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• â- Â¥04<>4<>4<>^<>^^<y^Â¥<>4'<>^<^^^4<>4<>-^<i4-<>4<>^<^ DARE HE? OR, A SAD LIFE STORY t»K>><>»<>>ChH>4<>>0-f<>4<>4<>-*K>C4<>>CHf<>^<)><>*K>><>*^ . CHAFfER XXIX.â€" (Conlinuetl). But at this Mr. Burgoyne's auditor « look.s iso hopelessly bewildered that ho , thinks it the simplest plan at once, in the fewest possible words, to put her in possession of the tale of her son's • achievements and di-sasters. lie does , this, partly lo stem the torrent of her questions, the fonn that Ihey have hillwr- ' t' lakon producing in him a feeling of . frenzied indignation, which ho doubts , his own power much lont,'er lo coixcnl â€" partly in order to set Elizabeth's .-onduct • with the least possible delay in Us true , light t)Cfore her. Surely, when she has been told of her magnanmwus renuncia- *tion, she will do her justice, will cease tto toad her with those hard names and Insulting assertions thai have made tiirn * grind his own teeth to listen to. But in this expectation he soon ftnds that he is ' mistaken. The wrath of Mi's. Byng , -against Elizabeth for having "drawn in" her son, as she persists in stating the • case, is surpassed only by indignation at . her insolence in having "thrown him over." As to the genuineness of tlits last Acllon slie expresses, it is true, the mast • complete incredulity. "It was only to enhance her own value. Dj you suppose tliat she expet-ted hini to take her at her word ? She thought, of â-  course, that he wouiu fellow herâ€" tiial !>e would employ detectives ;â€" it is a proof" ' â€" with an angry laugh â€" "that he cannot b9 quite so bad as you make him out, that he has not done so." "I would not put it info his head if I were you," replies Jim, with an anger no less real, and a merriment no lesa spuri- ous than her own. By this time they have reached the ho- . te! ; and Jim, having helped his com- panion out of the fiacre, shows synip- toma of leaving her. "Will not you stay to breakfast with ma?" she asks, a little aghast at this un- expected manoeuvre ; "I cannot make . iriy toilette till the luggage arrives ; and I suppose that he"â€" her eyes wandering â-  wistfully over the hotel front till they rest on her son's closed pereiennesâ€" "that he is not up yet ; it would bo a sin to wake him ; do stay with me." "I am afraid I cannot." "Why cannot you fâ€" with an impa- tient but friendly little mocking imita- tion of his tone. "You are not"â€" with a Conciliatory smileâ€" "angry with iin old §en for standing up for her one chick?" Jim smiles loo. "1 do not think that the old hen need • have clucked quite so loudly ; but that is not why I am leaving her; I must go?" "Where must you go ?" 'To the Anglo-Americain." She lifts her eyebrows. "At this hour?â€" you forget how early â-  it is. Well, Amelia has got you into good training; but I can assure you that you will still find her in bed." He sighs. "I am afraid that there is not much ' doubt of that." "What do you mean?â€" ishc is not ill surely ?"â€" in a tone of lively surpriseâ€" â-  "Amelia ill ?â€" impossible !" Ho looks at her with an irrational Blupefnction. It appears to him now, in the distortion of nil objects that the last fortnight hiis brought, as if .Vraelia's ill- ness hud spivad over the whole of his life, as if there had never been a lime when she had not been ill, and yet of this event, immense as it seems lo tiini in its duration, the woman hehn-e him has obviously never heard. When he comes lo think of it, how should .she.' In point of fact it is not a fortnight since Miss Wilson tell sick, and during that fortnight he himself hEis not written her • a line, neither, heis equally sure, has her , eon. "I am evidently very nmch behind the ' time,' she says, noting Ihc, lo her. unin- telligible aslonishmenl in his face ; "but you must rememlHT that I have been kept completely in the darkâ€" has she been ill'?" In answer lie tells her, with as much brevity and coniprcs.si<in as he had em- ' ployed in the tnle of Klizabcth's disap- I pcanince, that of Amelia's illness, often inloi-rupted by her expressions of sym- pathy. At the enCshe says : • "I am so lliankful 1 did not hear till ' she was getting better ! It would have < made n\e so wretched lo be such u long wny off I" ' Her