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0R"‘“§i7 A SECRET CIlA PTICR XXKIV . She went swiftly, with the shawl drawn closely around her head, along the drive, its wonted smoothness cut up by the carriages; passed the gates and into the high road. She paused a moment or two to gain breath and looked around her. As she did so, the clock of the Towers struck five. In another hour or two, she reflected, workmen would ‘l,e about and she would be seen. She must hasten on, but whither? At that moment if any idea at all found room in her bewildered mind it was that of going to her own people. If she walked long enough, if she couldl only manage to avoid recognition, she must in time come aoross a band of gypsies. Whether they belonged to her own tribe or not, she knew that they would succor, and, if necessary, hide her. She hurried on and for a time, supported by the excitement, was not sensible of fatigue; but presently she became conscious of it. Her fret seemed to be. of lead, her head ached, her eyes burned. She knew that she could not go much further. Sudden- ly she found herself off the road and upon the grass. She looked around confusedly and saw she was on Gorse Common. 'As she looked a faint light attracted her attention, and she realized, offer a moment or two, that it was from Martha Hoop- er’s cottage. It. seemed like a beaconâ€"not to warn but to welcome; and it occurred to her that she: might rest there for a short time. perhaps until the night had fallen again. The woman had evidently known what sorrow was. and would sympathize with her and hide her. It was true that. there Was some secret understanding between her and the countess, but Madge reflected that she could show Martha Hooper that she, Madge, was flying from Monk Towers to save the countess from further humiliation, and that would induce Mrs. Hooper to help her in her flight. She made her way across the com- mon and, nearly fainting now with the exhaustion production by the! reaction of excitement, she leaned against the door and knocked. Two or three minutes passedâ€"minâ€" utes that seemed an age to Madgeâ€" and she was asking herself whether she should have strength to keepI from falling upon the step. when Martha Hoopcr’s nervous Voice was‘ heard from behind the door: “Who is it? Is it youâ€"Jake?" sheE asked in trembling tones. Madge moistened her lips; she was almost incapable of speech. "It is 1," she at last. Mrs. Hooper opened the door, then shrank back and uttered a cry of alarm. “Who is it?" she panted. “Iâ€"I don't know you! I've nothing to giveâ€"" “It is Iâ€"â€"Mrs. Landon!” said poor Madge. "Let me come in, Iâ€"â€"-” Martha Hooper uttered a cry of astonishment and nervous apprehenâ€" sion, and, drawing her in, closed the. door. "It is you, ma'am!” she gasped as Madge sank onto a chair. “Oh what has happened? Why are you dressed like that? You are ill." "1â€"1 am tired," said Madge faint- ly. Martha Hooper ran for a. glass of water, and brought it to her and stood by as Madge drank it, wring- ing her hands. “What has happened, ma’am?” she repeated. “Hasâ€"has he been there? Oh tell me quick! My poor heart!" and she put her hands to her side. "I am in great trouble, Mrs. Hoop- er," said Madge faintly. “1â€"1 have left the Towers.” “Left the Towers! You!" gasped Martha. "Why have you done that?" “I don't think I can tell youi" said Madge with a heavy sigh. “And yet you will soon know the truth. 'All the world will know it.! I have left the Towers andâ€"my husband, because I have brought shame and disgrace upon himâ€"upon all of them." She spoke with the awful ,calmness of resignation and despair. Why should she not tell this woman the truth? All the county knew itâ€"were probably discussing it at this moâ€" ment. "Shame, disgrace!" echoed Martha Hooper. “Yes,” said Madge. "You know-â€" perhaps you do not; but it will be known before daylight that I am a. typify/5 . "A gypsy!" the woman looked at Madge’s brown dress and red shawl. "'A gypsy! [ thought you were play acting. Yes, you look like a. gypsy in those clothes!" "I am a gypsy,” said Madge sad- ly. “It was in a gypsy camp that J ackâ€"that my husband first. saw me râ€"and"â€"her voice brokeâ€"“loved me. [â€"I did not know the harm I was doing in letting him marry me. How could I have known?" She was not so much speaking to the frightened ‘woman before her as communing with herself. "Then I came to the lrowers andâ€"and I tried to be like the otherl, to rarity of him; and to-bight"â€"-her ' them all REVEALED -' WWW voice brokeâ€"“to-night I thought. I had done so, that he wuuld be proud of me. Then, just when I had forâ€" gotten what I had been, into the midst of them all, and told what I