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"Ah, do not say that,” he broke in. “If you knew how I have look- _ed forward to this meeting, how 1 ~have counted the hoursâ€"'_” _ Thepaasionate words, the plead- Ing voice, rang in her ears so tnat shgcould not_ sleep} co_u1_d no? think: As she reached the square, glowâ€" ing bravely in its budding foliage and sweet with the scent of almond blossoms, she saw him pacing to and fro, his arms folded on his breast, the sun shining on the closeout, irgtj-gray hair. The day wore 05, the bells filled the soft spring air with their me- lody, and as the sun began to slip behind the hills, she stole out to keep her apppin_tment. Hevtufned and saw her, and came toward her with that; peculiar sup- prgssed querpesg‘yhichl ‘bclongs Ito “It was good of you to come,” he said at last. “I scarcely dared to hope that you would grant my request; it seemed a bold and pre- sumptuous one while I made it, but after I left you it grew in my mind to be audacious. And yet I could not say all I wished to say last night before our friend. Ah, yes, it was 80251 9 5013 t9 come? 1 p I offiforié {cared straight before her; hm voice seemed to sound as frqm “You were right to call yourself Lillian, my dear,” she said. “You are like a lily broken down by rain, this morning; but I don’t like to see you so pale. You must not do any wqu Ate-day.” _ a lover who is still in the agonies of suspense, and raised his hat. Floris gave him her hand, and he walked beside her to the seat. a distance"th mingled with the strains of the brass band on the quay._ ‘ ... . .. .1“ , “i had promxsed,” she saxd, m a. low voice; “but I am sorl'yâ€"-â€"” He stopped, and his white‘ thin hand went to his lips, as if to re-' press the eagerness and passion with which he had begun to speak, for Floris had shrunk slightly. But, Floris insisted with eagerness up_qn agcomplishing h_er glagy Eagk: Floris lay awake that night thinkâ€" ing of this which had befallen her. She went about the house the next day like a Wan ghost, so pale and quiet, and yet so lovely in her pal- 101 and quietude, that even Mrs. Sinclair smiled through her spec- tacles admiringly. “Iâ€"-forgive meâ€"I am too impetu- ous,” he pleaded; “but the depth 0[ my love for you must be my ex- cuse. Miss Wood, I have asked you to meet me here that I may have a precious opportunity of tel- ling you how devotedly I love you, and tell you what sort and manner 0t man it is who dares to lift his eyes to you. Love, they say, levels all distinctions; but I feel that there is a. gulf between us which only your charity and mercy can bridge over.” “Last'night, when I spoke to you: -â€"with the mad recklessness of al man possessed with one idea, one hope, one mad longing and desire, I expected, I dreaded that you would send me from you with a word of contempt and anger. Miss Wood, it would have been only just contempt and wellâ€"merited anger. Who am I, that I should dare to speak of love to such as you? Who am I? I will tell you. I was once a gentleman, have been an adven- turer and a gambler, for Heaven’s sake, do not turn away. Hear me out,” for Floris had shrunk away from him slightly but perceptibly. “Hear me out, I beSeech you,’ he pleaded, moistening his lips and clutching the seat. “I say that I was an adventurer and gambler, yet a change has some over my life. my very thoughts. Fate favored me; I saw you again in the quiet eancity of your home; the rever- ence which you had filled me with leaped into a love so deep and pasâ€" sionate that I could not repress its utterance. Though I felt that you must drive me from you, as I de- served to be driven, I must speak, I must tell you all that your beauty, your purity, your goodness have wrought in me.” He paused, and Floris saw hand resting on the seat near elbow tremble like a leaf in breeze. “Do not answer me yét. Give me a. few more mmutes, a few kind words, thenâ€"~then do with me what you 1171i}. I have said that I am a Fleas rouseds herself from her reverie and raised her head, but he gut up his hand slowly. Fighting Me’s Battle; CHAPTER XXVII. 0R, LADY BLANCHE’S BITTER PUNISHMENT the be r the Floris sat motionless, looking be- yond him with eyes that saw no- thing of the lovely almond blossoms or the fair scene stretched at her feet. He had not asked her to love him, he did not seem to expect; it, he had asked her to trust him, to be his wife, to share and encourage his styuggles toward a better hie! 1 1 gentleman by birth; but I am poor ~â€"oh, I know you so well, though I have seen you so few times that I know money, wealth or poverty would make little difference to you! I am poor. I could he a rich man yet, for I have learned some skill at the gambling table, but all that is passed; I have touched my last card, come What will. From the hour I first saw you I resolved that my life, if I decided to keep it, should become a changed one. In the future I would place myself in' the ranks with honest men, would leave the old life of adventure and trickery forever. There may be little chance for me in the future, and yet-and yet I am not without hope. I am not an old man, I am younger than you think,” and he smiled faintly, "though my hair has gone gray and the life I have led has left its marks upon my face. _1 am young enough to hope that, if you will trust yourself to me, I can make a place for you in the world in which you would be secure. 