adoption of his trouble as lier own, • an adoption whose sincerity is conliriiKHl , by her Impulsive seizure of his hand, and the feeling lonk in her han<l.s<ime ' eyes make him forgive the exaggoralion ' of her statement, and go some w.iy to- wards replacing her in that ixwilion in his esteem which her diatribes against Elizabeth had gone near lo making her forfeit. "But it will tw all right now," contin- ues sho SHUgiiinely ; "Ihere will lie no- thing lo do liut lo build up her strength again, ant! slio is youngâ€" ul loiist"â€" as the ivniinisfonce of .Amelia's imyoutliful appoarnnce evidently flushes aoni.s-s her mind ; of timl prenialurely middle-aged look wliich an unequal forlunc gives to some plain womenâ€" "at least young enoiig.'j for all practical pun>oses." Whether it be ilue to llie |K)S.sossion of Ihis iiiodilli'd firriii of juvenility, to an e\i'elleiit oon.slilulioit, or to what other reason, certain it is that the next two days go by without any diminution, rather with a .sensible and steady in- crease in Miss Wilson's favorable symp- U)ms, and, on ttie afternoon of the latter of these days, Cecilia, in rather unpa- lienl answer to Jim's long daily string o.' questi<-)ns about her, says : "You could judge much bettor if you saw her yourself. I do not see why you should not see her to-morrow for a niin- utt, that Ls lo say if you would promise not lo talk or ask her any questions." "But would it be safe?' inquires he, with a tremble in his voice. He d<«ires passionately to see her; unlil he does he will never believe that she is really going to live; he has a hunger to as- sure himself that no terrible metamor- phosis has passed over her in these niglitmai-e days ; and yet, coupled wilh that hunger, is a deep dread, which translates itself into his next halting words. "Shall I be-^hall I be very much shocked? is sheâ€" is she very much changed'?" "She does look pretty bad," replies CUjcilia half sadly, yet with the sublying cheerfulness of assured hope ; "for one thing she is so wasted. 1 suppose that that is what makes her look so much older : but then you know Amelia never did look young." It is the second time within two days that the fact of his betrotheds maturity has been impressed upon him, and for- merly it would have caused him a pang: but now, of what moment is it lo him that she looks a hundred, if only she is Uvhig, ;md going to live? "Has .sheâ€" has she asked after me?" "We do not allow her to speak, but if any one menlions your name there comes a sort of smile over her face, such a ridiculoiLs-sized face as it is now I" The tears have come into Cecilia's large slupid eyes, and Jim himself is, wilh re- gard lo her, in the position of the great riuntagenet, when he heard the tovely tale of York and Suffolk's high death. "I blame you not ; For hearing this, I must perforce compound Wilh mislful eyes; or Ihey will issue loo I" As he walks away he is tilled wilh a solemn joy, ono of those deep serious gladnesses wilh which not tne stranger, no, not even the clo.se friend or loving kinsman inlermcddlelh. He is under an engagement to meet Mi's. Byng at a cer- tain hour, but although that hour has already come and passed, he feels that hi» cannot face all her sincere congi-alu- Intions without some preparatory toning down of liis iiio»id. The struts, with their gay va-et-viont, their cracking whips and .shouting drivers, seem all too secular and every- day to match the profundity of his rev- erent thankfulnes.s. He takes it wilh him into the great cool church that stands .so nigh at hand to his hotel, Santa Maria Novella. The doors fall lie- hind him noiselessly as ho enters, shut- ting out the llery hot jiiazza, and the gar- ish luiLses of the world. In the great diiiv Ulterior, cold ond tranquil, there is the usual sprinkling of tourists peering up at its soaring ooluiims, trying lo i-eud llieniselves. out of their guide-lKioks, into tt proper admiration for Cimabue's large- faced Virgin and ugly Bambino, folded, with all ils gold and sombre colors, in the dignity of its twice two centuries of gloom. Thei-e arc the usual three or four blue- trousered soldiers strolling leisure- ly about, then:* is a curly-tailed little dog hotting hither and thither unforbidden, ringing his bell, and Ihoi-e are the