was!" Her eyes were dry-and hot, and yet as if the unshcd tears were burning in them. “l‘oor Jake!" she breathed with a. heavy sigh. “He did not know the “harm he. was doingâ€"â€" ' "Jake!" “Yes, that is his name," she said faintly. "He is one of our tribe, and he followed me, I suppose, to get money. I would have given him all I. could get; Jack would have given liim anything r0 spare me. I know that but it. is all over now;- the blow has fallen. Everybody knows. everybody looks down upon me and him with scorn," she put her hands to her face and sighed. Martha Hooper looked straight over Madge's head with a strange expression on her face. “Did lieâ€"Jakeâ€"come only to fell the grand people all he knew about you?" she asked in a dry voice. Madge shook her head. “I Suppose so. I do not know. It does not matter; it is all over! All! I can never go back. There is only one thing for me to do; to hide myâ€" self away fromâ€"from Jack till I (lie. I must go back to my own people." She paused a moment, then raised her eyes to the white face in front of her. “Will you help me? You have known sorrow and trouble [have you not?" “Ay!” came from M‘artha’s dry lips. “And you will help me who am in such bitter need?" pleaded. Madge. “I can only rest untilâ€"until the evening. If you will hide me some»| where and keep me hidden from any oneâ€"any oneâ€"who may come! Will you do that?" She put out her hand and touched Martha Hoopâ€" er'S gently, imploringly, for the W0- man seemed to have become lost in a kind of reverie. Martha started slightly, and look- ed down at the white, lovely face with its great eyes full of misery and despair. "Yes," she said with a long breath “I will help you!" Madge raised her eyes gratefully and with a dim surprise, for a. change seemed to have come over Martha if Madge's appeal had aroused a Hooper's face and voice; it was as if Madge's appeal had aroused a touch of resolution and an indica- tion of strength in the nervous, fearâ€" burdened woman. “Come upstairs with me she said in the new and firmer tone. “You will be ill if you do not get rest. Do not be afraid, ma’am, you will be quite safe here. I will protect you." "If you will hide me till night," said Madge. Mrs. Hooper put her arm around the slight girlish figure and helped Madge up the narrow stairs to a small room. It was scrupulously neat and clean, like Martha Hooper herself, and Madge looked around with a weary sigh of relief. Martha Hooper helped her to 11nâ€" (lress; and such help was necessary, for poor Madge was almost incap- able of lifting her hand. 'And when Madge dropped her tirexl and aching head on the pillow, Martha Hooper sat beside her and held her hand. “You have bcen very good to me,” Madge murmured, with her eyes closed. “You will not give me upâ€" to any one?" “No,” said Martha Hooper. “You are safe here. No one shall) harm you or take you away. You said that I had known sorrow and trou- ble; you spoke the truth. But I have deserved them, whereas you have not, poor lady!" “Don't call me ‘lady,’ ” said Madge almost inaudibly, “I am only a gypsy. Only a gypsy!" The sweet sad voice continued to murmurâ€"sometimes broken with a sobâ€"for an hour or more. until sleep fell like 'a blessed balm upon the weary spirit; and all that time Martha Hooper sat beside the bed and held the hand that burnt like fire one minute and struck like ice the next. And the look of i‘eSolution which Madge had noticed grew stranger in the elder woman's face as the daWn broke; and the thin lips usually so weak and termulous, grew firm and determined. 0 Q 9 Royce left the countess’ room, and mechanically went toward his own, but he stopped at the door. He would not go in and let Madge see the trouble in his Nee, for he that it would only add to her suffer- ing. Ho listened a. moment, expectâ€" ing to hear her crying, but all was i O I still, and hopingâ€"though against hopeâ€"that she might have fallen asleep, he Went downstairs. The library door was open and he went in to sit down and think over his future course, for he had resolved that he would take Madge away from the Towers that day. There was no light in the room, and he struck a match. As he (lid so he saw that he. was not alone. be a lady andâ€"and Suynioux‘ was sitting on a chair by Hm idly)”. his head on his arms. a man came! f 3’l‘hc room redolent of brandy, and a i knew 2 : (if‘Cillll.