- nacle of the cathedral, far away yonder in Simonburgh, which we could just see, were all distinctly touched and softened with drifts and droppings of the snow. I am always young as regards snow. This landscape pleased me, cold though it was, and. within was the bright breakfast-table, with that little bouquet of flowers which Derwent had bound the gardener to provide for me every morning all the year round-â€" a pale, cold cluster of tender blossoms now, yet still flowers ; the warm crimson curtains drawn quite back from the window, to let in all the light there was, which was a soft- ened snowy light, gale, yet with a dazzle in it, a light which radiated more from the white ground than the opaque skyâ€"and the merry frost-exhilarated fire cracking with glee like a school-boyâ€"and the sharp air and ice witht ut. I myself entered this room about nine o‘clock of that snowy morning, and was hastening to take my place for prayers, when some one rose to salute meâ€"Lucy ! Well! it was very proper â€"â€"she was an extremely good girl. Still one is human one’s self, and prefers to see in one’s friends something of the weakness of common nature. It was no doubt much better to get up early, to be ready in proper time, to be down stairs before any- body slse; stillâ€"but of course she was rightâ€"I ought to be the last person in the world to blame her. \Vhen Derwent pronounced her “ a brick” at breakfast, I am afraid I must have look- ed rather doubtful. I said I feared she was quite overexerting herself, at which Lucy looked 'up quite seriously in my eyes. “Are you displeased, Aunt Clare ?" she said;and of course I said, “No, no, cer- tainly not ;” and felt very uncomfortable and ashamed of myself. Displeased! why should I be displeased? but certainly I .would rather have had something for my companion which was less reprovingly correct and unexceptiouable than Lucy. After breakfast Derwent left us to attend to his own not very heavy business. I sat with my work as near the bow-window as the cold would permit, and watched how the sun came gliding over the landscape, shak- ing lighth the snow off the branches. Lucy by this time had taken some crochet-work out of her bag. After her night’s rest, she was even prettier than last night ; and now a. languid conversation got up between us, in which the stranger took her full share. “1 daresay you have not much Society here, Aunt Clare?” said my young guest, The sky hung low over all, a heavy , l . Christmas. “Not at all, aunt,” said Lucy, seriously. Like all the rooms at, “I am sure we were very glad ; Uncle Der- went’s happiness was the first thing to be considered. And of course it was only by his kindness that we ever could have been , here." “How does it happen that you call Mr. Crofton uncle ‘3” said I; “the relationship is cousin, I believe." “Cousin to papa," said Lucy; “but so much older than me that I could not call him cousrn, so 1 called him Uncle Derwent when l was a child. I ought to have asked your permission, Aunt Clare, but it would ~ seem strange to call him uncle and you Mrs. Crofton. please?" “Surely,” said I. “It seems natural indeed that there should be some title of relationship. Do you know your cousins, the other Croftons ?â€"they will be here at \Ve have to see a good deal of our neighbors about that time: but you must consider yourself quite free to keep apart and quiet for this year ifyou choose.’ “ For napa's sake, aunt? ” said Lucy, raising her eyes. V I bowed my head in assent; Lucy for this once let her work fall on her knees while she answered me. “ Unless you think it proper, and say I am to do it ; I should not mind for myself, it would not do him any good.” said Lucy. “If you object to my mourning, I can stay upstairs ; but otherwise, please,Aunt Clare, do not think of me asif there were anything particular required. I should like to be just one of the family without any one minding me much, for indeed I do not want to be like a widow, or have any notice taken of me. I will not trouble any one with my grief. ” " I only trust, Lucy, that you are not exercising excessive self-restraint,” said I, though I confess Ino longer found it; “if you are, you will do yourself injury. It is entirely for your convenience and comfort that I make any such suggestion. “'e shall like the other better, Lf course." “ Thank you, aunt,” said this young philosopher, and so returned quietly to her work. I might be embarrassed and puzzled, but that did not affect Lucy ; she knew herself, and she was not much concerned about knowmg me. May I go on calling you aunt, CHAPTER lV. “And now that you have seen her, Clare," said Derweut, when We were alone one evening, about a week after our young guest’s arrival, “what is your opinion of Lucy now 7.” “She is certainly pretty,” said I. “I thought you would say so," said my innocent husband, with‘guileless gratifica- tion. “l haveJust been thinking upon that point. Doyou know, Clare, I don’t think you could do a better thing than make up a. match between Lucy and Harry Crofton â€" they’d suit each other famouslyâ€"not too much Sentiment about either of them, you knowâ€"-aiidâ€"well, no one can tellâ€"l thought differently some time agoâ€"but there’s the chance that they might be our successors in Hilfont, Clare.” I listened with a swelling breast. ] could not either answer him nor see him for a moment. It might have been differ- entâ€"0h, heaven ! that might have been !