1. am young enough to feel ambition, an honorable ambltion, thrill through every nerve at the prospect ofa life spent in devotion to you. Will you accept that life? Will you trust me? Will you be my wife '4" He bent over her as he spoke and extended his hand tremblineg to- ward her, his face White and work- ing, his eyes pleadingly fixed on ers. What should she say to him? His words, his manner of saying them, moved her as deeply as it was pos- sible for her to be moved by voice or words. That he loved her she could not doubt, passionate earnestness had rung in every tone. _"s'h%‘?{1'd'ghe say “Yes?” Should she trust him? - WWHth Was there left to live for? No friends, her lover false and trgagherqus,_po _object ip life. A Why should she not become of some use in the social scheme, and let this man take her? Her silence tortured him. “Ah,” he breathed. “I see it is hopeless. My past has shocked and alarmed you. How could it be otherwise. How could I hope that you would trust yourself to one whose past, on his own confession, has been as black as mine, for your life has been like that of an inno- cent child playing amid the flowers that lined its path; you have known nothing of man’s basenessâ€"and 1 come to you with my life all seared and stained! Of course, there can be only one answer for me! You will tell me to go, to live honestly if I can, and to forget you! But that is not possible. I cannot for- get._ But I will remember you as one who, like an angel indeed, shone in my path for one brief mo- ment to show me that there was still hope for even such as I!” His voice trembled and grew al- most inaudible. Floris’s eyes filled with tears. It was as if a. soul on the brink of the precipice were holding out its hand to her, and crying, in a. very piteous voice, “Save me!” She turned her eyes upon him; he saw the tears, and a wild hope sprang up within him. 11~ 1H6 Yire§v a sharp breath, and his white hand stole very gently and fqu‘fully to h€_r arAm. . rShe fiut up her hand, and set it as a. barrier between them. V“7W1iit,” she said, with a. little pant. “You have not heard, I have notfltqld youâ€"” “What have you to tell me?“ me asked, fearfully. “Speak to me~ give me an answer, for Heaven’s sake. See, I am patient, andâ€"â€"and ready to hear anything, to obey you in everything.” She struggled against the tremor that had seized her, then she rais- ed her eyes, full of trouble and un- certainty, to his. “I am a stranger almost to you â€"â€"â€"you know nothing about me "’ He waved his hand passionately. “I know that I love you, all e1seâ€"â€"â€"-” She shook her head gently. “And is all the confidence to be on one side ’1” she murmured. “Do no} speak of fiarting,“ he plgafiied; with feverish eggernegs; “You have laid bare you own life to me, and I cannot let. you think, over} though we {are go part} no_v_vâ€"_â€"” “Even though we are to part, I cannot let you think that my past has had no history, thatfithatâ€"I cannot go on,” she broke off, pitc- ously. “If you should still think that I could make your life better worth tholjving, thenT” “Then you will say ‘yes 2’ you will be my wife '1” he murmured, huskily. “Oh, take my answer now; before you say another word. I care: not what may have happenâ€" ed in the past. I care not. Oh, do I not know beyond all doubt that let it have been what it may, yon are pure and blameles‘s!” . “Do not,” he said, quickly; “you shall tell me some other time. Oh, it is the present and the future for which I am begging. Trust your- self to me, say ‘I will be your wife,’ and all will be well; I know it, I feel it. I will make the remainder of your life so happy that the past, sad though it may have been, shall seem like a. dream from which my love has awakened you!” She hung her head. “Iâ€"I do not ask you to love me, not now at once,” he went on. “in timeâ€"” She raised her eyes and looked at, him, and the look made his heart greys: cqld for a _xr_10ment. . “No,” she said, in a low voice, “you have not asked me ‘to love you. Had you done so, I would have answered you before this, at once, I cannot love you.“ “I cannot love you,” she said, bravely and firmly. “I have no power of loving left! My heart is like a stone.” “It is as if it were dead,” she went on, still in the low, quivering voice. “There can be no such thing as love for me. Is it; not rightfhat I should tell you then, who have been so frank with me 1” and she turned her large eyes on him pite- ously. He bit his lip, and was silent. “You ask me to trust you,” she murmured. “If you knew how all faith in a, man’s words was slain in me you would scarcely hope that eveu What you have said could move “Before I can give you any an- swer I must tell you my story. When you have heard it you will know how impossible it is that there should ever be any power m my heart to give ’back the‘ love you have spoken of. Ifâ€"ifâ€"When you have heard all, you still think, you will wisl) that I should be your Vyifef” She pressed her hand to her side with a piteous little gesture which wrupgrhis hegrfj. » The tears came into her eyes, but she brushed them away quickly. He seized her handIbut she dis- engaged it, and went on, with an unnatural calm. u His abéolute