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t++++++++++++++++++++++ WWWHHW. §m+++++ +++++++++++++++++++++ CHAPTER It. The interior of the presbylery was very cost and clean and bare; Paul was glad to sink into a wooden elbow-chair by the window, on the silt of which was coiled the one spoiled and pampered Sybarite of the establishment, a great white Angora cat, equally idolized by the cure and his housekeeper, Mlle. Fran- coise. who w ' cluttering about the bare brick floor fay-.41; the cloth, for dinner. She was extremely glad to see mon- sieur, she said in her high shrill voice. It was pleasant. for M. le Cure to see a new face sometimes. it was a most for- tunate thing that. he was not dining at the chateau to-day. and still more for- tunate that she had killed a fowl; that. was doubtless the inspiration of some saint. .M. Paul was duly grateful for her hos- pitable intuitions, and acknowledged the skillful cooking of the omelet added to the festal Sunday dinner expressly i01‘ him: yet. he so troubled his host. by the injustice he. did to the good fare set be- fore him, that ho was obliged to apolo- gize for his want of appetite, saying that he was unwell. Nevertheless, good mati- ners, with the aid of a potent home-made cordial which Father Andre administered to him, enabled him to rouse himself to an interesting conversation, in the course of which Paul discovered that, bestdes speaking a purer French than most rustic clergy. his host had evidently seen something of the world, and was both well-read ' and well-bred. His bright dark eyes looked into the world with a pensive cheerfulness, his features were finely cut, and the long white hair flowing beneath his skull-cap finished a pleasing and venerable aspect. Paul‘s black heard, at that time an unusual ornament on an English face. his crisp curly hair, his dark-blue eyes and his fluent Parisian French were all compatible with his host's supposition that he was a Frenchman; though his conversation occasionally suggested points of.view distinctly foreign. The fact of his being on a walking tour fur- ther pointed to a foreign extraction or education. After dinner, they adjourned to the garden, where Francoise had placed wine and fruit on a table beneath the great walnut-tree, and whence they could see the hamlet dotted about the trill-slope amid vineyards and orchards. “They are so good," Father Andre said, mean- ing his parishioners, “poor children, their troubles are great. Next week we have a wedding; a good brave girl in that cottage yonder by the plane-tree, who supported her widowed mother for years, is to marry a nice lad from a farm a few miles above in the moun- tains. I shall miss the dear child; yes. I shall miss her." “You will still have a large family," Paul commented, a little moved by this, to him, novel way of disposing of domes- tic feelings. “Yes, yes, but I shall regret Made- leine,” he replied, and then he rose. and apologized for leaving his guest while he went to see one of the “children,” who was sick. He. did not return until after vespers, when he found Paul, who had been doz- ing heavily since his departure. very ill, too ill to move. He was helped to bed, where he remained for weeks ; carefully nursed by the priest and his house- keeper, both of whom would have thought it criminal to send him else- where or to trust him to other bands, while they could tend him. Next morning, after a night of fierce pain, Paul, finding that he had rheuma- tic fever, desired Francoise to give him his clotties, from the pockets of which he took such papers and letters as gave any clcw to his identity, and. tearing them with difficulty, bid the. housekeeper burn them on the hearth before his eyes. Having seen this done, he became delir- ious. “The good God has sent us a guest. Francoise," said her master, on entering the room shortly after and looking upon this spectacle. “poor fellow! tie is no dcubt a good Catholic. though (1 foreign- er; I was struck by his devout air yes- terday; And he is in trouble.