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"I am glad that, you came,” he said, gently, even tenderly, as he led Philip from the chamber that had suddenly become a sanctuary; she was so fond of ybu. She will mm- ger no more," he added, gliding un- consciously into Biblical phrase, "neither 'will she suffer 21113} more pain." CHAPTER XLVI. It was not. long before Philip found some relief in an outburst of grief. but Claude remained calm. He knew in that moment of exceeding anguish that he had long known hope to be dead, sudden and unex- pected though the end was. ’l‘he seeds of death, he well knew, as Jes- sie did, though neither of them darâ€" ed confess it, and though the docâ€" tors only hinted at danger, had been sown in that. winter of priva- tion and mental pain, fostered by those final days and nights of wanâ€" dering in London. He knew it. and accepted the inevitable doom, with the awful, acquiescent grief which is “a. solemn scorn of ills." He came with a bleeding heart to look upon the woman he had slain, when she was arrayed for the last chill, solemn bridnls. He thought of what he had done to blast the sweet flower before him, and of what might have been for one so young", so IOVely, and so high- ly gifted, if he had never crossed her path. Strange, very strange and ierrible, even incredible, it was that those beautiful lips did not part. as sometimes he felt they must, to answer the agonizing thoughts of his heart; that the the fringed eyelids did not open when he was so near and so sorer needing the deep love-light darken- ed forever in the veiled blue eyes. That she should be wrapped in that shroud of chill, unbreuking silence was so awful, so intolerableâ€"yes, and so just; for it was his own work. When he entered the darkened saâ€"T Ion, the room which but yesterday was bright with her living presence, and in which she now lay pale in her white drapperies among white roses and orange blossoms, he placed a palmâ€"leaf in the clasped white hands not touching them. When he looked upon the soft repose oil the sweet face; he could not believe that she lwas' really dead; a slight droop of her golden head gave her such a lifeâ€"like air; she seemed to smile as if‘welcoming him; he was moved to kiss her. 1: was not so much that the lips gave no response to the pas- sionate pressure, as it was the icy, soul-penetrating chill that startled him to a short, sharp cry and made him shudder away from the quiet, unhecding form. That indeed was the sharpness of death, the intoler< able sting of it, that icy immovable indifference, that awful impenetrable calm in lips so lately warm with a. young wife’s passion and equucnt with pure deep feeling and noble thonght. If she could but speak one word, one last word of forgive- ness! He could not remember the very last word she had spoken, he could only recall the gentle tenor of her conversation in those golden hours, and the occasional low, sweet, happy laughter, the delight in the beauty that “almost makes one afraid," as she said of the sunset. The still and solemn beauty of the once mobile features awed him; the pity of it smote to his heart; such high majesty was so unnatural in a face so young, a face made to be bright with love and laughter, ra- diant with health and joy. He thought he saw some. trace of her mortal anguish beneath the serene peace she wore, a faint, memory fraught with such pathos as belongs to instruments of martyrdom in pic- tures of beatifled saints. Jessie had indeed won the palm lying green upon her breast. She had fully forgiven. though she could never more tell him so. God hadiorgiven too. But that could not restore life and health to her, no penitence would bring the light, back to her darkench eyes, no regrets could blot out the sufiering of those lonely months in London. "If I could atone!" ho groaned; “Jessie, Jessie! you know that. I would have died for you!" But; he could not; nor could he atone for the waste of this sweet young life or that; of another he never forgot; all his life would he penance, the penance of blank desolation; nothâ€" ing could undo the past. It is true that a sweet. and awful sense of some divinely, eternally pur- poscd atonement, bringing light out of all earth's darkness, bl‘ooded dove-like on the stormy waters of his conscience, but even that could not. restore the beautiful hours of golden youth, the. achievements of rare talent life held in store for her, till he came and shattered the crustal vase of promise which held them. “Jessie.” he cried, “it was I who killed you." The orange- blossom was beginning to droop. some White leaves fell as if moved by his anguish from the roses in her white hands; but the breast on which they fluttered was not griev- ed. the soft rise and fall of it was at an end. Hui-d, hard it was that. A DYING PROMISE on, THE MISSING she should suffer for him; his heart rose against the injustice, he did not feel that being one they must share both ill