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accomplished hero, and Lucyâ€"fwhatcould one call her? She was not a coquetteâ€" she was not Clara's rival. I do not think she had any serious scheme in respect [.0 «sedgewick. Lucy. so pretty, so agreeable, so winning, I suppose, forlack of a better name, I can only call her the villain of our piece. But in! in a moment the drama. was overâ€"the curtain did not {all upon any tmgical denouementâ€"instead of that, the dramatis persona), melted out of that ihreateniug combina i0 1, and peace came out of war like the t'ansformatiou of a pantomime. 1t vas very satisfactory certainly; but I d~ub> if the audience quite acquiesced in i'. The'e was a little flutter oi curiosity, s qui 1; exchange of So the night wore to an endâ€"strange secrecies of life ! Here were a dozen people hone room, half of whom were breath- Bi-ssly watching asupposed crisis which might have taken the light. out of a. young life, and broken (as people say) an innocent young heart, while the other half, totally unconscious of any particular interest. went on chattering carelessly about all sorts of superficial subjects, perfectly content that this was: a. mere country gentleman's drawing-room. and not a theater of social mysteries. All the elements of our liramu nor) were fully developed. The pair of lovers, the piquant circumstances of unequal years, thecomrastof thefresh-buddingglrlwiththe Hugh Sedgewick h xd too much good sense and diacrecion :0 make any remarkable diflerence, or Indeed, any dlfierence which m indeerenb spectator could have noticed but- We knew better and so did Lucy. She behaved with the greatest cleverness and skillâ€"so great, that, even I could almost have owned myself deceived. She talked to everybody justas usualâ€"talked to Hugh Sedgewick just. as usual ; but she made no appeal to him as she had been in the habit of doing. This was the only symptom of consciousness. For the res: Lucy behaved herself exactly as she was wont to do and was reallymuch less like a convicted suhemer certain point ; but. beyond thatpoint duller than the simplest. Perhaps it; might have been ozherwise if her own heart had ever been concerned. She knew by intuition that poor little Clara would do or say some- thing :0 relieve herself of her unusual suffering this day; but how easily honest, love and real nature could dispose of those cobwebs.Lucy, straitened by her very knowingnessfiid not know. Yet. I believe she perceived at a glance that her power was gone. THE NEW INMATE 0F HILFUNT. CHAPTER XIII. If those kind and painstaking spirits who instru:: their disciples by means of raps, had, any of them. condescended that night to visit the drawing-room at Hilfontâ€"and I suppose from what I hear that such im- perceptible intrudera are in everybody’s drawing-room, so that we are often, when we are least aware of it, in very equivocal societyâ€"they must have found no small unuseznent in the Scene. Everybody was prepared for something. It. is possible that nngeli: Spectators might not have appreci- ated the fun ; but spirits who are not quite perfect in their grammar may be supposed still human enough to own a smile. When I say everybody I mean of course everybody feminineâ€"It is possible that the two Mrs. Croftons may have conveyed a. spark of cnriosny to their respective husbands ; but the rest of the gentleman were certainly unenlightened. As for myself my curioaity of course was quieted and set at rest : but Mrs. Fortescue, Mrs. Robert, and my name- sake of Stoke, all beheld the entrance of the gentlemen after dinner with a sense of excitement, and disposed themselves to look on comfortably at the ripening of this drama. Lucy herself, perhaps, was the person present least disturbed. She knew well enough that Clara. was ag< gravatcd to the point of doing something ; like all very clever and acute people Lucy was wiser than her neighbours up to a certain point ; but beyond thatpoint duller A THRILLING STORY OF OLD ENGLAND The holiday season after thispassed over very quietly, without, so far as I remember, anything Occurring beyond the ordinary events of domestic life; and about the mid- dle of January we were again left alone. Robert Crofton was a lawyer, and lived in London; they were not rich enough to be fashionable, and were too