“ "But. his hands, Monsieur to Cure," re turned Francoise, pointing them out. “And what terrible language is he spealc ing?” it was the bloody mark of his torn hand on the white homespun covet-let. which had set the patient raving a few minutes before, and now he was point- ing at it, and crying out about Cain and his iiii'ffaceable brand in a way which wt‘uld have chilled his listeners" blood had they not been ignorant of English. “He hurt his hands in climbing: wore gloves over some kind of (lt‘Oxilll‘J yesterday." replied the cure, bidding Francoise remove the stained sheet and bind up the hands. Then he did what Paul had foreseen, turned out his pockets in search of his name and address that he might communicate with his friends and found nothing but a pocket-rook fub of gold and notes, a wrll~tilled purse| than he' @@@©@@@@ - 0R, GERVASE RICKMAN’S AMBITION. t t l l . l ,from the original sphere of either. thus . upon her youth, and his haul-l “phat fol" ++++++++++++++++++++++ + there was no doubt some purpose to be fulfilled in his life. Perhaps only the purpose of expiation. God's mark was upon him as upon Cain, so that none could stay him; he was doomed to live. llut as he grew better, he began to form schemes' for turning the life of which 'he was so weary to some useful purpose, and when the doctor told him one morning that all danger was past and time amt good nursnig alone Could now help him, he, knowing well what illness like his leaves in its track, faced the probability of becoming a cripple, a condition which, throwing him even- tually upon charity for support, might lead to the discovery he feared. As soon as he could hold a pen he wrote to Captain Mcllvray, one of those Highland oflicers whose expensive amusements had so nearly ruined him in the days of his poverty, and pledging him to secrecy. explained that civilized life had become insupportable to him, and that. wishing to break completely from all past connections, he had taken advantage of an accident to disappear. Mcllvray had lost money to him on the. eve of his Swiss journey, and not. hav- ing means of payment at hand. had given him his acceptance at a few months' date. Paul therefore desired him to forward this sum. with a hundred pounds more; and, as Mcllvray's bill would be found among his effects and presented for payment, he gave him papers for the whole amount. dated be- fore his supposed death, so that. Mcflâ€" vray could claim payment. of the bal- ance due to him from the executors. Captain Mctlvray, being just then under orders to go to India, had little time to spend on other people‘s affairs, and he did not feel called upon to pre- vent Paul Annesley‘s virtual suicide. The money therefore safely reached the hands of Father Andre, together with a letter to Paul, in which Mcflvray ven- tured upon a brief remonstrancc with him. Thus, with Mrs. Annesley‘s dia- monds and a valuable ring intended for Alice. Paul was in possession of over a thousand pounds, sufficient to keep him from want. He spent many weeks of acute pain and heavy sickness in the little clean bare guest-chamber of the preshytcry, seeing nothing but the sky through the white-curtained window, the crucifix in black and ivory on the white wall, the wood-fire crackling on the hearth, and four figures which changed and melted into one another like figures in a dream : the. doctor feeling his pulse and talking in a low voice, but not. to him; Fran- coise in her white cap and sabols, and a kind of phantom Francoise with a dif- ferent nose and stouter figure. who proved to be Pauline, her married sis- ter; and the cure. clad in a rusty black cassock, with his gray locks beneath his skull-cap. The latter knelt. by his bedside by the hour, praying aloud in a low monotonâ€" ous voice, very soothing to the. patient, who looked at him with the long won- dering gaze with which an infant's eyes follow its mother's movements. The women also varied their ministrations, especially at night, by telling their beads aloud: but their prayers sounded more business-like than the father's, and it became a sort. of occupation to the pa- tient to speculate upon the slipping of the beads through their fingers in a given time. When he was able at. last to sit up. propped with cushions at. the open winâ€" dow, it was warm stillOctober weather and the country was full of the cheery sounds of the vintage. He could see the vintagers at work on the sunny slopes. men, women and children all busy and happy, singing and laughing from morning tilt night. The cure, with his cassock fucked up, was busy in his own little. vineyard; Francoise, with the tibi- quity and ceaseless industry of which only French women are capable, was out gathering and carrying great has kels of ripe grapes, the choicest clusters of which found their way to the sick- rooni. Paul. in his laiiguor. thought he would like to live this peaceful life for- ever. Yet Father Andre found time to read to his patient and talk to