and good. Everywhere he saw the innocent suffering for the guilty; he saw Fanny in her‘death agonyâ€"when did he not see Fanny? he saw the martyred innocents en- trapped to vice in great cities; he saw Philip an outcast. in his babyâ€" hood, rescued from beggary by a poor man’s charity, branded with a life-long stigma, and abhoring his own gentle name; and a faint vision of the oneness of the human race he- gun to gleam upon him, with some feeling of the horrible iruitfnlness of evil, and the inel‘faceable nature of human conduct. Yet Jessie did not suffer; one glance at the _dcep and awed repose in the sweet face rebukâ€" ed such a thought. Her soul was taking droughts of vital joy from the still waters of Paradise. She had been guarded that she should not take too much hurt from him; mercy had been about her path. Yes, and about his path too.. Those last few months, every moment of them more prec- ious than water to the dying in the desert, had been permitted him; he could never forget their most beau- tiful and intimate converse, their walking in the house oi God to- gethcr; to have known her Was alone a regeneration, much less to have loved her. And what had he been before he saw her? He was no more the selfish, good-natured, 10W- thoughted man of the world who saw Jessie in her unshadowed youth and beauty beneath the oaken boughs on that bright 'April day not two years gone. She had given him a, soul, restored him to his real, that is, his best self. What ought he to do to live a. higher life? What would she wish him to do? “The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers.“ We have but one youth, one chance of keeping unspotted from the world, and thus making head against the powars of darkness banded against us; we can never reâ€" gain a. spotless past, or undo the countless evil influences we spread about us in an illâ€"spent youth; never unsay the cynicisms of other days, or uin‘oot, tile seed that has sprung up and borne fruit in a. thousand unknown fields. The mass of men can only fight negatively in the ranks of the children of light, by ruling their lives well; Savonarolas, St. Francises, Isaiahs, are Very rare; on the whole, the most valuable deeds of mankind are negative. But‘ his afterâ€"life was noble. though flowing in obscure channels, was siâ€" lent beneficence, and health-diffusing purity. And who may measure the Icavening power of one life attuned to high ideals? {'1 can never be happy any more, dear," he said, addressing her, as if her pale and silent, presence were still vital; “but I shall bless the day an which I first saw you, as long as I live." “Ma mic," he replied once, but his voice sounded hollow and strange, charged as it Was with tender pas- sion, and echoed dyineg through the silent room; where 0h! where was that which had once thrilled in reâ€" sponse to his lightest whisper? Can my love never reach you there?” It seemed impossible that the adored voice had no power to break the lofty calm of her stillness; “will they shut me out for ever from the holy place, ma. mic, ma mic?" Outside the house, the sunshine, which was to have healed her, lay with caressing warmth on the dark rich sea, the purpleâ€"shadowed moun- tains, the orange and lemon groves, the olives and aloes, the garden she had loved and made lovelier by her presence. The brief hours rolled by and the sun reached the zenith. Then Philip came and took him away for the Iinal rites, surprised to find him calm and reasonable, and able to speak of her as if she were still with them. A. white rosemud moved from her hair, borne down by its own weight; things she had said seemed to repeat themselves in the still air which had been so lately vibrant with the tones of her voice and the low music of her laughter. “Claude, Claude," he almost heard her say as she so often did on waking from fitful sleep, “are you really there? is it no dream?” “She was gifted. such an artist, Philip," he said that evening, when the earth had closed over her; "and no one could look in her face with- out, being the better for it." Then he showed’him a paper in her handwriting, a. list of small gifts of toys and souvenirs of the places she had seen in this first foreign tour, for each of her friends, including a. porcelain pipe for Abraham, with a message to each friend, dated a week back, and showing that she knew how near her end was. There was also a. sealed separate packet. for Philip and one for her husband, to be opened a week after her death, as if she. had pictured the increasing Then a, very noble and tender friendship, which had already taken root, grew up and blossomed be« tween Claude and Philip in this com- mon bereavement, which drew them together all the more because they shared the loss with no one in any great degree. Each could speak of Jessie to the other and to no one else, eachjiad been loved by her and knew her as no one else had done, each had in a different degree ache of bereaval that would