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W rCWWWWOOflBW fl MW} WWBE OR, THE WILL mrsero g 3 «Wvâ€"v - “WWW Wmesm WWW 9% CHAPTER IV, The war (loud had burst in temp- est and raged itself to stillness; England breathed freely once nrore. For two weary years of humiliation and exultation, of indignation and1 mourning, cf sorrow and pride filledI the land. There were vatant places at many a pleasant. hearth, desolate homes, futlrerless children, age lie-1 renvefl and strong youth hopelessly! crippled, but. time was peace at last. The sword of England, the army. had been tested and found wanting; the material was excellent, but the: organization vi'e. and what avails a; sword of finest temper without a skilled hand to “ltld it? Yet this; splendid sword reaperl laurels. ‘ The first swallows came about Stillbrooke Mill bearing this gentlel message on their wings. Mrs. Meailel shed tears of joy on hearing the1 news one bright morning, then inâ€"l stantly began to make grand house-‘ hold preparations for Piilip's recep- tion. Mr. Meade went out. into the. garden, where everything seemed to be putting forth its strength and beauty to welcome the returning exâ€" ile. He went to stick a row of young pens with a slow smile deepâ€" er-ing ti‘e numerous wrinkles about his mouth, while Jestie fiitted about the sunny garden, tanglng the sun- bearns in her flowing hair, gathering spring flowers and singing patriotic songs in her bird-like voice. l ‘Phil '11 never know the little maidl she's shot up that tall and slim,”l be thought. ! News did not travel so rapidly then as now; war correspondents then only began to be; papers were fewer, dearer, and less accurate and well-informed than now, rumors from v private sources circulated vaguely and inatcurately. It was terrible to the Meadcs to hear of Alina andl then wait in long suspense ignorantl of Philip's fate, the more so as Mni Ingleby's brother fell in that. action,‘ I l r I r l and his name. was duly reported with so many nameless rank and file of his and of Philip’s regiment among the killed. Balaclava and Jnkerman brought the same sicken- ing doubt, and the Meades wrote letters which seemed ghastly in the light of that uncertainty to one might be lying dead on those. battleâ€" fields. The wound which Philip received at Inkerman, and his subsequent hospi- tal troubles left them longer in doubt; but ome satisfied that hel was recovering, the winter hardâ€" ships did not cause them so much anxiety, especially as the the acâ€" counts of those hardships were to a certain extent discredited in England and Philip made light of them in his letters, so that by the time the summer came his parents were suffi- ciently caseâ€"hardened to think of other things than the war, and were. disposed rather to underâ€"rate the per- i ils and privations of the long siege, of. Sebastopol. When the oaks Were exchanging' their tints of dull crimson, russet,i and warm gold for the pure, fresh, pale grcen of full leafage at the meeting of May and June, the whole people rejoiced in the peace, the country echoed with clashing bells and booming guns; the larger towns blazed at night with such illuminaâ€" tions as the limited resources of those bygone days permitted, and even the sober burgesses of Cleave filled their windows with candles, lit bonfires and otherwise recklessly, comported themselves. ' “Matt Meade's doing it handsome" ' t l said a portly citizen at shut af eve, on the feast day, as he passed the mill with a companion. “And lie; came do‘ 'n smartlv for the town '(leâ€"i corations. He's reckoned a warmi man, is Matt, though they do say: he’s dippâ€"d pretty heavy in minesl and other speculations." "Not Ire. You may warrant; Matti Meade knows what he's about,” turned Mr Cheesenran, now an derman. “You’ll have to get early (‘tltill him asleep. warmer than anybody knows. Scraprs and boards for young scape-l grace. "l‘is rough on the girl, but.l she'll be‘a catch by and by after all, i, trust 1111 if she isn't." . I'Iolifay groups crossed and rcâ€"‘ crossed the bridge, glancing at the illuminated mill as they went; loun- re. 1 111â€" : up ‘ lle’s I r 10 r gets leant on the parapet. where; the lamp stanchions were twined‘l with laurel, to criticise Milleri Meade‘s patriotic