(‘l‘ . (lustructivc ,turned by the sleeping man's elbow. but over- of that fascinating spirit had been ioyce looked at him with infinite disgust. llc had always doubted Seymour's elaborafelyâ€"paraded and loudly-proclaimed virtue, but to- night lloyce knew that the mask had been torn from the arcinliypoâ€" crite's face. lle went up to the motionless fig- ure. and shook it by the Shoulder. “Wake up," he said sternly. “Wake up, and get to bed." Seymour roused slowly, and lookâ€" or! up at the stern face with the stare of drunken stupor. "Erâ€"«irâ€"is that you, Royce?" he. said. “I have been busy with my Blue-books and Reports as usfial, and dozed off." “Get up!" said Royce with incrcag- ed loathing, “and spare. yourself any lies! I know you quite Well now Seymour." “Ah, it's you, is it?" snarled: Seymour. “You dare ('onm and talk to me afterâ€"after to-night's busi- ness, do you? You order me about! I should have th011ght you would have felt too much like a beaten cur. llut you don't know what shame is, do you?" “Yes, I (loâ€"when I look at you," said Royce grimly. “llut I know what you mean, and I'll toll youâ€"if you have sense enough to underâ€" standâ€"what I am going to do." “Iâ€"â€"â€"I can understand," said Seyâ€" mour; “there's only one thing you can do. All theâ€"county's laughing at us. At us, do you bearâ€"not you alone? You've brought ruin and disgrace on name. our your gypsy ' “Stop!” said Royce, his face while- his eyes Dialing ominously. Then he remembered that be was dealing with a drunken man and flung him from him. "There, go to bed. Wait!" be said, as Seymour, scowliug at him under his swollen lids, moved to the door. “You will not sce me again; try and remember these, my last words to you: You are a fraud, Seymour! You talk of the shame and disgrace I have brought upon the old name! You forget that the people who have just gone have something else to talk about as well as the poor wretch's prcscncc. here toâ€"nigbt! , the A You forget your performance in cardâ€"room, and the man's assertion that he had seen you in a gambling (ion in London." "It is a lie. He was drunk!” stannncred Seymour, glaring at the stern face malignantly. "No, it was truth. I know it, feel it," responded Royce grimly. “Take my word of warning, Seymour. You are on the road to ruin. Draw back while there’s time, or you will bring a deeper shame and disgrace upon the house than any Iâ€"or my dear wifeâ€"have done! Don't speak! It's useless to lie to me about it. Iâ€"we are going from the Towers in an hour or two, and forever!” “It was time." "Yes," said Royce sadly. “We should never have come. But enough of that. I want to speak about yourself. My mother and Irene will be left in your care." “My future wife. What has your highuess to say about her, pray?” "God save her from that! No, Irene will never be your wife, Sey- mour." “We shall see. 'And now you've finished your sermon, my immaculate brother, I’ll go to bed. If you can manage to leave the house before I am up, I shall be grateful for my own sake and for my future wife's! Gooâ€"good-night!" He got out of the room, and Royce heard him stumble up the stairs. Royce opened the window to purify the room, and stepped out on the terrace. He stood there, thinking of Madge and their future, for perhaps an hour; then, calmed by the stillness and the solemnity of the dawn, he reâ€"cntered the house and went up- stairs. A light was burning in the bedâ€" room, and he expected to find Madge still sitting up, but the room was empty. He went quickly into her dressingâ€"room and into her boudoir. The ballâ€"dress lying on the chair, the open drawer with the things tumbled out on the floor told him, as plainly as her absence, what had happened. “Madge!” he called in an agony. "Where are yon, Madge?" Then he strode from table to table to see if she had left a. note for him to find her. But there was no note. He leaned against the mantel, his head upon his arms for a moment or two, trying to think. That she had flown he felt as surely as if she had left word that she had done so, and a great pity and love welled up in his heart. “My poor darling," he cried. “My poor, beautiful Madge!" Then he roused himself, and hur- riedly changing his coat, and snatch- ing up his hat, went out. As he passed along the corridor :1. door opened and Irene called to him. He looked around in a dazed way. She was dressed, and her fair face was full of anxiety. “Oh, what is it? Where are you going, Royce?" she said in a frightâ€" ened whisper. "Madge has gone!" he staminered. "Gone! Madge? Oh, no, no, Royce! Not thatl" "Yes," he said hoarsely. “She has gone. Irene put her hands over her eyes. "Let me think, Royce! I could not sleep for thinking of her! I would have gone to her but I thought you were with her! Oh, poor Madge, poor Madge!" He stood with his hands grasping the hand rail of the stairs. “She cannot have gone far,‘ said hnnrsolv. “T nhnn our! be k...” You and : f. FEEDING FOR A RECORD. In a letter to the London (Engl) Gazette, an English (iaii‘yman