large a. family to make a round of visits, so they returned, as was natural, to Russel square. The other lCroftons went back to Stoker Bertie re- i turned to his duty; and the Harleys went 3 to their mother’s cottage, to the all-absorb- :ing and most attractive business of wedding ‘preparations. Perhaps it was very uuel- ,evating, a. poor way oi' looking at the sub- ject; but I can not help confessing that my heart went With Clara into all the pretty mysteries of her trousseau, and I really loved her better among all those bright ribbons, and silks, and muslins, and the present flutter of preparations, which took the solemnity off this dreadful accident of marriage, than if she had been thoughtfully studying her duty to her future husband, and ruminating on the undeveloped responsibilities of that unknown estate. lam afraid [am Very vulgar in my ideas: Idou’t half sympathize with the extreme refinement which cries out against the show of a common wedding-day. and drops ofl‘to the country' to be married in humility and solitude. For my own part I admit that I was quite anxious to have my dear girl married at Hilfont, for the sole purpose of surrounding her With all the simple splendor I could manage to collect , ,7 . J ~~~~~ When 1 left them and entered my own special domains, I found Derwent lounging 'over a novel in my dressing roomâ€"a. very lbad practice, which my unlucky acquies- 'cence at first made into a custom, for er. Grafton, I am bound to confess, is of a [sluggish nature when he is not very strong- ly moved to the contrary, and once set down in his dressing-gown and an easy- lchair, will not even exert himselst [eras to go to rest until discomfort and the chill of the midnight drive him. Coming in somewhat exhilarated by Clara’s pretty happiness, I could not, do less than com- municate my pleasure, so I tapped my sluggard nu the shoulder and began to speak. surprised glances; but when it became apparentâ€"as it: did somehow, to all our leminine instincts, in some twenty minutes or soâ€"that the evnl was all over and the malignant influence harmless, ii; is astonish- ing how soon its interest flagged. I saw Mrs. Croiton stifle a. yawn in half an hour thereafter. and Mrs. Robert looked quire chested of her evening’s entertainment. It would have been more agreeable to have had some poetic justice, and a due and publicterminatian of this comedy of real life. I “What did you say to me this n‘mruiug ’2 Upon my honor I’ve forgotten,” said my husband, wiLh a. comic look of penitence. “What was to be done with him '3" 0h, obtuseness of man ! For my part I only laughed, andleit him to the enjoyment of his dressing-gown, his easy-chair, and his book. “ Do not think-any more of what; I said in the morning, Derwent,” said I, “the matter has righted itself. There is no harm done, and everything is jut as it should be ; better than I hoped.” “ Eh! did you speak, Clare?” said Derwent, looking up at me after a. moment with his mnuLh fullot' his novel. I really do not know any other word which would express that look. I repeated my speech with variations, 3. little mortified. He really did not; seem to comprehend me even then Clara looked at Alice with a. little start, and Alice looked at Clara back again with a sudden smile: but the contradictory chronology was quite truenotwithsmnding. It, was only a week, and yet it. was along long time, half as long as the whole previous sum of Clara's seventeen years. nn . . . This iasinuation of want of confidence did notquite please Clara. She was quite ready now to defy all the world on the pars of the immaculate Hugh. "Itwas all a mistake,” she said hurriedly “I was wrong and I saw in directly when I began to think. I; was me.” “ What was you! Never mind,” said I “ it is all right now, Clara, and will be all right: henceforth, I think, in spite of all the world ; but do you know, I heard you say something to-day about a. long, long time. It is only a week since Mr. fledge- wick came to Hilfont. Do you call that such a very long time?” satisfied Limp I nu_ite vhqud I could not resist glancing for a. moment into the chamber of the two girls when I went upstairs. They were seated both on the ottoman, laying their pretty heads together, no doubt talking over this event. ful day, and that most eventful interview, which