lamps and candles,1 and the Chinese lanterns swinging: from the trees; amongst these. idlcrs - was a line young nran, whose trimi moustache. erect carriage. and short, I well-brushed hair, stamped him inl the eye‘ of bystanders as a militaryl oflicer. '. "Yer are guy here to-night," saidi the stranger, lounger at the end of. the perapet, to the man in charge; of the horses. i “We be gay, sir," replied the i man; ‘there bairzt a man on thlsl blessed piaco toâ€"night, indoors or out, excepting me and Sarah, the sera: g-oonrarr, and when I’ve racked? up, there won't he only she left." , . "'l‘lze farnrlv "one out to See the? v D sights f” 1 -".\,y(, the: be all gore up top, of down. is see cm light tlu‘r big bonfire‘ ‘ liooslriarzs ' Voluntarily ltiring of the charge of the six 'l‘erble tine doings, to be bill"), ! 'l‘l ey do say as London itself can‘t. beat Clccve for lighting up and girCral Iyalty. I never see noticn lire if, afore in all my barn r'nys. And l hreckon 'tis notlrcn but bright now we've done for “old kick and put an end to this yer llooshian job." "find you any friends. In the East?" the officer- asked. "Well there! there's my master, he'd it got a bwoy tl-ere; couldn't do nothcn with on at home. But darnee they wild ULS never comes to no harm. Then there was my brother Jim, he got hisself knocked on the head at Balaclava, the Roosins pretty soon done for he. A smartâ€" ish chap a was." * "And the goodâ€"for-nothing escap- ed?” asked .the oflicer. "When I says good-for-noth‘mg, I don't know as a was a bad un drough and drough,” continued the serving-man, “1 never had nothen to say agen en. He's coming borne to-morrow, hrose 'to be a officer, they say. I hreckon this yer town wun’t be g‘ig enough to hold on." "Conceited ?” "Well, there, ’1; was like this yer, he was rare:‘. above his vittles. He wauldn't bide nowhere. Master a lawyer. A wouldn't bide long with be. Then a bound to wold Dr. Maule, and darned if a didn’t knock the wold chap down one night. Then a goes out in street and knocks the parson down and gets hisself penned up in station. Master he thinks he med so well knock down while he's about it, so a sends en off to the war. Misâ€" hound on to able wild chap! Good night, sir, arid thankee.” "Miserable wild chap!" laughed the officer to himself, as he stro led up and down and looked thought- fully at tie homely mill and house so strangely transformed by he festal lights. He knew so‘ well whi(h way they would come in, not by the front door, but round by the lilac bushes to the kitchen, at the door of which stood Sarah looking up at the rain of rockets in the sky. Swift as a. thought he glided round , unobserved by the ser- vant, and then as they approached, stepped tranquilly forth to meet them. "Sir," exclaimed the miller, stopâ€" ping short when 'he saw him with something between defiance and welâ€" come, "what might you be pleased to want ?” "Don‘t youâ€"don’t you me ’9" faltere'd Philip with a pain in his eyes. Jessie gave a. little cry of delightâ€" ed surprise, and Mrs. Meade rushed forward and clasped the stranger in her arms. "Lord ha mercy l” exclaimed lier husband at intervals, "this can’t be Philip. Why, bless the boy," he added when his mother and sister had duly welcomed him, “Sir Arthur Medway could not have bred up a know hot finer gentleman than he’s made of himself.” There was little sleep at the mill that night, so math had to be reâ€" lated on both sides, but especially on Philip’s; the dawn stole in through the parlor window and made the candle-light pale, baffle anyone 'of going to bed. "if you had but. been a cavalryâ€" soldier, Philip," Je-sie said, “you might have been one of the Light 1Brigade at Balaclava, like Mr. Medâ€" way." “Aye, and finely cockered up is young, Mr. Medway,” said Matthew, "enough to turn any young fellow’s lead.” "Lucky fellow! to be in that,” Phi'ip said. "Jessie, I have brought you a pet and one for father." Mr. Meade’s pet was a Russian poo’ilc, a mass (.f flack wool. with little heady eyes inviâ€"ible beneath the long fell falling over its face. Jc:sie's an iron-gray cat on three legs, with one eye missing, a scarred body. and the worst temper ever known in a cat. She would have liked Philip to reâ€" .late his Crimean adventures from