him, and by some mysterious process, aided by one or two broken hints from the evidently suffering man. discovered much of what was passing in his mind. l’aul. sundered by the strange mental experiences of sickness. in which weeks have the effect years, for his past life and all its affections, and feeling born again into a different world. clung to his gentil- host with the (ll‘ll(‘ll(lt‘ltl reverent affection of a child: the priost on his part loved the of ' younger man. as only those out off from natural tics can love strangers. amt the two looked at each other often in silent ,momonh. wondering at the bond which, iwas being formed between tln-m and at , ing of those farofi phantoms. and then the experiences which had brought won t- that remote village pl't-sliylupy- N, [1“. like to know why i left the world, or would it be tiresome to listen?" Paul replied that it would interest htm above all things. "Because," observed M. Andre, taking a pinch of snuff and seating himself on a stone near the patients chair. which was placed in a sunny, sheltered nook in the garden, “1 have sometimes per- mitted myself the liberty of thinking that a sorrow like mine. may have be- fallen you. Pardon me. if i am mis- taken." His name, he continued, was Armand do Fontigny. a name of historic fame. as l’aul knew. llis education was not austere; though a (latholic, he. looked upon religion merely as a thing it. was among the. family traditions to respect. His youth was as guy as rank. wealth, good looks and good health could make it in the gayest. city of the world; but. though devoted to pleasure. he was not vicious; he only wished to be thought SO. lie became. assiduous in his attentions to the wife of a friend. He did not love her, he did not think that she loved him, bill the vanity of each was gratified by thi idea of a conquest over the other. The husband was unsiISpicious, until one day when some report reached his ears. That night he anligny met the lady at. a masked ball. it. was carnival time; the now suspicious husband was there also, and followed them about masked, until he. had no doubt of their identity. Then he shot. the lady dead. This shot, as he learned during the official inquiry upon the death, was in- tended for her supposed lover. She fell at. De. l-‘onligny‘s feel, his face and clothing were splashed with her blood. A second shot followedâ€"the man had turned his weapon upon himself. he Fontigny stood among the masquera- ders in the brilliance of the ball-room. his ears ringing with the gay dance music and the sound of the two shots, motionch with horror. while the danc- ing broke up in wild tumult and the blood of his two victims stained the par- quet. Father Andre paused, trembled. and with an apology left his guest. He did not conclude his narrative till next day, when he spoke of his misery and re- morse, his disgust with follies which had resulted in such a tragedy. his flight to the Cloister, and its calm round of prayer and toil, which. though it at first soothed him. did not suffice him. H3 longed for activity and usefulness. and after having been sent out on one or two occasions to take. the place of some sick parish priest. was appointed to this little parish of lleniy. where, as Paul saw, his life was a comsc of labor, prayer, and service to his parishioners. of whom he was truly the father. , “And have you found happinoss ?“ his listener asked, at the close of the narra- live. “Not happiness, my dear son: that is not of this world, but healing and peace.“ l’aul looked up with moist eyes at the lined and pensive face before him.-and his decision was taken. tic. told his kind friend his whole his- tory from beginning to end, and added his determination to enter the religious life. Father Andre listened with sympathy, and advised him to pause and consider well before he entered a life for which he might have no vocation. lle reminded him that as yet he was not even a bath olic. But Paul's resolution was taken with the fiery intensity of his nature. The. constant. sight of the crucifix during his days and nights of agony had consoled and strengthened him. as that august Sight always does; it had further wrought with the morbid tendency inâ€" separable from combined physical and mental misery. to produce in him the strange religion which Carlyle pt‘Oif‘SSOd. but like the windâ€"bag he was, did not practice, and named the Worship of Sorrow. Like Father Andre. Paul felt that joy was impossible to one whose past was so criminal, nothing