gives his method of feeding cows during a public test, with advice as to treatment, which has the merit of icing simple and easily foilowcd: "'l he production of milk having Le- come the staple industry of fawning, itiie breeding of good dairy cows should receive encouragement and .libcral support, and there is no- thing that will further the object more than cartfully conducted milkâ€" ing trials and butter tests. It iis impossible to select the best dairy Cow from a fairâ€"sired class without testing them. “’1 he feeding for quantity and qua- lity of milk needs great skill and atâ€" tention, although there is nothing fmore written upon in our live stock rand agricultural papers than the ra- tions for dairy cows, and nothing more variable than their formula. ’l'h-ere is a difficulty to be met at this time of year that seems to have escaped attention, that is the (lif- ficulty of obtaining suitable green food at our summer shows for cows that have been allowed to grass lprevious to their beng exhibited. The gretn food found by the societies varies from lucm'ne and sainfoin to mixed clover and grasses, often so much fermented by bring cut too long that the cattle will not eat it. The safest course to ensure success is ’not to feed on green food at all. but to depend only on such foods as can be taken wifh you, thereby avoiding the possibility of your cow or cows being thrown off their food just when you want them at their best. “As regards cakes and meals, there is probably nothing to equal or sur- rass one part of best linseed cake to three parts of (lecorticated cotton cake, with good hay and water ad libitum. Commence with feur pounds of the mixed cakes per day, increasing to eight or twelve pounds per day, according to the size and appetite of your COW, keeping a watchful eye so as not to sicken or purge; the cakes being rather hard. requires good mastication, and being greatly relished, causes a, free flow of saliva. renvderine, digestion easy and assimilation perfect. Be sure to obâ€" tain y0ur cake from a reliable source, with a guarantee of purity. Many competitors feed with mashes and other slops, with the result of a. large quantity of milk of poor quaâ€" lity, and this is attributed to the food being swallowed too rapidly and not being properly digested; in fact, to overload the stomach defeats your object of obtaining the best results. "The treatment of cows liaving to traVel allv distance to shows requires attention. They should be fed spar- ingly the day,previous to the jourâ€" ney, and should only get a little hay and water on the morning before Say nothing, chie! Oh, God! where shall I go first?” “Let me think, Royce! Wait! Yes! Don’t you see? See has gone back to her own people! You must find them!" . “God bless you, Renic!” he mur- mured. “You understoodâ€"loved her! My poor Madge!" He touched the sleeve of her dress with his lips in miserable gratitude, and sprang down the stairs. The sight of the open doorâ€"for Madge had not closed itâ€"struck a. chill to his heart; but Irene's words buoyed him up with hope, for in the moment of his discovery of her flight an awful dread had assailed him, a dread of worse than flightâ€"death. He Went to the stables and woke the coachman, and helped him sadâ€" dle a horse. “Is it my lady who is ill, Master Royce? Can't I'go for the doctor?" asked the man. “No!” said Royce hoarsely. “I will go. Say nothing." He sprang into the saddle and went out of the gate at' a gallop. He gained the road and went tear- ing along toward the town, looking from right, to left with anxious, straining eyes, when suddenly he saw three men on the pathway. They were walking abreast, and the two outside had held of the man in the middle. As he rode up to them they stopâ€" ped, and he saw that they were two policemen,and that the central figure was Jake. He pulled his horse up on his haunches and stared at them. One of the policemen touched his hat. “We've got him, sir,” he said. Jake peered up at Royce and opened his mouth as if to speak, but the policeman on the other side of him shook him r0ughly. “Hold your tongue!" he said. “Have you seen a. lady?" began Royce, as if they and their business were no ConCern of his, as indeed at that moment they were not, for all his thoughts were of Madge. "A ladyâ€"tall " be stopped. The policeman shook his head and stared at him with surprise. “No, sir. We've passed no one (ll the road. AS 1 was saying, s:r, we've got him. We had a hard tus- scl for itâ€"â€"-" But Royce waited for no more, and with a groa n urged the horse on again. taking the road to the left. "l‘n he. Continued.) they start. To truck cattle with loaded stomachs upscts their whole. systems, and causes the attendant I lot of unnecessary work; but if Ugh!