â€" but in the midst of my grief a sudden re- sentment rose in my breast. I could almost fancy those two indifferent young people who as yet did not know each other, were sald ; and o! ‘ mainly now” and ashamed should I he would rather “l. daresay you have not; much society here, Aunt Clare?” said my young guest, to begin with. “\Ve are very well 03 in that respect.” said I ; “you do not; know the capabilities of the country, Lucy. " “I have never lived in the country, in England,” said Lucy ; “this snow chills me to look at; : but you seem to like it, Aunb Clare 7" “I suppose it is becaus‘ said Lucy, quietly. “W e about everywhere to avoid now I cannot help fearing as if he would feel it. I ( like it myself, but I have to think of that till now. ’ “ Forgive me, Lucy, I f‘ “I do.” said just, cold enoug least, so I think thoxxgbtfess punggion. _ “How, Aunt," said Lucy," X a have said nothing which I could ed you no: any. I cannot del THE NEW INMATE OF HILFONT. CHAPTER 111 A THRILLING STORY OF OLD I; “an English winter is h to be exhilarating: ac se of poor papa,” have had to run 1 the winter ; even are neve Ih u-y m sure have v 3V8 great his sake, I should been able ie myself so far as to think poor papa is not dead. and I don't want you to suppose that I make believe to be cheerful. Do not be overcareful of what you say to me, Aunt Clare. Uncle Del-went told me you were very kind, and I am sure you will nevur hurt my feelings whatever you may say." “How does it happen that you call Mr. Crofton uncle ‘3” said I; “the relationship } is cousin, I believe." 1 “Cousin to papa," said Lucy; “but so i much older than me that, I could not call ] him 0011511], no 1 called him Uncle Derweub I when I was a. clnld. I ought to have asked This speech :vas delivered with such per- fect sobriety and quietness that I really could make no answer to it I sat silent and discomfited, feeling that my young companion took quite the superior place; that the sorrow and distress I had looked for was some merely romantic and visionary folly, possible to some people, perhaps, but not to sensible people like Lucy Croiton. 1 found on unaccountable difficulty in re- suming the conversation, and began to cast in my mind for some safe subject. Lucy. however, saved me even that trouble. She was not destitute of something to say. "I have often heard pap: speak of Hil- fout,” she resumed ; “ he was here before Uncle DerWeut was married, besides know< ing it well in his youth ; but he stayed here the whole summer that time. Did you not “I forget," said I, hastily. I did not choose to let, any one suppose thatI did not know, not that; I lured, but because Lucy looked up significantly, as if she meant something. “Uncle Derwenb meant papa to live with him (here. I was not with him, I was with Aunt Hatley, poor mnmma’s sister,” said Lucy, “but I {was to have come, and we were to have lived at. Hilfonb ; so papa expected; but. that. was before we knew you were going to be married, Aunt Clare.” And Lucy gave the slightest sigh in the world. Does anybody wonder that I felt somewhat aggravated? She went on with her crochet. so quietly, workingand talking without looking at me. If she had been my dearest friend, I must have fell: a. certain displeasure, Whether I would or non ing it ‘ the wh know? your permission, Aunt Claire, but it would seem strange to call him uncle and you Mrs. Crofton. May I go on calling you aunt, please 7” 1 A “Surely,” said I. “It seema natural indeed that there should be some title of relationship. Do you know your cousins, the other Croftons ?