was left for him but pain; he. now rushed into the ex- treme of self-niortitication. He remained some months at the prcsbytery, until he was quite recovered, sharing, as far as a layman could, the occupations of his host, liking the peaceful life, for which he felt himself unworthy, and instructed and curbed by his spiritual father. who at last resigned him to the community with whom his novitiatc was to be pass scarchings. The. fire which had burned so fiercely 0i the altar of human love. now blazed with stronger fervor at a loftier shrine, and for a year or two llrother Sebastian passed through a strange and exciting phase. of spiritual experience; his aus- tcrities produced their natural result~ visions and ecstasiesoall the strange tu- mult of overwrought religious feeling, ,brightenml and ennobled by the golden ithread of pure and imdetiled religion 1 which ran through it all. and which runs i through so many strange and mysterious ‘hunian vagaries. So entirely had be broken with his former life. that it ,st-emed sometimes to the fei'vid Friar Sebastian as if l’aul .\nne.\lcy were the _phnntom of some halfâ€"forgotten dream, gand the people he had known and loved, ifam-ios as insubstantial. liven the mo- 'thrr he had so truly loved, in spite of illic misery she had made in hi< home, ‘iuded away. A Madonna in the convent ichapel with a look of Alice attracted him ‘stiongly. and sometimes svt him drt-um- jlic saw .-\li.‘e married happily in l-Zdwnrd itilnl forgetful of tllt‘ tl'Ut-lili' lll' llud cud tthe curc‘s conversation. which was more . the mother who mourned him u~ tll‘ll‘l. lintercsting and loss tiring to his patient I lint not for long; Mlt‘ll llwughl< \vvl't' gradually became of a reading. tdriven away. if not by gentler llltflms‘ l.)- mld 501110 lCWClS 0i Dl'iCC- “him he but f moze personal personal nature and full l kiiotlrd Col‘cix aside in a safe place. in lllS iticul intervals Paul knewdiow severe his illness was, yet he did not think he should die, much as he wish-id for down. For since he had l\\‘ICI' been miraculously t t of anecdotes. “it seems. monsicur. that you were not bred a priest?" l‘aut said one day. nth-r now i one of these narrations. “it is true." he replied. looking quirkly preserved, up and then down again; “wOuId you 1 Brother Si'liiistiiin lIIltl only one» flu. netted far from the llit'ltiilit'lll i"=l!\i‘nl in which he had tnkun icing» ii in] l‘w >ltll'lll of life. luwfoi'l- tr- nnx .wnt to » illie l'lllll't‘ll lll \nizirll l‘.dw:n.l \np lsaw him duringr lbw lrmpoiury ironing of the cure, and on that first occasion the brief encounter by the Lake of Gene- va occurred. Edward looked upon that first meeting as the illusion of a mind overstrained by the perpetual thought of a man whose death he had caused. That- brief vision was made more ghostlike and unreal by the. fact that Sebastian had put. off his friar-"s black cloak and hood, and was wearing only the white tunic. and scapu- la" when he passod Edward; when he saw him, by immediater putting on the black mantle and hood, he became in- conspicuous, and thus vanished more effectually than he could have done. had his dress remained white. Not until Edward .-\nTicslcy saw the living [’aul standing at the altar before him with that wide gaze of mingled pain and dismay. did he. realize what his sup- posed death had Civil. him. For reason with himself as he would, the thought that Paul had actually met. his death at his hands was an abidingr grief. Though he did not grow morbid over this acute memory, it made him very sensitive, and lent the keencst sting to those calumnies which made him practically a social out- cast. There were moments of dcjection in which he did indeed attribute to him- self part. of the, guilt which had appan ently resulted in the death of the would- be slayer; brief moments reasoned away painfully enough by the reflection that when he filing Paul from him, he did not know in which direction either of them would fall; that he was not sure. whether Paul had flung him or he had hurled Paul. since when he re. covered consciousness, he could remem- ber nothing but Paul's sudden attack and furious words, followed by a wild whirl, in which he had tried to wrest. himself from the hands which were push- ing him over the brink, and had at. last fallen senseless. Gervasc. llickman alone knew all. He had seen the attack from a higher and distant. point in the path. where the bend of thc riverbonk projected beyond the trees which ob- scured