invari- able tanned |)eusant women kneeling at Ihe side altars. He does not lielong lo the ancient ctuirch, but to-day he kneels tieside them, ami the tears ho had has- tened away lo hide from c:cciliu, come hack to ninke yet dimmer to Ins view Ihe details of llio dim allar-pieces behind the la I' candles. His eye, as lie rises to his feet again, falls on the contadina nearest him. What is sho praying for? In the expansion of his own deep joy, he longs to tell her how much he hopes Ihul, whatever it is, she will obtain it. It is not Ihe contadina who, standing a lillle bi'liind, joins hhn as he turns away from the altar. "I saw you go into the church," says .Mrs. Byng, her smile growing .somewlial dillklent as she .st»es the .solemnily of his face, "so I thought 1 would follow you ; do you mind '! Shall I go away ? " He would, of the two, have preferred that she had not followed him, that he had be<^n given live more minutes lo himself; but he naturally does not say so. "Since we are here, shall we go into the cloisters?" and he assents. A small Dominican monk, wilh a .smile and a bunch of l«pys, is o|KMiiiig a door l<i some strangers, prowling like our friends about the church. The latter fol- low, the little monk envckiping them loo in his civil smile. rXnvn .some steps into Ihe great cloister, uniler whose ai-ehes pale frescoes cover Itie ancient wallsâ€" wheiv hi Florence are tliero not fres- coes ?-^iu1 the hands that painted them .seem all to have wielded their bi'u.shes ill that astounding flftoeath century, which was to Florence's life what May Is t,' Italy's year. For some moments tliey stand silent, side by side, perhaps pick- ing out familiar scenes from among the sweet, faded groups â€" a slim Hebecca listening to F.leazar's tale, and looking maiden pleasure at his gifts ; a shivering Adam and Eve chased out of Paradise ; an Adam and Eve dismally digging and stitching respectively ; Old Testament stories that time- has blurred, that wea- ther â€" even in this dry airâ€" has rubbed out and bedimmed, and that yet, in many cases, still tell their curious faint tal/» decipherably. "Oood news this evening, I hope ?" says Mrs. Byng presently, growing a little tired of her companions taciturnity ; be- int' indeed always one of those persons who are of opinion that the gold of which silence is said to be made has a good deal of alloy in it. "I am to see her to-morrow." He speaks almost under his breath, either because ho has no great conlidence in his voice, if he employs a higher key, 0." because there seems to him a certain sanctity in this promised meeting on the kindly hither side of 'he grave whteh has S'l lately yawned. .Mrs. Byng is much loo old and inti- mate a friend of Jim's not lo have been pretty well aware of the stale of his feelings during the past eight years, though ceriainly noj. through any com- munication from him. So it is. perhaps .scarcely to be wondered at that she pre- sently says, in a tone hinged with ad- miring surprise â€" "How fond you are of her 1" He receives the remark in a jarred silence, his eye resting on the square of neglected graves in the middle of the cloister, how unlike our turfy squads and lawns. A common-place nineteenth century photographer, with his vulgar camera planted on the time-worn stones, is evidently trying to persuade the little monk lo po.se for his picture. The gen tk-looking Fra lauglvs, and draws up his cowl, then lowers it again, folding hi^, arms, and trying various postures. "Vou are so much fonder of her than you were T' This speechâ€" though such is certainly far from Ihe good-natured speaker's in- tentionâ€"stings Burgoyne like a whip- lash. "I was always fond of herâ€" I always thought her the very best woman in tlie world ; you know !"â€" wilh an accent of almost anguished appealâ€" "thai 1 al- ways thought her the very best woman in Ihe world." "Oh, yes ; ot course, I know you did," replies .she. astonished and concerned at the evident and extreme disti-ess of his ttme. 