come to each of them after the first shock had gone by, and thus tried to com- fort, them. each had in a different degree wronged her and been forgiven. She was a life-long bond between them, cementing a friendship that never faltered in all the yours to come. When the death tidings reached Mm‘wcll Court they excited mixed feelings in (lin'erent, breasts: Lady Gertrude was sufficiently shocked by the suddenness, and touched by the pity of Jessie's early death. to be able to cry with the utmost pro- priety, though firmly convinced that. nothing better could possibly have occurred. Sir Arthur in his secret heart felt that it was well, but. Jesse’s young pathetic beauty and singular charm hurl from the first cast a spell upon him; he could not forget her parting kiss or the cling- ing of her arms around his neck. Even Jim Merlwny hurriedly left, the room on hearing the telegram read, and when he appeared again, he said that it would make a great. change in Hugh's prospects. “Claude will be awfully cut up, but won't say much," he added, "on'y you'll see that he'll never marry again," which was true. “I never did hold with these here telegrams,” Mix Plummcr said. "There’s trouble onuugh with bad harvests and war taxes and low prices without making ill news fly faster than natural; which the Lord knows is too fast by long odds.” "I always did say that Matthew Meade would live to repent bringing her up as he did," Cousin Jane com- plained to her pocket handkerchief. "Nobody can't say I didn't, warn him." she added with a sob. “But he didn’t live. you foolish woman!" growled her husband, grieved to the extent of contradict- ing. . “How ever' anybody could expert, him to live, with information in his chest and mustard poultices, and me sitting up all night, with him?” she retorted. “Ah to be sure, I reckon that was enough to kill any man without any information in his chest,” her hus- band returned, grimly. "Well there! the best goes first?” ".Who’d ever thought Nat would take on like that?” Cousin Jane thought to herself when he went out of the _ room, angrily banging the door, "and he without a drop of .Wood blood in him. But Plummer always had a feeling heart; I've al- ways said that for him, for all he's that aggravating to live with. And her ways was taking and men never thinks a pretty face can go wrongâ€"- without they marry one, and then they find out fast enough. Well! there! I was fullish over the child myself, and cried for her when she run away, as though she a been a sister’s child at least. To be sure. it was providential I thought the plumâ€"colored silk would fly and bought the black instead, and some say bugles are worn. She died a baronet's daughter-inâ€"law, when all's said and done, and nobody can say I don’t know what's right to wear for cousins. What are we but worms? The nierino'll wear for work adays; it’s a pity I can’t give the crape another wear, but Sir Arâ€" thur might think it a liberty. The deaths I’ve seen! Plummer's of a full habit and hotâ€"tempered, he may go off any day. There's a poor few left besides to wear crape for, dear, and Jessie not nineteen! We mustn’t run out again the ways of Provi- dence. I'm sure there's mercies enough with me spared from day to day, that might go of! any minute." Roger said nothing; he went on into the empty cow stable, and leant against the loft ladder with his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the strawâ€"litter, which was touched by a bar of frosty sunshine, for an hour. Once or twice he drew the back of his hand across his eyes, but. no one ever knew what his thoughts were. Sarah sat down in the midst of her work by the kitchen fire with her apron over her head..After a. while, she removed the apron and went into the dairy and scrubbed her pans and pails, pausing occasmnally to dash the tears which bedewed her labors. A cut lapped cream before her eyes, and on being discovered was quietly removed and turned out of doors without rebuke. Sarah would never more take such pride in the whitness of her wooden pails and the lustre of their steel bands. There would be' less pleasure in givâ€" ing Plummer full change for her verbal coin. or detecting “the girl" in innumerable delinquencies; and when the pleasant spring days came again there would be less music in the singing of birds and a loss of sweetness in the flowers. “Poor missie's gone, Abram,‘ she sighed, when her husband came cluttering heavily in over the flags, 8. pail of free/ng water in each hand. » clash a tin‘ Cline." He took up his another long and set: them in their moved the yoke and stumped h dairy without a \ G one dead et down the pails with a Gene dead?" he asked, after hrapid He went into the barn. took up his flail and began to thrash. But he grasped the han-dsel in 0. half- hearted way and brought down the zwin‘gel without. his usual dash, thinking, in a dim sort. of way, that. sunshine would never again have the old pleasant warmth or a cup of mild ale the old savor and cheer. "Terble set. on she,” he repeated, after hulfâ€"nnâ€"hour's steady thud, thud of the flail. The credit of the Japanese for turn- ing the Russians out of the powerful semiâ€"permanent works at Liao Yang is therefore very great, and no myrâ€" iprise need be felt at General Kuroki's failure to turn General Kovlu‘opatkiu's ,flank successfully. “Wold master and missus was ter- ble zet on she," be muttered to him~ self. So it was all over. 