morning till night, they never tired her. Sometimes of an evening in the garden while Mr. MeaJe smoked, HITS. Mcai‘e and Jessie were busy with their needles. and perhaps a neighbor had dropped in, and Philip was gradual'y beguiled into Crimean reminiscences, he was startled by the intensity of Jessie’s absorbed blue eyes upon him, as she motionless iu the background, her work lying for- gotten in her lap, her slender hands clasped. her thoughts far away on battleâ€"fields or among the hazards and horrors of the rcy winter siege. There was a magnetism in the inâ€" tent dr‘Camâ€"bared face which insensi- bly stole Philip's memories from him until he too forgot himself and wan- dered mentally among those past scenes, reproducing them almost inâ€" like one in a mugncti.~ Balaclava was JeSSie's favor- battle. Philip had seen some- hun< drezl, and heard more of ('lar‘u'le Med- way’s galant deed in entering the flea-Ely defile a second time to rescue a. wounded trooper under the fierce sleep. ite “i l l r r r i l .smoke and shot and the gleam fire. The grand charge of the heavy brigade appealed less to her imagin- ation, and l‘bilrp Iru'l not seen any- thing (f tle ltus~ian cavalry charge and its spltn id r’epulâ€"e by the l\'i::- tyâ€"t' ird lligl larrde s, t‘e redoublele “thin r'ed,lire.” “I don't know, Mr. Randal," ob- semed Mr. ('hecsmrrnn, the. corn~dculâ€" er, duri g one of these social evenâ€" ings, “that I should care myself to go into battle. Shouldn't like the fr‘f‘l of cold steel in my inside. And wircn my time corrres, 1 should like it a‘l I'mc proper on my bed, doc- tO's; and nurses and elegynrcrr, and a res;e. talle funeral at. tle end. I Can't alile bring hurried; never to. l ‘. Some} ow it don't seem deccnt to go out of the world in si 11 a ferric, of a hurry, Our fam- ilv always died respewable in their let‘s and ll‘li. everything: regular down to tl.e last fartbing and the l‘atlaa,rr"s. Now I dare say you went into Alma as bold as a. lion and took no more rroti.e of cannonâ€" balls flying about. than if they’d been i it turned as y .sn‘wflakes. 1 should white as the stem of this pipe.’ "I don't know what color I turn- c.l, Mr. (.‘lreesenran," replied Philip, "but I do know that I felt awfully queer that day \zben we crossed the Alma. I had never heerr under fire before, and it is a precious queer feeling, ] can tell you. When the enemy opencd fire from the we began to advance. My shook, and there was a sound like the sea in my ears, I seemed to see tl em al at home and know what they were doing at the moment, and I remembered everything I had ever done. We marched into a confusion of roaring cannon, rattling muske- try, galloping aides, clouds of smoke and dust with flashes of fire and glearns of steel between; we had a general sense of moving masses, like the moxirg of the sea. While we were advancing I was all right, quite happy. Then we halted and I felt queer and shivcry again. There we stood for a good hour, and the bat- tle came surging gradually upon us like a great sea-wave. A laughing lrishinan next me was twittiug me with being afraid, when he fell-shot dead at my feet, the smile still on his fare. and his blood splashing over me. Soon the fire was so hot that we shifted out of range. Just then our colonel rode down the. ranks, pale, and with his bridle-hand quiv- ering, brave man as he was and proved himself there. He bid us stand firm a little longer; While he was speaking, a shot rolled him and his charger together in the dust. He was soon on his feet and finished his speech, only the horse was kil ed. Then at last “0 advanced under fire of a. battery, holding oue own fire. The moment was like a. drink of wine to us, it gave us new life. By this time I knew all the different sounds of the different kinds of shot and shell, and started at nothing At last the order to fire came and we went mad I suppose for I reâ€" member nothing after the first splenâ€" did cxcitement but a burly-burly of of bayoncts, sabres, and men’s eyes. 'l‘hen gradually through the thunder of guns and quick crack of muskets pierced bugle calls, words of com- mand, slnieks of horses, groans of 'men unheard before. Then English cheers and French shouts became rrure f-equeu't, battery after battery wrs silenced, and before evening we were firing at the Russians backs, and stumbling over the arms they threw away as they ran." “And so the battle of the heights knees Alma was won after four hours’ fighting,” added Mr. Meade. “’Twas a Sept- ember 26. 