'That is not quite the same thing as being fond of her, is it? But" -with a laugh that is at onco uneasy and re- assuringâ€" "what does that matter now? Now your fondness for her is as indis- putable as Tilburina's madness ; and, for mv part. 1 always thuik people gel on quite as well, if not better, after- wards, if they do not begin quite so vclcanically." But her light and well-meant words fail lo remove the painful impression from her hearer's mind. Has she, dur- uig all these years, been crediting him with a wish for Amelia's death, that sho should be so much astonished at his thankfulness fcr her being given back to him? "1 believe that this illness is Ihe Ijcst thing that could have happened to you both." c<inlinues Mi-s. l^yng, feeling un- cxjinforinbly that she has not be<'n happy in her choice of a topic, and yet unable to leave it alone. "It will have drawn you .s,5 much logether; in fact"â€" again "laughing nervouslyâ€" "I think we are all looking up. As 1 iold you. after the llrst shock, Willy really was rather glad to see me ; unil you would not believe how discreetly! handle the Imrning subject- yes, everything is on the mend, and wo are all going to have a jolly time, o.s Ihe Vankivs say !" CHAPTER XXX. The words are scaively out of Mrs. Byng's mouth before she adds, in a changed key. and wilh an altered direc- tion to the "eyesâ€" - "Is this iH?i-son looking tor you? Ho f^eems to be coming straight towards us." Jim turns his head at her speech, and at once recognizes, in the ligure hasten- ing towni-ds them, the ixirler of the Anglo-Americain hotel. Tho man looks strangely, and carries a slip of paper, unfolded and open, in his hand. In a second Jim has spmng to his side, has snatched llie paiwr. and is staring at its contents. 'I'liey are hardly legible, scrawled tremblingly with a pencil, and fi.r a moment he cannot make (hem out. Then, as ho Uxilis, in one horrible Hash I heir import has spi'ung into his cyis and brain. "She is gone ; come to us t ' Mrs. Byng is reading too, over his shoulder. In going liver the scene in memory afterwanls, he Ix^lieves that she gives u .sorl of scream, and says, "Oh, what does it mean? 11 is not true!" But at the time lie hears, he knows nolhiiig. He is out of Ihe church; ho is in Ihe liacre waiting at the *loor; he is tearing througli the streets, wilh the hot summer ai'- tlowing in a quick current against his face. He thinks aftcnvards at what a pace llie horse must have been going, and how Ihe i-Xir jade must have been lashetl to keep it up to that useles"! speed. \t the time he thinks nothing, he f<vls nothing. He rushes through Ihe oiurl of th" hotel, rushes through what seems lo be people; he thinks aftcnvards that Ihey miLst have Iven wallers and ohaniber- maids. and that there comes a sort of conipa,vsionate murmur fixiin them as he pn.s.sed. He i.s up the slaiis, llie three lliglits; as he tears up, three steps al a time, tliere comes acrtxs.s his nimibcd iu- Iclligeive why they always give Amelia the woi-sl i^Doin. lie is at the door, <iiit- side wliici) h« has spent so many hours of breathless listening; he need no longer stay outside it now. It is open, inviting him in. Ha Is across that, as yet, unpassed threshold, that Ihi-eshold over which he was to have stepped in careful, soft-footed joy to-morrow. He has pushed through the peopleâ€" why must there be people everywhere?â€" of whom the room seems full, unnecessarily full ; he is at the bedside. Across the foot a flguro seems thrownâ€" he learns afterward that that is Sybilla. .\nolher figure is pro.strale on the floor, heaving, in dreadful dry sobs ; Ihal is Cecilia. A third is .standing upright and tearless, looking down upon what, an hour ago. was Ills most patient daughter. They have let her alone now â€" have ceased to tease her. They no longer hold a look- ing-glass to her pale mouth, or beat her tired feel, or pour useless cordials be- tween her lips. They have ceased to cry out upon her name, having realized thai sht is much too far away to hear them. Neither does he cry oul. He just goeh and stands by the father, and takes his thin old hand in uis ; and together they gaze on that poor temple, oul of which the spirit that was so much too lovely for it has fleeted. Later on, lh«y tell him how il came about ; later on, when Ihey are all sitting huddled in th.3 little dark salon. Cecilia is the spokeswoman, and Sybilla puis in subbing correclMns now and again. CTo bo continued ) ^ Oil m fin , FAILURE AND SUCCESS LN DAIRY- ING. My .brother and I purchased a farm for which we were able lo pay $11,250. writes Mr. H. Van Dresser. There was a morigago of S6.5()0on that farm. In my boyhood 1 worked tor 25 cents a day. .