'And a few days after the funeral, Philip turned away from the new grave in the English cometary and walked slowly out into the sunny road with a full heart and dim eyes. He leant on a low stone-Wall, in the crannies of which sweet violets were blooming and near which bees hummed con- tentedly about a. bush of white heather, and gazed out over the orange and olive groves and oriental 211093 and carobs, upon the sun- lit sea. He was almost sorry and yet he was glad that Jessie had not known what he lost by Coming home to her. She could never know now what now he had not fully known till now, himself, how very dear she had been and what a terrible blank she had left in his life. And how should he answer to Matthew Meade for that fresh, unturfed grave? He had been loyal to the letter of that dyâ€" ing charge, but not to its spirit. He ought, to have given more heed to her letters and seen the true meaning of her discontent; it was partly stupidity, but more preju- dice of those cut and dried arbitrary conventions that men have invented concerning women. He had never thought of Jessie as a reasoning be- ing with passions and spiritual needs, and a. distinct mould of char- acter of her own, but as a tender, unreasoning, clinging thing to be moulded to his own form at will. "And now my house was left unto him desolate.” he thought, looking over the son. with a deep intent gaze, as one who is questioiling the'hid- den future. He would be alone all his life; even if he could forget Ada, he would ask no woman to share the stigma on his birth, Ada, of course, would marry; and in the years to come he might know her and become her friend. Her children might even cling about him; she would teach them to respect him as a man who stood or fell by his ownstrength, and scorned to climb by any ignoble way. His heart was full of Ada, as in- deed it always was; his thoughts fluttered away from sad retrospect, as they Were wont to rest in the unforgetten charm of her presence. If a. peasant girl stepped gracefully down the hillside with her basket of oliveâ€"roots poiSed lightly’ upon her head, something in the proud carriage of the head, some lustre in the girl's (lark eyes, a. stray sunâ€" beam on the rippling darkness of her hair, any touch of beauty was an echo or reflection from Ada. He pictured her on the seaâ€"ward slope beneath the solemn olives below, de- lighting in the soft sunny beauty of the Italian winter and loving the clear brilliance of the blue sea, till ,it would have been no surprise to hear her speak, a. breathing reality and no dream. An Englislnuan lately returned from Manchuria states that the Russians had some 220,000 men and the Ja- panese 180,000 at the battle of Liao Yang. The Russians also had over a hundred guns more than the Japanese. rate latterly, to bad generalslhip. The men are dogged and fight Well. The regimental officers are fair, but the generals and their staffs are quite incompetent. The railway is working magnificent- ly. Men and stores are being passed along smoothly to the front. A minimum of twelve trains on all secâ€" tions either way is run daily. On some sections this number is ex- ceeded. This is a Very good perform- ance for a. single line. Bad Generalship Accounts for Their Lack of Success. The repeated defeats sustained by the Russians are entirely due, at any But 2 tent gL the Ru consistt The sun was sinking toward the vast breadth of soft bluencss, roseâ€" hued cloufllets were fluttering like winged angels in the glowing orange sky; he turned, the better to see the splendor, and there, coming out of the sunset glory toward him, was 'Ada. herself. Locally in Manchuria can get; ample supplies practically any number may wish to Keep there in all (tn-m dination of that they \x HOW THE RUSSIANS FAIL. Mrs 1 lingo army without compch morals is useless, and so far ssinn plan of campaign has rd in sending bodies of troops directions With‘oqt any coâ€"orâ€" n of purpose, wi'h the result (xv were defeated in detail. Newlywedâ€""Have you : ups this morning?" Butc p3? What are they?" I dâ€"“Indecd, I don't kn‘ hushand talking about I the market, and I thou (To be Continued.) the Russians of food for of men they Butch'cl " ' Mrs know any STUDY AND OBSERVE. 