1854, a fine sunny autumn day. “ilear Jessie Was out blackberrying." heart, yes,” added Mrs. Meade; "and toward night it thun- dered and made me think of Rus- sian guns. Balaclava. day was later. 'l'he‘e's clderherry wine now, I made that day; walnuts were turning ripe, and theae was a dal.1ia show in Marâ€" well Park. Mr. Ingleby was there, and his brother lying (lead on the field and Mr. Medway badly wound- ed." “Victory's a. fine thing," said Mr. Cliceseman, settling himself (:05in in his chair in the sunshine, "though I’d as soon lose as Win, I reckon, if I'd run my head agen a cannonâ€"ball. l’ll warrant you slept well after Alâ€" ma, Mr. larrdul." “We 'did, Mr. (lheeseman. But you wouldn't sleep toâ€"night, Jessie, if l told you what the field looked like. We lost three otlicers that day, our whole force only lost twenty-Six. and our ranks were terribly cut up. Af- ter all, the rollâ€"Call is the worst part of an engagement. It turns you sick to hear name after name and no unswm‘.” “Aid were you as frightened at Dada/lava, Philip?" Jessie asked with some disdain. "No, Miss Fircâ€"[Catery' he replied with a grave smile; "but I never have and never shall go into action \villiotlt horror and dread. though one feels a terrible joy in the. thick of it. Wait till you hear a wounded horse cry, Jessie. And that is a small part of the horror of war.” “\l'h'y not sell Out and settle to business, young sir, if you don’t like war '3" suggested Mr. Cheeseman. “The very reason not to sell out, Mr. Cheeseman; why a soldier’s chief duty is to promote peace." p "\‘l'ell now, Phil. that‘s a queer; notion." objected Mr. Meade. : “Besides, my dear," added Mrs. Meade, bewildered, "how can love your enemies when you them?" “Why, all the letter, you shoot that makes us love them mother. You always lil’e a fellow you’ve licked. And you 3- only care to fight good fellows. Those Russians are splendid fellows, much finer soldiers than the FrenCh. lWell worth licking they are,” "Well! i don't know but l'd as soon you didn't take a fancy to me. if that's how you show it," Corn- rncnled lllr. Cheesemnn." “But it was our duty to fight the Russians and theirs to defend their country," could there be had blood between us. “by. mother. ore day in some pubâ€" lic gardens, i heard a Russian cavâ€" ‘al'y oll'rcer (7|) (rutches with a banâ€" ldaged head, ask an Englishman in plain clothes to what regiment some Highlanders telonged. "Po the Nineâ€" tyâ€"third Highlanders, my own,' he ropl'ed. "l‘l‘en sit' said the woundâ€" ed Russian, ‘Pcrmit me the horror .of shaking bands with you. I be- longed to the lrliglrflo of cavalry whose charge you repulsed so grandâ€" ly at llalaclrne. l had the horror of slei‘g wounded in that, charge. 1 at cnt‘e r'erogrrimzl the unifor'rn.’ Now, Mimi/lit)", ii that. i~rr't, loving an erreâ€" my, l don't know what is." he looked at. Jessie, who turned away, her eyes- frrll of tears. a sense of the chivalry of war and the granâ€" deur of human emotion rushing over her like a biflow. Mr. (,‘heesernan left; and Philip was moved by the electric glance of Jes- sie's tearâ€"bright. eyes: his heart went out to her. lle drew her on to his knee and passed his hand through the waves of her bright falling hair, and her beauty, which he had him- erto enjoyed without considering, Hike sunshine and fieldâ€"flowers, sud- (lenly became apparent to him as something distinctive, full of prom- ise for the future. "And pray, miss, what do you learn at Miss lllushford's," he asked, "besides spelling and neddlework ?" “Manners,” Jessie returned, deâ€" ‘murely. "She will be a woman soon," he lsaid, half to himself, while his thoughts vainly strove to fashion some future for her. "Turned fifteen,” added Mr. Meade, with tranquil Contentment, "knows French and most things." It was a time of intense happiness and pride to him, the happiest time he had ever known; though, on the whole, as he had told his wife, he had had a happy life. His heart swel‘ed with love pride whenever and his eyes rested (.n Philip and Jessie; such a pair, he _th'ought, could not be matched. He had reared the boy to be a, gentleâ€" .man, and there he stood, tall, straight. and strong, looking so dis- tinguished in comparison with the simple burghers of ()lceve, not only an "oflicer and gentleman,” but a full-blown hero with medalled breast and a. halo of glory, little lion to Cleeve, feted and made much of. Tlis lionizing, together with Mr. Meade's undisguised pride and de- sire to show him off, would have been a trial to any youth not wholly destitute of modesty, or of that keen dislike to make one’s self ridi- culous which so often does duty for that gracious quality, and was sometimes little short of an afflic- tion to "kill". “"0, as his adopted father dimly perceived, had inherited fine instincts. We joined in their homely talk, till Jessie and her mother went iii-doors and Matthew rose in the warm light that now fell from the clau‘dless summer moon. and stretchâ€" ed himself with an air of content, incaring to follow them. .lut Philip, who had been silent and pensive for a while, detaired him. “Father,” he said hurriedly, "I am of age. I ought to know now who and what I "You’re a officer in Her Majesty's army, a gentleman born, a gentle- man by profession, and a gentleman by act, and a credit to them that reared you,” replied Mr. Meade. “It I was you .[ Wouldn’t ask no more.” "You tcld me to wait. till I came of age and I waited,” Philip per- sisted. "Look her, Phil," said Mr. Meade. "It’s like this. Everything is pleas now; your mother and me is glad to have you home safe and sound after the war; ’tis like one of them warm spells in the fall; it can’t last. Let's enjoy ourselves while the Lord gives us the chance." “Then it is very bad ?" Mr. Meade paused awhile, his un- rwonted flow of speech deserting him, then replied, slowly: "Family things is like this, they stir folk up in their feelingsâ€"and tlreze's bygonesâ€"lct sleeping dogs lie, say I.” “I outh to know my true position it may influence my actions," urged Philip. “lt answer ye, my won't do that, Phil, I can for that. I'm bound to tell boy, I knows, that well enough. But wait a bit longer, say rsix months. It's nothing but right you should know somewhen. There's happy times for most of us," he add- e'd, earnestly, his gray eyes deepenâ€" 'ing and his homely figure takingr on dignity, "but they’re none too plenâ€" tiful. We mustn't look for them. We've had trouble and care, llcaven knows, and it do seem ungrateful {when the Almighty as plain as tells ‘us to be quiet and comfortable for we to go and stir up things has been laid by for years and years and no harm done. ‘may be nigh." Philip was silent; he felt that he must respect this mood, but he wish- 'ed to be reassured on one subject. He had recently been informed by a Meal banker that a small capital of Iseteral hundred pounds had been placed to his account. by an anonyâ€" mous person, and he required of Mr. Meade to tell him if he knew whence this came. Mr. Meade thought he could give a irretty shrewd guess, l.e replieil, with ‘a Iwinkl: in his eye. and on being 'further questioned, assured him that contended Philip; "so howl l'hilip's t‘hr‘ek glowed as: he spoke, ; Who knows but trouble , t- i, .,_,__ ,,A__4 Ac__ ,__,_.-_..._4_. tin taking the money he was takin“ 'tl‘e due of no one else. and {n no we. Einjuring another; that the source 0 the money was strictly honorsblt :and such as he would in nowise ever <r'egret or wish under any circh stanccs to repudiate. With these assurances Philip wm content, and the remainder of hi: ‘leave sped in untroubled happiness "f‘here were boating excursions amt shayâ€"makings. (‘ousin Jane and her lfarnily came to Siillhrooke, and [lit .nriller's family passed long sunny rafternoons at lledwood's l-‘nr'm l ’I‘lzere were pleasant, long-drawn twi~ ,liglits in tl-e garden when the day's 'work was done. long (hats between wlrilcs while the miller leant over his halfâ€"door at the nrill and Phili) lounged outside with his pipe ant the. throb of the wheel and hushirrl rustle of the water made soft music. There was pride and pleasure at. see ‘icg the lad made much of. l'erhapr there was a little jealous fear in Mr. 