\s 1 gi-ow older I got more, and when 1 was 21 from the foiirili day of September lo the first day of April I worked for $21 and an overcoat. My brother taught school and wo put our little amounts to- gether for a few years and worked a farm on shai-es. We made a lillle money and then puahased the farm named. Wc had :t3 head of s.rub cows. We took our milk to the cheese factory and did without Ihe necessities of life in order lo get atong; but wilh all our economy. when Ihe year came round, we did not have money enough to pay our interest. We bought that farm when the pro- ducts were low, and Ihey brought le.&. every year. So we wero in a terrible frame of mind. If we put the farm on the market wo could not get Iho pur- chase price, and tlieii we tliouglil we would go through another year. Our wives were just as ecoiwniical as they could he and helixxl us in the dairy and SI on. and when the year came around mv brother and I on April tsl look our monev and went down to the cow stable and counted it. We could nut pay our interest. There was that inoHgage star- ing iLs in the face, nvro hsd lo bo a revolution of things. .Soiiielhiiig had lo ?â- â€¢ done. Stories that my grandfalhei- .old us about cat lie wore so vivid in our minds that an idea sugested itself. .\s we talked il over we thought the best hing to do was to have an auction, ad- .erlise thoso .scrubs and sell them, the scrub sire and all. And wo did. Theii wo put another mortgage of Sl.iTSO on place and with some of the money paid the back inlen'st, and although here were two m-irtgages on Ihe farm, .\e quietly went away to purchase » herd of i>ure bi-ed calUe. We had to snetdt off as it were. In a few davs. howe\cr, Ihe neighbors found il out, 'und 1 will never forget what our wives said when we came home. Two of our neighlKirs, old gentlemen, vei->- coiisiderato men, who had farms paid for and coupons in Ihe bank, came to our house in our al«ence just lo sym- palhizo with our wives and to tell them that we two boys were tit subjects for Ihe lunatio asylum. When we come home wilh ll>e cows our wives cuiiie out nd helixtl put Ihe cattle in the stable. Hiring the supper hour they told us ho had been there and what had be*."n id. and il didn't set well. We ttwk a niern, went lo the barn and lo<jked over Ihe investmeni, and we were more please<l with it. und had more ixiiilideiice in il than Ivfore. 1 am miglily gliul thai llHise old genllemen made those pre- d;clion.s. because il increui-ol our deter- miJiatioii to succe<d. The great .stvrel of our success was ill the selection of the herd. We pur- chasid of a very conscientious man, told him our condition, how much money \\e had. and wanted him lo give us the e»!Uivalent. We did not w ant to misplace conlldence in the animal or Ihe man we purchiisetl il of. Our foiindiilion stock was Ihe sorrel of our success ; il was splendid. .And as we developed the ani- mals we put them on the iiiurUcl as op- ix;rliiiiily occuired and .s<)ld what we could spare, lo pay our debt. Now, in the old way my brother ajid 1 could not pay our iiilerest. In the nw way, in nine years, we hlk\l tho indebtedness niu! paid off the morigago. I'.XSTURE FOR SOW AND I'lOS. â- i have found it_ good practice lo opn- struct a number "of hnlf-ncre lo's. plac- ing a portable house in tr\<-vy oilur cm and giving a .sow and her pigs an in- dividual hou.se, wriles .Mr. W. II. I'nder- wood. By the lime Ihey will have eaten or slampet.! down all Ihe green stuff on Ihis half acre. Ihe lioii,--.- can ea.sily be lilkHl over Ihe fnice lo the ncxl lot and llie hogs movivl where thrt' will have pleiilv <if fresh, green pa.shire. The M fi'ciin winch tliey have lx>cii IhUcm can llHMt !"' plo\\«.