â€"-they will be here at Christmas. \Ve have to see a. good deal of our neighbors about, that time: but. you must consider yourself quite free to keep apart and quiet, for this year ifyou ‘choosefl “ Unless you think it proper, and say I am to do in ; I should not mind for myself, it would not do him any good." said Lucy. “If you object to my mourning, I can stay upstairs ; but otherwise. please,Aunt Clare, do not, think of me asif bhere were anything particular required. I should like to be just. one of the family without any one minding me much, for indeed I do not want to be like 9. widow, or have any notice taken of me. I will not trouble any one with my grief. ” " I only trust, Lucy. that. you are not exercising excessive self-restraint,” said I, L“For na‘pa's sake, aunVl” said Lucy, raising her eyes. V I bowed my head in assent; Lucy for this once let her work {all on her knees while she answered me. “ Thank you. aunt,” said this young philosopher, and 50 returned quietly to her work. I might; be embarrassed and puzzled, but that did not afiech Lucy;she knew herself, and she was not much concerned about knowmg me. “And now that; you have seen her. Clare," said Derwent, when We were alone one evening, about a week after our young guest’s arrival, “what is your opinion of Lucy now 7.” “She is certainly pretty," said I. “I thought you would say 30,” said my innocent husband, wiLh‘guileiess gratifica- tion. “I haveJus: been thinking upon that point. Doyou know, Clare, I don’t think you could do a better thing than make up a. match between Lucy and Harry Crofton â€" they’d suit each other famouslyâ€"not too much Sentiment about either 0! them, you knowâ€"andâ€"well, no one can tellâ€"I thought differently some time ago-but there’s the chance that they might be our successors in Hilfont, Clare.” I listened with a swelling breast. I could not either answer him nor see him for a moment. Itmight have been difl‘er- entâ€"Oh, heaven ! that might have been !â€" but in the midst of my grief a sudden re- sentment rose in my breast. I could almost fancy those two indifferent young people, who as yet did not know each other, were the supplantersâ€"God forgive me !~â€"of that dearest unconscious soul who had his inheritance in Heaven. It was unwise of Derwent: but he did not know how hot and terrible were the tears that blinded my eyesâ€"it was to him a sadness only, a. hope your disappointed ed me tendex day lonr, am house in a. d things by fit: When I could speak at last, I thought my voice had hardened down into some- thing toneless and harsh. “I am not a match-maker.” I said. one Ther'e me, L harm. Thu is é is a. specL mnbchma] happy he Emaket but he did not know how hot, 10 were the tears that. blinded my 'as to him a sadness only, a. hope ,edâ€"he took my hand and sooth- derly; he did not know how all and every day, I went; about, the a. dumb show, thinking of other fits and starts, bit of that: always. i this difference between him and 2 did not know in, and meant no ENGLAND ‘ 1 said. me, ” said DerwenL ; “ but Llcase. You are very little (or, Ciareâ€" almost, less than @039 a married woman, who ersclf, ought to be. 1 fear establishment .xt Estcourt “Lucy tells me,” said I, after a pause, “that she and her father expected some time since that they Were to live here." “Yes,” said Derwent. with that honest glow of feeling which brightened his whole face : “at a. certain period of my life, when I did not care two straws what became rf Hilfont or myself either, I once told old Crofton that he might aet up his head- quarters here if he had a mind, or break up the old house to bits if he had a. mind. I was aUlarelese man, and cared nothing for anything. Ibelieve {or one summer they were here. made you skeptical of the necessity ; but this is a. peculiar case.” “ They will all meet: at Clxrlstmas." said I. ” They are very suitable in age, and Lucy is portionlees, and will appear to your brother a. very bad mstch for his son,which will doubtless have its weight In attracting Harry. *If you could persuade his father to warn him against her, I should think that would be concxusive so far as Harry is con- cerned." “0h, Luéy will not object to have a house and rank of her own," said I ; “ and, Ishonld think, is quite disengaged, and very likely to be pleased with Harry Crofton. It seemsaperfectly natural and likely arrangement. without any match- making.” ‘ ‘ Don’t be satirical, Clare,” said Derwent. laughing, vet looking a little pained. “And what 9f Iiucy ? ” H “ It, scarcely seems to please you, how- ever,” said Derwent, lookin at. me closely fo'r a moment. “ Perhaps have spoken rashly, Clare ; make friendsâ€"you know I would no} give you pain for the world." “Yes, I Enewv tha'b very well ; but. there is always some one point. upon which every- body: is unreasonable; argd‘ thiq was mine." “Lucy thinks I rather came in the way of a very pleasant prospect,” said I. “I um um] sure ihat, she quite forgives me for it.” Derwent laughed, looked at me a little doubtfully. “But, you think he isa good girltdon’t you ‘2" he said. V “0h, cexztainly, a very good girl.” I answered : and so conversation ended for that night. f‘ Oh, young