trust: and devotion touched her. His face went from the faint flush which hope had implanted there to a. vgry wan p‘allor. “Listen to me and be patient," she said. “You, who have onlv seen me here in Florence, only know me as a woman with a broken spir- it living a life under a. dark and heavy cloud. It is hard for me even to remember that a short time ago, ah, how long it seems, some- times! I was a happy, lightâ€"heart- ed girl! I don’t think”â€"â€"pensive- ly, and with a faint smile that was more piteous than tearsâ€""that there was ever any girl happier than I was! I used to fear some- times that I was too happy. and to tremble lest the gods should be en- vious and send a thunderbolt to shatter my joy-dreamâ€"” “I know,” he murmured, softly; sympathizingly. “Ever since last night I have told myself that it would not be possible or right for man to be so happy as your ‘yes‘ would make me.” Floris sighed. “I was engaged to be married to a, mlan I loved withall my heart and sou â€"” He did not move, but his lips set themselves tightly, as if he had deâ€" termined to permit no sign of any suffering her story might inflict on him to escaps him._ “I loved him with all my heart and soul,” she repeated, almost to herself, as if she found some strange comfort in the words. “He was my superior in rank and wealth, in position, but the world had forgot- ten that, and everybody thought that we were going to be very hap- . I did not doubt his love, no, to the last, the last moment, I clung to my faith in him. Even now 1 wake sometimes at night and won- der whether I have not been deceiv- ed, whether it could be possible that he should have been so base and false.” She paused a moment. Like a statue Oscar Raymond leaned on the back of the seat, his hands clasped, his eyes fixed on‘her face. UAwutJuu’ H J VJVV “n... “We were almost on the eve of our marriage,” Floris went on, m a 10W voice, wluch, try as she would to keep it calm and steady, quivered like the tremulo of a. harp “We were staying at a. great; coun- try house. Happy. so happy, that I began to look upon myself as one beyond the reach of sorrow. One day”â€"-she stopped, and her face grey/white. “She told me that another wo- man in the same house had stelen his heart from me, and that that very night they had planned to fly together; that he had in coli blood decided to leave me for net, to desert me who loved him With all my heart and soul, who would h:-\'e given my life to insure one hovxr'e happiness to him, who, ifâ€"â€"if he had come to me and told me .hat he loved her best, would have giren him his freedom andâ€"w” 4‘18 br ke off, and a passionate sob seemed to choke her. “Iâ€"I treated the girl’s snow as a, lie, a stupid invention prompted by malice. Iâ€"Iâ€"oh, Heaven! it all comes back to me now ! I would not believe until I had proof, until I saw, heard, was shown beyond the shadow of doubt that my lover had been false to me. The girl offered proof. That afternoon I followed her to a conservatory near a room. Iâ€"I saw the man I loved at the feet 01 the woman who had stolen hxm from me; 17â€"1 cannot go on. Iâ€"oh, “One day,” she went on, as :f determined to go through with the. task she had set herself, “a scr- vant came to me with a wild star. which I at first put down to the ravings of a lunatic. She told me that the man I loved was false to The man beside her did not In: did _no§ speak. _ leave mé ! leave Gradually, step by step, he had traced the identity of this woman he loved with all the passion his inâ€" tense nature was capable of, with the girl whose happiness he had, with diabolical ingenuity, wrecked and ruined. _ “Why tell me? Why torture your- self, dearest ‘1” he whispered, im Pbrénglx He did not move, but his eyes grew fixed, with an intent expres- sion in them, as if he were 10 1.?â€" ing AtAhrough and beyond her. Despairwdespair darker and more terrible than that which falls upon the assassinâ€"fell upon him, like the cold hand of death. ' The girl with the pure, sweet eyes, with the pale, lovely, suffering face, was the girl whose happiness he had hunted down and destroyed! r "And hidirig her face in her hands she wept, wept bitterly for the first time since her mother’s death. And he? He stood beside her like a man turned to stone. 7 Gradually the truthhad broken in }_1po_n soul. mgHéVwas not Lillian lWood, but Floris Carlisle! 'm We“ FARM BUTTER MAKING. So the buttermaker of toâ€"day must serve cleanliness if he or she would produce a fine article. Our modern separators, churns and other up-toâ€"date utensils give us a distinct advantage over our foreâ€" mothers so far as cenvenience goes, but all these count for naught if we neglect to enforce this most es- sential condition and fail to keep all immaculately clean. In hot weather cream soul's quick- ly in spite of every endeavor, and churning should be done with great» er frequency than at other seasons. It is quite a job to do this every day, yet where the refrigerating apparatus is not of the best it is wise to do so. Early morning is the best time to churn, before the sun gets high. As soon as the granules of butâ€" ter appear a cupful of salt should be put into the churn. This is the best thing to assist in the separa- tion of butter from the buttermilk and in no way interferes with the subsequent salting, neither with the use of the buttermilk for cooking, or stock feeding purposes. After the salt; hasv been introâ€" duced the churn should be revolved a few times, when the liquid will run off freely. Another cupful of salt in the first rinse water, fresh and cold from the well, will do good service. Wash twice, revolving the churn but a few times so as not to mass the granules, then drain while the salt is being measured, for men.