was, I doubt not, the real beginning from which Clara’s life Would hereafter count. When I entered, they started from their halfâ€"embrace with sudden blushes, and stood tremulous and shame- faced before me. feeling deeply, with natural delicacy, that the past trouble was not one to he spoken of even to me, Clara, indeed, turned quite away and would not meet my look. I dare say, in her happy revulsion of feelingfihe wasashamed of her fearsaltogeth- er, and terrified to be suspected ofjealousy, or even of that depth of affection which produces jealousy, and which girls are not, fond ofowningto. Icould not hutsmile with- in myself at all that artless and involun taryself-revelation. Clara’sinnocent artifice sadly planned, poor child !of making me a. listener to her renunciation of her loverâ€" then her dismay when that renunciation turned into something very different, and Hugh Sedgewick’s words were no longer adapted for a third person’s hearingâ€"and now her extreme embarrassment about the whole matter, and reluctance so much as to CHAPTER XIV. 1 cries out against Wedding-day. and ,0 be married In ‘or my own part1 There was a. little pause after that; then Lucy suddenly laughed. ASI looked to ascertain the cause or this mirth, I caught her eye. She met my look entirely unabash- ed. “I could not help thinking how that poor little girl will feel when she finds her- self mistress of \Vaterflag; it will be such a. change to her! In is an old place, Aunt '3” “0h, Ibez your pardon, Aunt Clare. Of course l meantâ€"I did not meanâ€"in- deed,” said Lucy, stammering a. littleâ€"“l thought you would give it them, and do all their trousseau yourself; that is just what I thought." "In is a. mistake," said I “I think you made a mistake altogether about Clara a.le Alice. ‘Their mother is quite able to “ Middling," said I, rather grimly. “ How should you like it, do you think?” “ Iâ€"I suppose I shall have to marry some day, like other people,” said Lucy. " But I should not like to be wife to Mr. Sedgewick; he hzs exacting and tyrannical written in his very face." “Indeed I never saw them,” said]; “but I must beg of you not so speak to Clara. of any such guess as this,” “I am not aware what you could do to help them,” said I, somewhat ungracious~ 1y. “ Perhaps not,” said Lucy. “ Of course they have plenty of money, and are able to have things done for them. I was rather thinking of what I should have wanted in such a. case." “ But you know they have not, plenty ,of money," said I. you made a mlstake altogether and Alice. Their mother is q look after then interests. I myself called upon to interfere “I wonder, Aunt Clare, if I could he of any use to the Miss Harleya ‘3" said Lucy to me one day. “I am sure I should be very glad. I meant to offer when they were here, but somehow I thought. they did not seem to take to me.” “ Nay, I cannot tell. Likings and dis- likings are not to be explained, especially. I rather think, among young ladies.” said Lucy, with a. smile. "But I like them very well. Will you mention next time you see them, please, aunt?" “Indeed, Lucy! how could that be asked I. Parting with my dear children, Clara. and Aliceâ€"parting With Mary Fortescue, my old and tender friendâ€"even parting from those twp young Marys, who were common. place girls enough. yet good girls in their way, to come back alone to the sole com- panionship of Lucy, was somewhat of a. change. But of course we got on perfectly well ; and when I felt disposed to be ex~ aspemted. I either made a general disturb- ance in the household and scolded the ser- vants all round, or else I retired to my own room. Sedgewick from Clara, or if she did wish; nor Why, if she was “artfuland designing," as Derwent says we ladies call each other, or meant to rrarry anybody, she did not rather exercise her fascinations on Harry Crofton, whom she knew to be Derwent’s heir, and who was a very likely person to fall in love with any pretty girl who gave him the chance. Harry, to be sure, was only her own age, and she possibly prefer- :ed Hugh Sedgewick, but then Hugh Sedgewick was engaged ! Could that be the secret attraction, after all ’.’â€"â€"some- body else’s property which Lucy had a mind to steal away for the mere pleasure of conquest and mischief, and doing something wrong? But Lucy was inscrutable. 