people! Oh, young ladies ! I am an old lady, and may advise you thus farâ€"don‘t do good to your fellow-creatures: don’t try to be the benefactors of households when Providence sends you on a visit ! I can’t tell you what amount of exasperation one good girl, bent upon doirg her duty. and exercising a beneficial influence on all around her, may produce if she tries ; but I know from my own experience how great it is, and I was in a. perfectly easy and'un- complicated position If I had been like many wives in the heat and burden of common lifeâ€"sometimes teased by my children, and sometimes a. little out of temper with my husband~matters might have been a. great deal worse. As it was, Lucy was certainly quite pleased with herself. She never help- ed me to bread-and-butter without a delightful quiet consciousness in her face that she was exemplifying the Christian duty of loving her neighbors, and was meri- toriously ministering and attending to her Aunt Clare. I expect, besides, some young friends of my I ownâ€"Alice and Clara Harley, who “are about; your age, from Estcourb, and Bertie Nugenb, a. young cousin from Sandhurst." “I am so glad ; I never had companions I cared for of my own age,” said Lucy; “but I fear it is selfish to think of that. Will not a. large party like this be very fatiguing to you '2" “I think not, ” said I ; I am very well ; you are too sympthetic, my dear. ” “Papa used to say rather theobher way, ” said Lucy, with a. fa.qu laugh. “He said I was not sympathetic enough. I am glad you do not find me so, Aunt Clare. And may I ask, please, these young ladies from Eswourbâ€"are they someof your orphans, aunt ‘2” It turned out; that she did not; know her cousins the Croftons (except the Croftons of the Manor, whom she had seen abroad), “Pretty when she was youfig? Kate Crofton ! How old do you suppose she is now ‘3" said I. “Nay, I cannot tell,” said Lucy : “but she is married and has babies, and of course one expects her to he oldish. But I like her very much, Aunt Clare.” “She is not coming,” said I. “Mr. Crofton's brother, Robert Crofcon comes always with be family. There are four of them. Harry, the eldest ; then Mary, at little younger than you ; and Frank and Edward, two little boys. They are a very nice family. They are the next; in succes- sion after Mr. Crofcon. You will like them, I have no doubt.” “Oh I am sure 1 shall,” said Lucy. “I liked Mrs. Reginald so much ;a.nd are these all Aunt Clare '3” “No there is Mrs. Fortune, Mr. Crofton’s sister, and her two children, and the Crofâ€" tons of Stoke. These are all yqur rglations. “ My orphans; I do not quite understand you, Lucy. They are the daughters of the late rector of Esbboutn,” said L “One of them is my godchild. If you are at: all afraid to find them inferior to yourself, let me reassure you on that point. They are gentlewomen, and my dear children. I can not. permit anyone to look down upon the Harleys."A “Aunt !" cried Lucy, “am I not an orp- han and dependant on you? If Uncle Derwenb had nor, brought me here, I should have been very Lhankful to get admittance to Esbcourt, for I suppose you bring them up for governesaes '9” '1 Wu; very much provoke'i, but it was in vain to be angry. “When did you hear of Estcaorurtt Lucy_ ?_” Ifskgd.‘ _ “Oh. from Mrs. Reginald. aunt. Poor papa. was very ill then, and I knew I should soon be destltute; so I always thought, if nothing else appeared, that you would take me in there. It. is so generous of you aunt! But I am grieved thM you should think I would look down upon the Miss Hal-lays. How am I any better than they '2” But, in spite of Lucy's humility, I could not help feeling extremely annoyed. Was it, possible that their education at Esteem-t. should put a. charity-child reputation upon my dear girls? The Woman Mayor of n New Zealand Town Calls Down Unruly Councillors. Mrs. Yates, the “lVInyOl‘” of Onehunga, in New Zealand. is troubled apparently with one or two unruly councillors, and has some difiiculty in keeping her team in order. At a recent meeting. repoxted in the new Zealand Herald, the proceedings are described as “lively.” The question under discussion was an outbreak of typhoid fever in the borough. At an early stage in the discussion Mr. Topp expressed the opin~ ion that certain correspondence had been kept back. The mayor, with much firmness. said : “I insist upon an apology from you, Mr. ‘Tapp, for making that remark, and shall \adopt a similar course with any other { councillor so expressing himself.” HER WORSHIP RULES THE ROOST. M r. Tapp deified aceâ€"using her worship at suppressing correspondence. He must have been misunderstood. The Mayorâ€"I won’t allow any councillor to insinuate that I have kept back