the. spot. lower down. and had ar- rived in time to see both cousins fall. if Edward‘s lips tiad not been scaled by loyalty to the supposed dead man, it. would have been a heaven of relief to him to have published the story on the house-tops. and thus disburden himself of a secret it. was pain and grief to keep. All this heavy burden fell from his heart on that Sunday afternoon at the sight of the lost Paul holding the Sacra- ment. and blessing the kneeling p00ple; such a deep divine relief came to him after the first shock had passed that he could scarcely think what to do next. llis sisters, who had not. kn0wn their cousin so intimately, and who were but children at the time of his loss, did not recognize him: only in coming out one said to the other, “Of whom did the priest remind you? He is very like somebody." Then their brother joined them and walked only part of the way back, tell- ing them that. he had seen a friend whom he wished to overtake and should per- haps be away for an hour or two. When he returned to the’ church, he found that the priest had already left it, having dinsrobcd with amazing rapidity. The sacristan seemed to be. a surprising. ly stupid rustic; he could not under- stand Edward's good fluent French, learned in the school at which Paul had ed, not without regret and deep heart. been with him. and his own palois was so strong that it. was difficult for Edward to understand him. At length, however. it came out that the strange priest was stopping at the prcsbyery, which was situated in a spot to reach which such complicated directions were necessary, that Edward bid the sacristan conduct him thither personally. But this could not be done at any price, not. even for a gold ten-franc. piece, the sacristan's duties at the church were so urgent.‘ At. last some one. was found to act as guide, and the presbytery was eventually reached. The convalescent cure received the. stranger with great urbanity. and talked so much that it was. difficult to get. a word‘ in edgeways. and still more difficult to convey any ideas to the cure's understanding that Brother Sebastian (the name slipped out at an unguarded moment) has finished his duties at Van- vieres and was gone. no one knew whi- ther. The truth that Paul was trying to conceal himself was now obvious. Edward returned to the inn, \told his mother privately what had ocrurred, and of his. intention of finding the fugitive friar if possible, and set forth on his chase, accompanied by his servant, who spoke French. By the aid of this man he found out. that the brother had left the village on foot iiiiniedialely after benediction. it would be tedious to follow in de- tail tho chase which ensued. Neither railway nor main high-road approached that secluded district, and a few in- (Illll‘l0.\' showed that the friar had not gone by the river. It was therefore best to follow him on foot through by-ways and wood», which lidwurd did when the direction in which l’aul left. \'uuviei'c§ had been ascertaim-d. Ailiiesh-y‘s pro- frssional training here >l0tltl him in good stead: with a fair map and u thorough mastery of towigi-aphiral details, toge- thcr with the aid of his man Williams, whom he sent on a parallel route to his own. and hid inquire diligently along lllt' road. he traced the friar vent in the town of \‘otny. llv then ap- plied to illt‘ superior of the ronimunityi to" information. which \\'i|.‘ politely rc- fuwil in >lli‘ll u llllllllli‘l' as to leave no. tb-iild on hi~ mind that Paul was in the ll"ll>". siduity that both he and llls mun ‘t‘lll‘l'ml the suspicions of the :iullbtrillcs. and \\'i‘li' olsfigcl to dth illi"i' 2i [1,’\\' days. x't‘o lu- t‘~lllilllll"ti“. â€"â€"â€".;.â€"â€"â€"â€"~ ’llmiw- ttl'l' ill.<iill. lilitdlihl Jon. 3,. pup.-. ler‘ at pri‘wlll. in ft t'till‘. This he \\'ttii'llt‘l,l with >ll‘ll a»; llt-, . -'n-. lll’l~ mil infirm] f ghoul the Farm H,H+++++++++++++++ cunixo CLOVER roa sumac.» i shall endeavor to give our method of curing clover, and the, ideal condi- tion we aim to secure. The crop is cut when in full bloom, and before the heads begin to turn brown. If possible, cutting is done when the ground is (ll‘t' and when the crop is free from (H‘\\' and rain. \\‘hen very heavy tho swaths are turned. when the. upper side is willed. but made. and if the weather LS favorable it remains in the windrows a short time to allow further evapora- tion of moisture. when it. is carefully coiled, pains being taken to put it up so as to shed rain. should it be caught