1 can not tell now. and 1 never could tell. And at course I had nothing for it, afterall, but to be patient; and do my best to show full and natural kindness to [he orphan who was our guest. What strange misnomers are in this life ! It dees not require a. very bright imagination to build a whole story of pathetic solitu is and patient sufferings upon the mere mention of Lucy’s position at Hilfont. An orphan. without fortune and without friends, whom her host, who was related to her, liked and took an inter- est in. but whom her hostess, who was not her relation, did not like. Only fancy, young ladies, what a picture ! The same girl spending her whole life in unapprecist- ed servxces to that cold-hearted aunt ; secretly resolving, in spite of all cruelties. to do lg'ood to everybody around her, and anxiously solicitous to show everybody a beneficial example. Think of her deep mourning, her paleness, her longing for that love which her hard-hearted connec- tions would not bestow upon her ‘. But ah, if you could only have seen Lucy and round our little bride. I was not disposed to miss a. single nosegay or Wedding favor, and was as pleased to think of the pretty train of bridemaids. and the enormous cake, as Alice herself could be : r'or Clara, I sus- pect, when things came that length, would have other matters to think of. This is the feminine view of the question, my lords and gentlemen. If you take an opposite position, it is because you are only the bride grooms, being but nee lful accessories to the scene. whom nobody has any interest in; Sometimes, doubtless, there turns out very small occasion lor rejoicing, and in all cases it is a. Serious and is doubtful business; hutgeneml nature goes beyond the individu- al. It is the primitive inalienable homage which the world owes to every bride. However, I am hastening one long way in advance of my story. To be left alone with Lucy, after all that had passed, was rather trying to merely human temper and patience, as any one who considers the position of two ladies in a country house in the middle of winter, Seeing very few people, and necessarily thrown upon each other’s almost constant sooiety, Will appre- ciate. Unless I shut myself up in my own roomâ€"which I confess I did sometimesâ€"I could not possibly free myself from my close and most attentive companion, upon whose innocent unconsciousness these past scenes seemed to have made no impression. I could not help looking at her sometimes, as she sat placidly by me doing her crochet, and tslking with an ease and calmness which astounded me. What was any thinking? What did Lucy suppose I was thinking? Could she imagine I had taken no note of her past behavior? Or had she herself been conscious of no particular in- tention in her conduct to Mr. Sedgewick? It Was quite impossible to tell. That pretty face covered like a mask all the busy thoughts in Lucy’s brain. Her eyes met mine with the most imperturbnbie compos- ure; not a symptom of pique or mortification; not the smallest acknowledgement of defeat could anyone extract from Lucy. She was as wary. as unconcerned. As animated when that little drama came to a. conclusion as before it began. And I confess her conduct has always re- maineda. mystery to me. I can notmake out tothis day Why she wished to detach Mr I'do not feel A New Fad in Diet. Vegetarians are outdone by a new diet- reform prophet. who advocates the eating of natural uncooked loods. His name is Mac- donald, and he seems to have gained small number of adherents in Paris. It is a. part of the system he advocates never to eat or drink anything bu: vegetable foods and natural liquids, precisely in the state in which they are found in nature. Hot drinks of all kinds are specially condemned, although it is not quite easy to see how the use of water from natural hot springs would run counter to the principle laid down. Carrots and turnips, beans and potatoes we must eat raw, it seems, it we value our health, and fruit we must eat just as nature gives it to us. \Vhether this means that we must not peel an apple is no: statnil. Mr. Macdonal-l himself eals raw oatmeal (not oats). which, as a Scotchmap, he thinks not only extremely nourishing, but palat- able as well. “Indeed.” said I : and then I think the conversation dropped, for I had no partiv