corre- apggdeflce. Afterward Mr. Tapp insisted upon speak- ing when he was ruled out of order. The Mayor said : “I am the person todictate, not you." Mr. Tappâ€"Oh '. no you‘re not. The Mayorâ€"Don’t answer me hack. Mr. Jackson, having moved a resolution, entered into a lengthy dissertation on sani- tary matters in general. As Mrs. Yates his made a regulation that the mover of a resolution shall be allowed only five min- utes to introduce it, she drew attention to the fact that Mr. Jackson had spoken seven minutes. Mr, Jackson laughed, and said the council had no power to make such an absurd regulation, and in any case it did not apply to any one replying. He would insist upon his right of saying what he had to say, and did not intend being talked down. L Mr. Tappâ€"You quite misunderstood me, Mrs. Mayor: 7 The Mayorâ€"Mr. Jackson, are you defy- ing my ruling? Mr. Jacksomâ€"Yes, in this mstter. The Mayor â€"'I‘hen I order you down. Mr. Jackson said he would not be gag- ged. u The Mayorâ€"Then I rule you out of order. and if you don't obey, we might as well dissolve. Mr. Jacksonâ€"\Vell, Ishall certainly not obey you. You yourself have wasted most of the seven minutes, and must not inter~ rupt me. The role-man Have Paid Poll 'I‘ nx lo the Amount of over Ilall’n )lllliou Dollars. The Mayorâ€"You have rambled away from the subject. Mr. Jacksonâ€"If 1 did, you forced me. At this point the bickering ceased and the businesss proceeded in quietness. Since the adoption of the Chinese Immi- gration Act in 188 6, 10,106 Celestials- have entered Canada, paying poll tax to the amount of over half a. million dollars; 242 Chinese came in exempt from any charges, being either diplomatic agents or scientists. From the 10,348 immigrants arriving since the Act went into force there should be deducted 6.098, who, on leaving the country. took out certificates of leave, or registered for leave prior to June 30, 1893, all of whose certificates had become cancelled by limitation, and a further number of registrations were out- standing still available for return, leaving the net balance of less than 4,250 arrivals in excess of departures. These figures cannot, however, be taken as evidence of that increased Chinese population of the country since the Act went into force, as many leave with no intention of returning, and consequently do not register. The figures are also valueless in estimating the present number in the country, as there exists no reliable evidence as to the number in the country at the time the Act went into force. The census of April 5, 1891, gives the total number of ‘Ohinesc in the Dominion at that date as 19,129, to which add 6,384 arrivals since that date and deduct 909 outstanding cer- tificates oi leave, and of registrations for leave that have been issued since then, and there remains a. balance of 14,604 as representing the number in the country on June 30, 1893, less those who have left Without reporting, of which no reliable estimate can be given. CHINESE IMMIGRATION TO ADA. ‘ A clergyman, who enjoys the substantial benefits ofa. fine farm, was slightly taken down a few days ago by his Irish plough- man, who was sitting at his plough in a. field, testing his horse. The reverend gentleman, being an economist, said, with great: seriousness: “John. wouldn’t it bea goodplan for you to have a. good stub scythe here and be cut- ting a few bushes along the fence while the home is renting a short time '3” John, with Quite as serious 3. countenance as the divine wore himself, said: “Wouldn’t it be well, sir, far you to have a tub of potatoes in the pulpit, and when they are singing to peel them awhile, to be ready for the pot '2” Th'e reveren-d gentleman laughed heart and left. (To BE CONTINUED.) A Home Trust. CAN :11) to His Ankle: In Gunpowderâ€"An Incl- dent ofthe Indian Mutiny. Mr. Forbes-Mitchell, author of “%in- ieceuces of the Great Mumny,” found hilmelf without an overcoat. after one of the bettlea at Lucknow, and being unable to sleep for the cold, got up in the night, went into a room of the Shah Nujeef,â€"â€"where his regiment was encamped,â€"took a. lighted lamp from its shelf. and shading it, with his hand, walked to the door of the great domed tomb, or mosque, leaping to find a coat which some aepoy in his hurried de- parture had left behind him. He peered lnslde, and then, holding the lamp high over his head, walked in till he was near the centre of the vault. Here he felt. his progress obstructed by a black heap four or five feet high, which felt to his feet, 3.3 if he were walking in loose send. He lowered the lamp, and saw in- stantly that he was up to his ankles in locie gunpowder! About forty hundred weig‘ of itlay ina heap before his nose, while a glance to