'Aim to keep hogs for profit; that is what everybody keeps them for. Some are doing it, and some are not. The only way to successfully raise hogs, or to succeed in any other occupation, is to study and observe the worln In these days of strenuous competition. it requires close management to make anything out. of it, yet there is always room for more of the best. No matter how many hogs you have, strivo continually to learn more about. the industry. should be warm, light and dry. Dur‘ ing the extreme cold of last winter, I had some difficulty, though no loss, with some calves kept in a. rather cold pen. We were oven" stocked with calves. but wanted to raise still more. We put them in pens, and at first they did not do well, but after the weather moderat- ed they thrived right along. Our calf pens are cleaned as regularly as our cow stables. This takes less bedding, besides being more whole- some than throwing fresh material on top of a wet bed. One year I lost 12 calves inside of a. week, and it was more than two years before I discovered that the loss was due to overfeeding and the accumulation of manure. Their bed was dry and clean on top, but underneath dis- ease and death were awaiting the proper time to get in their work. During the last three or four years I have had but little trouble with scours. Sometimes in changing to skimmilk a calf ~will scour. The re- medy is a very small feeding of whole milk for a day or two, or un« Lil the calf begins to grow again, dawn the change of skinunilk should be gradual. Plenty of hay, grain and water tends to develop the ap- pearance liked in a dairy cow. Our {calves are usually \veaned when' 'abcut six months old, but ottasiem lally a strong one at four months: CARE OF DAIRY CALVES. In rearing a dairy calf, it must be borne in mind that while size and constitution are wanted, fat is to be avoided writes Oscar R. Widmer. It the calf is started with a too liber- al feeding of whole milk or other fattening foods, in nine cases out. of ten, the matured animal will put its food on its back instead of glv- ing it at the pail. If a. male, it will Usually transmit those qualities to its offspring. As soon as a. cult is dropped, it is removed from its dam to a clean bed of straw. I prefer that it shall not know a mother. Unless the cow is sufiering from an excessively full udder, I wait an. hour or two before milking, or until the calf has begun to exercise and get an appetite. I consider it neâ€" cessary that it be fed the mother's first milk. A young calf should never be fed milk from a cow long in lactation unless some mild laxo: tive is added, and, if possible. should have the milk from its dam until old and strong enough to thrive on skim-milk. The amount of milk fed depeds on the size of the calf, varying from two or three quarts morning and night. The pails from which calves are fed should be kept clean. If the milk becomes chilled, place it in Warm water until it reaches nearly blood heat, never giving the call all it will take, but removing the pail while it still wants more. If a calf does not begin to nibble at hay when it is three or four days old. a few bright spears should be plac- ed in its mouth AT FEEDING TIME. In this way it. soon learns to expect hay as well as milk. I have had calves eating hay regularly at a week, old, and at two weeks old would look for their noonday feed- ing of brain. When a. calf begins to eat hay and grain well, skimmilk is substituted for a, part of the whole milk, increasing the amount gradual- ly until the ration is all skimmilk. If the milk has become cool in sep- arating, it shouldbc warmed to about 10 degrees. There can_be no set rule as to the amount to be alâ€" lowed, as some calves take nearly twice as much as others with no bad efiocts. The feeder must watch his animals, and if too great a loose- ness of the bowels is observed, give less, first making sure that scour ing is not caused by sour pails, cold mill: or wet, unclean quarters. As soon as the milk pail is taken away, some clean, fine hay is placed before them, and they are taught to eat, it, instead ol’ sucking on some convenient object. After they com- mence eating hay, a daily allowance of grain, consisting of Wheat, bran and middlings, is given at noon, be ginning with less than a pint daily, and increasing the hay and grain ration as the calf grows, seldom pen mitting the skimmilk to exceed three or 3; quarts twice a day. As the amount of milk fed is not sufiicient to quench thirst, at six or eight weeks old the call will begin to take a little water which should be warmed slightly in cold weather. Al- though I do not let young calves run on pasture, an occasional feed- ing of grass is given in summer. In winter, turnips are sliced daily and fed to them. A little salt is added to the grain, ration every other day, or oftener if needed; Fed in this way, with no corn meal in its ra- tions, the calf that lays on too much flesh is liable to turn out a. light milker, and will probably have to go to the block. THE CALF'S QUARTERS. scours. Somctn skimmilk a calf mcdy is a. Vet whole milk for a to keep hogs for profit; that Lt everybody keeps them for. are doing it, and some are The only way to successfully