by unexpected showers. \\‘ith good weather we have opened- out the coils the following afternoon and after a few lours‘ exposure to sun and air, hauled in the same evening. But we prefer allowing it stand a day or two, and. if sufficiently dry, haul it in directly without spreading. The less exposure to the hot sun, dew or rain, the moro of the nulriment and aroma are pro- served. \\'hile we aim to prevent hav- ing hay so dry and crisp as to lose much of the leaf and fine parts in hand< ling, we try to have only partly sweat- el in the colts, so that when stored .n the niows there will be further fermen- laticn, but not sufficient, to cause mold. When stored in the proper condr tion it will retain considerable of its natural moisture. and when led out the hay will be tough and soft, brown in color, and have that fragrance and ap- petizing aion‘ia which is desired. If clover is left uncut. as many do. until the bloom turns brown, the stem becomes wooly, much of the liner and most valuable parts are lost in the cur- ing and handling and, should it. be caught out in heavy rains. it is really at comparatively little value. When cut .n the early stages of bloom, rain does but little harm, if tedded soon after a shower and put up before it gets too dry. Of course the ideal weather for clove: haymaking should have neither dew nor rain, nor much hot sun, but the air suf- ficiently dry to cause rapid evaporation. Then it would be difficult to spoil the crop. it cut in time; but with the un- certainties of weather it requires con- stant watchfulndss to guard against the loss of nutriment in saving clover, which is one of the most valuable pro- ducts on the stock farm. REGULAR HOURS FOR FEED. Many farmers do not realize the im- portance of feeding their stock at' re- gular hours, but it is of great importâ€" ance. Take a lot of hogs which have to wait after their regular time for feed and how restless and noisy they to- come. And what is true of them is true in a great. measure of other animals. The man who is regular in his habits. eating at a regular hour. will, other things being equal, thrive best and to healthiest and strongest; and what is true of man in this regard is come spondingly true of the lower aninialsc. A farmer can readily get into the habit of feeding his stock regularly and they will learn to expect it at. a regular time and rest patiently until the next feeding period comes about. Expert. merits in this direction would soon satis- fy the most doubting person of the truth of the value of regularity in fecdin g. LOSS OF CU D. . By some it is supposed that this trouble is really a loss of the cud, that the cud is really dropped from the mouth and that the animal can not ruminate till a substitute has been pro- vided. Loss of cud is nothing more than a loss of appetite. This usually is caused by the animal eating too greedin of one particular feed. especi- ally in the spring when it has been. obliged to pass the winter on nothing but corn and grain. The system is weak and run down and when a quan‘ tin of feed containing a great deal of protein is fed. there is a loss of appe- tite. As a remedy. the following is usel quite extensively: Powdered golden sent. two ouncr»: powder-wt caraway. three ounces; cream tartar, one ounce; .pulverized .[mrdar bark. five ounces. Mix well, divide into twelve doses and gave one each day in soft feed till all are taken. VALUE Lu 5K1.“ \Mlldx'. Nineteen trials with separator skim milk. fed in conjunction with cornmeal :i’. the \\'L~I‘«ill\’ill expcrinn'nt station, I>kim milk are led. with each pound ,cirmnrul. that iii? Itiltlllli> skim'niilk fur. equal in feeding value to bill pound ci'trnmczil. with three to fiva [itlllltls’ separator skim milk. liti pounds skim milk saved 104) pounds ‘twi'mnvril. \\'hvn fen-ding as much as stvrn to film pounds skim milk. with itilt'll It‘dllltl cornmeal, it required 5.32 ‘fdtllHilx skim milk to equal tUU pounds (‘ rmnml. ’l‘ht» il\'t"l‘:lf_n' of all the -'x< ‘pwriinvnts i< that if?) Imitllltix ~kiin milk. yr say Sill. in round numb-"rs. is “quill loll pilrmb tw-rnnwal. Still further ‘Silnplitiwd. \\.- m'iv rx-invmbvr that 5 if: ~lllbl> \lt'l'll liililf is :i~ Lfnwl as (l [riltlid iof coi'ii'iim‘. for fen-ding pigs. 'i ’.«i F.\lt\l .\".')'l ES. 'i‘,h‘ lllel wit. b-avm his farm tools he happwnf'd to use them last. 'i'ftl and sluistmiv to pity wnh. why Is auto that “farming pay." \v'i_.3['.-\'. p , A -Zt:‘ i. if -v Linc‘dll i show that where not over llll't't' pounds.