cular interestin the family of Mr. Bloom, though he was made of money, and could not understand how Somers, if he were ever so good a. servant, should form a. link of connection between the daughter of his old master and:hi5 new one. Besides, it occurred to me just for a. momentâ€"for I had seen the letter, though I certainly did not look at itâ€"that Somers was not the name which preceded that pompous Plan- tagenet. Hall. However. the thought was momentary, and the matter perfectly un- important. If Lucy had corresponded with the man. what was that to me? (TO BE co Nrwunn.) Little Ethelâ€"“I wish I had a. new doll.” Mammaâ€"“ Your old doll is as good as ever.” “Oh, I believe they have built. in them- selves ; they are v'ery,very,tich,” said Lucy, with more animution than usual. “Mr. Broom said he had a. very good right to call his house Plantagenet. We used to know the family a little. Somers is with Mr. Broom’s son. People Used to say they were made 01 money. There are two daughters, but only one son, and I suppnse he is to have Plantagenet Hull ; but in is near London:ic is a. long way oil from here.” “Ahfbhat, was true, you have surely not forgotten it. It was Aunt Mary Fortescue,” said Lucy. “Did she hear it? Did she tell you? Was she vexed ! Poor little girl ! Ishonld be sorry if it made her jealous ; and I am sure he would blaze up dreadfully if he thought. any one was jealous of hlm.” “i heard you tell something about a. prior engagement of Mr. Sedgewick’s in this very room,” said I. “You seem to know himvery well,LuCy," said I. “Oh, I met him abroad.” said Lucy; we men everybody abroad. I recollect him quite well. I knew I had seen him before, the very firstday he came here.” “But. did not say so," said I. “No, it was no good ; and besides. if I came to tell you every silly thing Lhab came into my head, 1 should bore vou to death. Aunt Clare,” said Lucy. “Half the things in life, I am sure, are not Worth talking about.” “ Poor papa ! Somers was a very good servant to him ; he stayed till after the funeral. then he got another place, just be- fore Uncle Derwenb came. I saw you look- ing at some letters on the ha.“ table the other day, Aunt Clare. One of mine was to poor Somers at Plantagenet Hall. He has gone to be servant to one of the gentle- man there. Ithought you might be sur- prisgd at the addfess,”_ - “Idid not look at the address,” said I. “Plantagenet Hall is the great, manufactur- er’s house thatthereare such accounts of in the papersI suppose. Is it in this neighbor- hood ‘3 I don’t recollect the name.” baby Lucy. “My dear,” said I, “I Wish you were not quite so wise and experienced' Girls are not expected to be philosophers at eighteen.” “Oh. yes, Very kind ;a.nd he thought he kngw the world vgry well too.” said Lucyt VLucy laughed. “It is all because of my upbringing,” she said. “ I suppose I talk just as papa. used to talk. I remember 1 used to be so provoked with him for say- ing such things, and I fear, Aunt Clare,you are sometimes as much provoked with n me. “ Our positions are a little difi'erent’ said I : unless you think, Lucy, thatyou are as much wiser than me as he was wiser than you. But more years bring certain lessons with them in default of wisdom ; and yon must, give me permission still to think you a. girl_of eighteen." ’ 7‘ Nay, Tam sure 1 do not wish to be my older,” sAaidA Lucy. “1 often wonder what people in this country thought of poor papa. Everybody does something here. unless they happen to be rich like Uncle Del-went; but we were quite poor, and yet papa never (llEl anything. I am sure Somers, his man, did nothing all day long bub take care of them. I have not had a maid since I was ten years old, and I was obliged to learn to do a great, many things for myself, but poor Somers never had an hour’s rest away from papa. I often think of it now ; it is very odd. How do people get, to be so helpless, Aunt Clare, when they are still poor_?" “But, IV haQe no“ doubt he -wa.s a Vcry kind father,“ said 1, rather apologetically as I could not but be aware. u" 1 es; but he was not bad enough for that,” said Lucy, with perfect calmness. “ He used to any he had no energy, and could not bear the bustle of England. He said it would wear him out, in a year ; but that is all very well (or rich peopleâ€"we were poor.”