the left showed twenty or thirty barrels also full of powder, and another glance to the left, revealed more than a. hundred eightâ€" inch shells, all load- ed with the fuses fixed, and spare ' fuses, slow matches and port, fires lying in profgsion pegide t1)? shells. l “I took in my danger at a. glance," he writes. “Here I was up to my knees in gun- powder, in the very bowels of a magazine, with a. naked light ! My hair literally stood on an end. I felt the skin of my head lifting my bonnet off my scalp. My knees knocked together, and despite the chilly nlght air, a cold perspiratlon burst out. all over me and ran down my face and my legs. . ... ... . u .... “I had neither cloth nor handkerchief in my pocket, and there was not a moment to be lost. Already the overhanging wick of the Indian lamp was threatening to shed its smoldering red tip Into the magazine at my {gag » ” Quick as thoughtI put my left hand under the downdropping flame, and clasped it with a. grasp of determination. Holding it firmly I turned slowly to the door, and walked out with my knees knocking one against the other. “I felt not the slightest pain from grasp- ing the burning wick till I was in the open air ; but when 1 opened my hand I felt the smart acutely enough. I poured the oil out of the lump into the burnt hand,and kneel- ing down, thanked God for having saved myself and all the men lying around me from destruction. "Then I got up, and stmggering rather than walking to the place where Captain Dawson was sleeping, and shaking 111m awake, told him of my discovery and the fright} had got. “ ‘ Bah, Corporal )Iimhell !’ was all his answer. ‘ You have woke up out of your sleep, and have got frightened at a shadow,’ for my hesrt was still thumping against my ribs, and my voice was trembling.” The upshot of the matter we} that on seeing the corpornl’s burnt hand and the powder nearly half an inch thick sticking to his feet and damp gaiters, the captain was almost as badly scored as Mitchell him- self. The sleeping men were aroused, the fire was put out as expeditiously as possible and a. sentry was posted at the door of the mosque to prevent any one from entering. As may ‘be supposed, Corporal Mitchell found It hard to get to sleep, and he gives a truly horrible picture of what passed around him. The frightful scenes through which the men had recenaly passed had produced a. terrible efl‘ect upon their nervous systems. “ One man," says he, “ would commence muttering something inaudible, and then break into a fierce battle‘cry of ‘ annpore, you bloody murderer !’ Another would shout, ‘ Charge ! Give them the bayonet !’ And a. third, ‘Beep together, boys. don't fire ! Forward ‘. If we are to die, let us die like men !’ Then I would hear one mutter- ing, ‘ 0 mother, forgive me, and I‘ll never leave you again !’ while his comrade would half-rise up, wave his hand. and call, ‘ There they are ! Fire low. give them the bayonet ! Remember Cawnpore !’ ” Struck by the fact that thepreaent crowd- ing of houses in cities is unfavorable to the free exercise of children in play, such as prevailed when men lived in a mors scat. tered way, Prof. A. T. Skidmore has sketched a. scheme for the evolution of a. new system of play. Even under the pre‘ vailingconditions the way for the develop- ment of proper play is just as open as for anything else while its devalopment requires the genius of thought and well directed business enterprise. The professor’s plan rests upon the principle that play is the exercise of the faculties as such, the doing for the sake of the doing. It is nature working toward her end in the child by prompting to the free, objeotless exercise of those expansive powers which he sees at work in real life. If he sees this way open and he has the needful facilities he will imitate so closely in miniature the activities of the age to which he belongs that his play will not be a. nuisance, so discordant as to be intolerable. The greatest objection to this theory, as it appears to us, is to make the boy a. man before his time by “prompt: ‘ itlay iua heap :iore his nose, bile a glance to |e left showed venty or thirty srrels also full of >wder, and another ance to the left :vealed more than hundred eightâ€" ;ch shells, all load- l with the fuses xed, and spare ing” him to give up all the 013 fatahionhed sports and be merely imitative of his elders in the ways and methods of advanced life. It, remains to ask what is he going to do when he becomes a man '2 Eight years ago the body of Solomon Kripps was buried in Taylor’s cemetery, near Bowmanville, Pa. It has been discover- ed that the body has turned into stone. The hair and heard are crisp like threads of glass. IN A WARM CORNER A New System of Play.