'Mcade's anxiety to hear how l’h-llip ‘had fared at. Murwpll, where he dined .and slept: (‘laude Med'way, who hm! renewed the boyish acquaintance in t) e Crimea, being at the court just then. Jessie, too, showed great in- terest, in this \'i.~-it. and liked to hear Philip‘s generous boyish enthusiasm for the oldcr Claude, wer bad dis- played a dashing almost reckless bravery on many oCCa-‘ions, a gay and thoughtless daring on which tliq more imaginative and therefore sen- sitive Philip loved to dwell. "Yes, Medway is a fine officer, and a good fellow," lie said one day, "fast, but. t'cen those hussars do go the pare." "What is fast. l’hi ip ?” asked Jes sie, and Philip only pinched her deli icate 031‘ and laugl ed. He was very sorry wlcn the time camr to bid good-by, and the way it which she clung to him with littlt cries of “lppie, lppic,"â€"at partinl haunted him for days. (To be Continued.) ._____+ . BETTER GROW BEARDS. Distance a Man Shaves in An Av erage Lifetime. If when you meet your moustache adorned friend you tell him he shaver 5 feet 8 inches a day. or over two fifths of a mile a year, he will prob ably accuse you of romancing, but such is nevertheless a fact. The dis tance a man shaves in an averagt lifetime, or the distance his razor travels over his face, will be a sur- prise to most people. It, of course differs to a more or less extent will each individual, firstly, on account 0! personal taste, which determiner whether a man wears partial or full whiskers with or without a mous tache, or is altogether clean shaven. Secondly, it differs to a fnactiona] extent, for the following reasons:- The measurement of the faces of two individuals is never exactly alike. The texture of people’s skins. and the strength of the growth of hair on the face differ just as widely, and _ it is the tenderness or stoutness of the skin and the strength or weak- ness of the growth of hair that de- cides how many times a man passes a razor over his face. From a multitude of examples an average measurement around the chin from ear to ear is found to be 124,- inches. From where the beard starts on the throat to the chin, and thence to the edge of the under lip, is 4:), inches. You must reckon that it is necessary to give two strokes of the razor to each inch or fraction of an inch in order to cover all the surface; and to go over each section of the face. twice in order to secure a clean surface. So multiplying the number of strokes by the number of times the razor is passed over the entire face, you get the figure four, and four times the two above mentioned meaâ€" surements gives you the figures of 50 and 18 respectively, which added together produce (38. Therefore. the average nun, whether dark or fair, shaves 68 inches once every 24 hours. Vital statistics on the subject of the duration of men's lives are. mis- leading, by reason of the fact all who die in infancy are included, and error- mously lower the average. it is, therefore, better to fall back on the. PSnImist's estimate of three scores years and tenâ€"or 7U yearsâ€"in order to arrive at the life. of the average. rrzele adult. With these figures we arrive at the result that every man wearing only a moustache shaves 2,068 feet 4 inches per year. Taking, then. the average life at '70 years and that the fair man begins shaving at 18 and the dark mar earlier, we have the following results. That a fair man, if he lives till he is 70. will shave in the ceurs“ of his life 20 miles 651 yards 4 inches. The dark man, if he lives till he is 70 will shave in the course of his life 2f miles 1,340 yards 1 foot. 8 inches. -+ othn‘ boys who tray: eminence, Lord ('lrarle: Beresfard was the cespair of both .his parents and tca'hers. (in his thirteenth birthday tl.e choice of 2 calling was put before young Heres- ‘ford by his father asking him wlzeth- er lze would enter the Army or tln Navv or tale up orders. “Well.” he rioncludr-d, "what is it to be?“ "The Navy," was liCl'f‘rf‘HYl‘F in) rneditrv reply. "And why the Navy boy '2" pursued tile father “l'ii lik. lto to an admiral, like \'els.nn.’ “Psliaw! Lile Nelson! “by \‘t-l son '2" “Decanse I want to." "Bu? :even if you were to join the Navy Hrbv do you think you will ever he ;cori:e an a'lnfira'. ?" "fir-causi- vrnean to," was the curt ax“! Lapin tic reyl}. Like many risen to