‘ “ Yes, enough to spend to the last day of his life,” 831:1 Lucy, still with entire composure, “but nothing over after for me; enough to get all his luxuries and pay Somers, whom he could not do without; bin nothing for me. It: is a very odd thing; I cannot. make it out; for papa. never had any great deal oi money; he was always a. younger son, and poor.” ' “Poor Mr. Crofton was in delicate health,” said I. “ Ybu had enough,” I suggested, with ditfideuce. Little ELhelâ€"“ Well, I am just as good everr, too, but the angels gave you a. new “I An Unanswerable Argument. never tell tales Aunt, Clare,” said A novelty in the cycling line which has been attraccing considerable attention for some time past is a. unicycle most .ianious- ly contrived to run along by its (3: mom- entum after it has been fairly set going by the usual pedalling method. A forwnrd inclinxtion of the rider’s body keeps the wheel revolving. and it, is said in can be easily stopped by leaning backward. The same simple law of gravitation causes in to spin unerringly round any curve toward which the rider leans on either side. Never left (he Village in Whlch He Was Born. There died in Trikhalag in Thessaly, reâ€" cently a. Greek priest, aged 1‘20, according to the records. In this long period he had never left the village in which he was born. He ascribed his long life and vigor to the simple way in which he lived. Until a. few years ago he slept summer and winter in the open air. drank no wine or alcoholic liquors, except in communion, and smoked no tobacco. For a short time he used snufl', but gave it up, as it; did not agree with him. Mean he Seldom ate in the course of tne year. His nourishment consisted chiefly of fruit. nuts. vegetables and bread. He had acted 3.5 priest ‘in Tiikhala. for ninety-nine years. Making War on Wasps. A rather novel plan has been adopted by the inhabitants of the village of Beenham, near Heading, England,to prevent a repeti- tion oi'the wasp plague of 1893. A subscrip tion list was opened in the village for wag- ing war with the wasps, and a sum of £4 59. was raised. The lacal schoolmaster then announced to his scholars that one penny would be paid for every queen Wasp brought to him during the. month 01 April. The result was the destruction of 668 of these insects at a. cost of £2 155 8d. In May the price was lowered to one halfpenny per wasp, and the 614 destroyed therefore only cost £1 53. 7d. The small balance of the fundwas given to children who brought. wasps’ nests and who, in earning their scanty reward, prohably sutTered some dis- comfort. WILL THE SAFETY BE SUPPLANT The machine has no steering gear and is said to require none beyond the tendency given to its direction by the poise of the rider's body. The motion is generated as in a safety bicycle until the small inner wheels set the outer or traveler wheel spinning. It; does the rest, and covers so much ground at each revolution as would enable an average rider to compass a mile He always rose from his simple bedâ€" which was invariably turned toward the eastâ€"before the sun was up. and only priestly duties could induce him to break his habit of retiring at 9 o'clock. His face at the time of his death was comparatively free from wrinkles ; he heard without any ditficulty and read Without glasses. The only evidence of advanced age was loss of memory of recent events. He was able to remember everything that had happened in his early days, but his recollection of new things became so poor that he often forgot whether or not he had eaten. The result wasâ€"strange as it may seemâ€"that he often, in the belief that he was following out his system of regularity as to meals, ate two meals close together or fasted entirely. On this account his stomach became dis- orded and indirectly brought about his death. Throughout his life, it. is said. he was never sick 9nd never used medicine. He died easily, his last words being, “Now. let. thy servant depgrt in peac_e, 0 Lord !" THE \VHEEL. well under two minutes. The inventor thinks a. record of half that time within the possibilities with an expert in the saddle‘ and is at present engaged on improvements which he claims will obtain universal re- cognition for the contrivance. A Uniryrle Whit-ll Ihe Inventor (‘rlalm‘ (‘au Bea! All Wheel Records NINETY-NINE YEARS A PRIEST.