\l nj) and .sowed in 1)1' or 1 ra;,i; crops that yow com- oarativ^ly fast. By the time they have .jxli^UBted tt>e second lot Ihey can b» re- lumed to tlie ortgioal one. Thus tlia iwo lota will support the sow and pigs until the pl^ are old enougb lo wean. If property cared for they WEI support th« sows Ihe year round. t have also found il good practice to iiave a larger lot, if p^ible, of from live to ten acres, to turn all the pl0 into «fl«r they have been weaned. I al- low them to rsraaia there until they an 'our or five nionth« old. I feed them in the meantime and allow then plenty -jf ground and exercise so that they may ievelop bone and muscle. They will then be in a good, heAlthy condition to g3 Into the feed lot. In building thes« portable h<»use8 thera 'i ona thing that must ever be bomo m mind, and that Is. no matter how or where they are built, they should pro- vide good, clean, dry sleeping quarters, and, above everything else, be sanitary. HOW TO DESTROY WEEDS AND INCRE.ASE YIELD. Most soils have plenty of weed seeds in them. In the corn field grass is a weed. Now, by taking a liltft pains it IS imixtssible to cause most of theae to sprout and then dastroy th«m. Thus you will not be tixiubled with them later. Ti do this, work the land down QneQr and perhaps roll it, or go ov«r with A clod crusher. Then leave It undistuiied fur a few days. If It is growing weather Ihe weeds will soqn start by tlM millkjn. I'hea work the land thoroughly wh<p Ihe sun shines and kill them. This la the proper way to destroy weeds, that is just as they get started. They haven't used up any plant food to speak of then. You save it for the crop. The corn ?hould have all there is in soil, sod and manure. If weeds are allowed to grow to some size, their substance, after they are destroyed, may n«t get back to th« c<;rn roots Uiis season. Think of this all through the summer. But we are not done with this matter of Ullage yet. All soils have have quite large quantities af plant food elements in them in any unavailable form. You can lake a piece uf loamy land or clayey, In such a way as to moke lillle of this available this year, or considerable, just as you please. « PUTTINO HIS FOOT IN IT ."=o.Ti6 people are perpetually giving oftcnce In the most unconscious way. 'Now, do let me propose you as a member of the club." says Sratth. "But suppose they blactanail mcT" re- plies Brown. 'PO'-ihl Absurd! Why, my dear fel- low, there's not a man in the club who knows you. even!" A lady, very desirous of concealing Ihe awful fact that she is the same ago as her husband, observed to a visitor:â€" 'My husband Ls forty; there are just five yeai-s between us." "Is il pn.ssible?" was Ihe unguarded reply of her friend. "1 give you my word, you look as young as he does." As unexpeclcd must ha've been tho reply of the husband wliose wife said;â€" >ou have never taken mo lo tho ce- n.elery." \o, dear." he answered; "that is a pleasure I have yet In onUclpationr' II i.s related of a ixirlrnll painter that, having recently painted the portrait of a lady, n critic who had Just dropped in lo sac wh»l was going on in tho sludlo exclaimed: â€" II is v( ry nicely palnlcd; but why do you lake such an ugly model?" 'â- '1 LS my mother!" calmly replied Itia artist. "Oh. pardon, a thousand limes!" from the critic, in great contusion. "I ought to have perceived it. -She re- .sembles you oonipletelyl" Oti :i .«i;i!llHr occasion a facetious trend, inspecting a portrait, said to iho artist:â€" "And this is Tom Evans, is If? Dear, dear! .And 1 remember liim. Such s handsome. jolly-hnDking chap a month ago. Dear, dear!" RETURNED WITH THANKS. "I couldn't help it. papa." She looked up into hi.* face with her frank bluo eyes, and il was impossible to doubt her. "But you didn't seem to be prolest- ing very much," said the old gentks man. "But il was .so sudden that 1 eouldn I," she insisted. "Tell me about it." he .said. "Well, he adopted a very clover ruse, you see. He got me to look the other v.'ay, and then, before 1 knew it. he hart k's.sed me on Ihi' cheek." "The .scoundrel!" "II was wrong of him. of course." "What did you do then?' "I was very angry; I told him it was an insult." "Indeed it was. and .vou should hav« ordeiwl him lo leave Ihe hou.se. Did you?" "N-no: nnl exncllv." "Well. wliHl did you do?" "I Iold him il was an insult, and Ihal h> must take il back." "And then?" "II-> was Liking it hack when y.in cnme in and saw him." SPRING POEM. Mow lh.> breezes 'Mongsl the Ireoses fiive us colds and little sneezes. As Ihe posies ."^i^ring d!sc!os?.<i. We pursue wilh froz.Ti noses. HIS orr>onTr>!rrfEs. Rum»'-tâ€" "Wh^M v-i'v brother was cnmnint? o"' did ho kill anylMng?'' II -b-H- "v-^. nearly everybody, fie was Ihe co-k!"