- ly fed the animals will stand their journey much letter and commch feeding as soon as they reach their destination. A Careful herdsman will see that his charge is not disturbed by every curious pusserby. Quietude is essential to dairy cows. “The milking is :1 most important item, and upon which success much depends. 'l‘he cow and her milker should be on the host of terms, in fact, they should be positiVely fond of each other. The milking should be done so carefully that the cow looks forward to the operation as a relief and comfort, the pace at which the milk should be drawn must be regu- laicd by the cow and not the milker; it is all very Well for men to talk ahouffast or slow milking, but it must he, done in accordance with the construction of the udder and teats, if the latter are large and the outlet the same, ff‘cc milking may take place, but if the teats are small and the passage somewhat constricted, if: is impossible to force out the milk rapidly without causing the animal pain, therefore, slow milking must be resorted to. lie sure and get the last drop out, that is often What wins." FEEDING SOW AND PIGS. If all goes well at farrowing time, the. food for the sow may be gradu-- ally increased after two or three days, with the increasing flow of milk and the growing demands of the pigs, until a full ration is supplied. Brood sows should be heavily fed, for the gains of young pigs are made at low cost for feed consumed. Good brood sows with large litters will usually fall off in weight despite the best of care and feed, but such deâ€" crease is no reflection upon the skill of the feeder. In feeding u, brood sow the herds- man can draw upon all feeds at his command. Middlings, ground oats and corn Incal are particularly useful and should be liberally supplied. Some bran. ground peas, barley and other grains will prove helpful. The byâ€"prozlucts of the dairy, skimmilk and buttermilk, are always in place, and may be used to almost any ex~ tent. Cooked roots, potatoes or pumpkins, with a, liberal admixture of meal, form a, good ration. When two or three weeks old, pigs will take a little nourishment pro- Vided for them in a separate trough, which should be located at a Conr- venient point in pen or lot accessible to the pigs but not to the damn. At first, place only a pint or two of feed in the trough, and when this is eaten give more. Skimmilk will be the most relished, but in its ab- scnce a, thin porridge of middlings or sieved ground cats with a little oil meal will prove satisfactory. KEEPING WEEDS IN CIURCK. Our readers of this season of the year are planning a. campaign against weeds. Prof. L. H. Daily and if the person had really died from phosphorous poisoning, then he would destroy the phosphorus, and could never discover the cause of death. What usually happens is that a hint is obtained from some liquid or powder found in a glass or bottle, or paper. The appearance of the body, externally and internally, gives further information. And, with these guides, perhaps the analyst goes straight to the point and discovers the poison quickly. But if he has nothing to guide him, then his task is a long and tedious one, far too complicated to describe in detail here. ____.+._.__4 WISE AND, OTHERWISE . What a man can do is his greatest ornament. Don't accept a favor unless expect to pay interest on it. Better to be occasionally deceived than to be always distrustful. ‘ It is best to be on with the new cook before you are off with the old. Enthusiasm generates energy as naturally as the sun gives forth heat. A man may have more money than brains without having much money. Of all the advantages which come to any young man, poverty is the greatest. As soon as a man begins to love his work then he will also begin to progress. A woman may be as young as she looks, but would rather be as young as she thinks she looks. It always pays to be polite. When you are shaking hands with a. man you he can't very well be picking you; pocket. Faith is that quality which leads a. man to expect that his flowers and garden will resemble the views shown on the seed packets. WONDERS WITH GOLD. A particle of gold weighing one 14, 25,000,000 of a grain is readily dis- cernible to the eye. A grain of gold can be beaten out so that iii will coVer a space of 80 inches. Gold wire so fine can be drawn that it will take 500 feet to weigh one grain. It can be beaten into leaves of ]â€"280,000 of an inch in thickness. SHE OVERDID IT. “My daughter bought that latest popular piece 0' music toâ€"day," said Mrs. Nexdore, “and she Bind it on our piano." “Yes,” replied Mro. lleppcvy, "an! -it was a wretched fit, wasn't in"