â€" suring is better than weighing and it is sufficiently accurate for all practical purposes. Measure the cream in the churn at the beginning and ascertain how many pounds it yields to the inch, or if a small churn, what fraction of a pound (To be continued.) me!” per inch of cream. After once weighing the amount of butter churned, thereafter it can be safely. estimated by measure. 'Phu pint? cup full of salt weighs approxi- mately one pound, so that muchJ bother of weighing salt and butter each time is avoided by following this simple rule. ' Buttermekers are practising workingin the churn much more commonly now than fifteen or more years ago. By scattering oneâ€"third the required amount of salt over the butter, then tipping the churn forward so it exposes a fresh surâ€" face for half the remainder, giving it a backward turn to expose a third surface for the final portion then placing the cover in position and revolving very slowly ten or a. dozen times, the salt is pretty well incorporated. If the cover is then removed, the brine drained and the butter broken apart, a. dozen more revolutions‘ ought to leave it in_ prime condition for packing. Should a, few mottlcs appoer in the fin?1 ished product, it indicates that a. few more revolutions of the churn7 should have been added to still fur-l ther aid in the even distribution of; the salt. Nine times out of ten exâ€"‘; perience has shown that mottles are' due to this cause. The object of working is to distribute the salt evenly and extract the surplus? brine; when this has been accom-l plished, it is time to stop, for fur- ther manipulation will be an injury to the texture or grain of the but- ter. GET RID OF THE CELLS. Get rid of your “cull” just as soon as possible after they are ready for market. This is an imâ€" portant matter that is sometimes overlooked by breeders of poultry. Especially is this important where space is limiied. “Gulls” are a hindrance to the growth and deâ€" velopment of the balance of the flock, for several reasons. Neither growing chicks or the old fowls do well in overcrowded quarters, are more liable to contract disease and become lousy. Besides the breed- er is enabled to give better care to the balance of the flock after the culls are out of the way. Cull closely, disposing of all specimens that show any permanent defect, such as wry tails, crooked breast bone, roach back, twisted back, feathers on legs or toes in Ameri- can, Spanish, and other ohean-leg- ged breeds, and lack of feathers on legs and toes in the Asiatic breeds, or any serious defect in comb, wat- tles or earlobes. In fact, get rid of all birds having any deflect that you know cannot be outgrown. If raising market poultry, of course. these defects cut no figure, but even in this branch of the business care- ful culling is desirable and profit- able, as the flock should be weedâ€" ell out and the nonâ€"productive birds discarded. The following points derived from personal experience may be interesting to those desiring in formation on the matter of feed conservation in the form of silage, says the Silverwood Gazette, Bris- bain, Australia. Silageâ€"making is a simple matter. Wit-h sufficient facilities and’ common care, there need be no doubt as to success When vegetable matter of any kind is placed in a heap, fermenta'zim quickly commences. This ferueir tation is not desirable in the vege~ table matter consigned to a silo, as while the fermentation goes on the feed value of the stuff is deterior- ating. The fermentation indizatczl by the heat of the mass can .M be completely stopped; but endeavor should be made to keep the mass at as low a temperature as possible. As an aid to this, the maize, lu- cerne, or what not shoulzl be chafi- ecl into the silo continumsly until the silo is completely filled This material will quickly siak at least one-third of its bulk. when) it should be. again filled, and again a shrink- age will follow, and be again filled up. Ultimately it should be weight» ed. If this course be folloucd car» cellent results will be achieved ()0 cutting out, it will be noti 'irl that the color of the material will vary as the bottom is apprna-laezl The uppermost portion will be very dark, almost black, owiig t) the fermentation which has taken pin :0, while at the bottom it will allmu be as green as when put in. The greenness is due to the absence e! to rmcn tation. which has been brought about by the prissin'c if the upper mass, which us»: squeezed all their air out of th ,- luvâ€" er portion. No fermentati01 go on if air be absent. The gran is the best silage if one may judge by the greater appreciation (morn! bx the cow. She is the best judge- (TOntinuous carting and chafliwg may not be feasible on snu'l farms; but perfectly good silage may he obtained by cutting and carting “I! one day and chaffing the next. HINTS ON ENSILAGE MAKING.