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 mmm fill "rt hi m HIS S.AGRIFIGE OR.' F'ojr Love of Hei*. CHAPTER XXXIV.â€" {CoxTixuED.) As he sat now watching Roy, the old wish that the boy was his own son rcse within him. Ah, how bamy he would have been with children to call him father With a heavy sigh he stretched out hia hand, and took up mechanically the paper Roy had thrown down on the table, ana whose margin he had decorated so fan- tastically. Waa it BOrange that the color faded suddenly out of his face, leaving it white as death, that a loot of ehary agony leaped into his eyes There, at the top cf the poper, clear and distinct, among a num- ber of devices, Euch as anchors, shields, and •crolls, was the name â€" Ru8:el Anthon. Eoy had written it there quite uncon- sciously. Mr. Anthon had been in his thoughts while he had been idly scribbling, uad without thitking what he was doing, ke had written his name. "BDy." .^mething in the tone of the voice which pronounced his name made Roy turn suddenly on the p ano stool. Richard Bran- don still held the newspaper in his hand, his face waa averted; Roy did not see its iJeathly pallor, or the drawn look about the month. "Roy, did you write that name?" The quiet voice had a curious metallic ring to it. itoy gave one glance at the paper, his face flushing, "Yes, Uncle Richard," he answered, laughingly. "I confess it was rather child- ish to scribble in that fashion." "Do ycu know the rr.an -who bcais that name? "' "I am slightly acquainted with him," suid Roy. "1 have been in nis house many times, 1 know his daughter very well."' "You know his daughterâ€" Itoy, why have ycu never told me " He raised his head now. Key could see liis face and the look upon it startled bim. "1 do not know why 1 have never spoken to you about the Anthons, Uncle Richard. Do you know Mr. Russel Anthon? " Did he known him? The man who was called Ri'jhard Brandon clinched his right hand until the nails sunk deep into the palm; and his voice was strained and un natural us heansv/ered: "I knew him â€" once. Tell me when and where you met the Anthcns, Koy â€" tell me all you know about them." And Roy, with a va nie feeling that there was BomethiDg about this of which he knew nothing, told how he had first met Louie Anthon; how the had invited him to call upan her, and fe had goi;e to her beautiful home and had been iutiuJuced to her hand- tome, stately father and lovely mother. And spciikiug and thinking of the girl he loved so truly, Roy foi;^or, the white-faced man sitting opposite to uim, did not notice the deep lines cf pain that came about Kichard Brandon's mouth as he listened, nor the l(;ok of anguish ihat darkened his eyes at the men' ion of Louie's lovely other. "And that is not qv.ite all. I'ncle liich- ard*," he said at last,hi3 brown eyes growing very soft and tender, "I love Louie Anthon with all my heart, and my dearest hope is that she will be my wife." Richard Brandon passed one hand over his eyes. Did he hear aright, or was he going mad? "ould it be that Roy, whom he had brought up and cared for as though he had been his own son, loved and wished to marry the child of the man who had robbed him of name and wife, and home, and friends? But for this girl â€" Ihis Louie of whom Roy spoke, he could not have allowed bis false, black-hearted brother to gc on year after year living in his place; the child â€" Muriel's child and Arundel's â€" had been the link between them which he had felt he could not break; lie was Muriel's husband but Arundel was the father of the child. The mighty agony thai had swept over him that never, never iiever to be forgotten day, when standing in the darkened parlor of his own house ha had realized Anindel's horrible treachery, was sweeping over him again; again the iron fingers clutched his throat, again the earth set med to be falling from um'.er his ieet. And yet in all his agouy he felt that he must be calm and not give way, must make no outward sign of what he was suffering; for Roy must not know that the name Russel Anthon held a tervlMe signiticance for him, he must not know that he would lather see him lying dead than married to Arundel Aiithon'a k-hild. lioy had wait'.d p:i.icLt!y for tiie man lie hadcdVd Uncle I'-chnrd cvcrsiiice heccul.l talk to speak; at last he said hesitatingly, not knowing exact'y what to say, yet anxious to break tl'.e tilcuce. "Uaele llcjanl, yi u do not think lam too young to marry, do you? I love Miss Anthon so dcailyâ€" and 1 think â€" I am al- most sure she loves me." What could Richard Brandon say in an- swer, what objection conld 'e make? He tried to thiLkof something to say, while every detail of that terrible time was rising clear and dis inct in his memory. Muriel's little baby girl â€" the ciiild who ought to have been Ins child â€" it was so h.iul to undcrstar.d that R ^y M'anted to nKrry this girl. There was a dull, tlirobbing pain in R lIi- ard Brandon's Temples, the power of action seemed to be slipping away from him, yet Roy was waiting for him to speak, and he must say something. 'You are old enough to marry â€" i sup- yose, Roy; tut she â€" she is very young.' "She IS not so very young," said Roy earnestly, not stoppin? to think in his eamestne:s that the remai-k w£is a ssrange one for Richard Brandon to make. "Louie Aiithun was nineteen vears old last October." was, evidently laboriu? un der so me strong I diflCT"ilj, CHAPTER XXX\ "Nineteen years old last October, repeat- ed Kichard Brandon; then slowly and wear- ily, "no, Ray, no, you have made a mistake, she was ndt â€" â- aba could not have been nine- teen last October." Roy looked at him in great amazement. It waa certainly very strange thethe should speak so pooitiTeiy; how did he know how old Louie Anthon was And how pale he -1. â- ;- • ,, g'ad." Roy saidgwith adeep I know. "I am so sigh of relief. "You will love Tier Uncle Richard, she is so lovely." "Roy,;' there was a break' in Richard iirandona voice as he spokeâ€" "is she like her mother ' 'Yes, rery much, only };er evei are â- What did he know about the Anthon family, aqjt'whjr'fca* tk^"TW"ltion of tha' name aflecft^d .Jiim a* it JbaSvdone ?l Rpif had alwayi ielt*b»t'th«-life«rf the gra»e gentleman who had gb'en him a father's love and care, held a secret sad and bitter, he knew that he had gnffered, whether through his own act or the wrong-doing of others he did not know, nor did he ever expect to know; for gentle and kind as Richard Brandon waa, there was that about him which told how useless it would be to question him eoncemia^ his own life, and even Roy had never aaked him anything about his past. He had never before seen him 80 moved and shaken, and he could not help wondering if Louie Anthon 's hand- some, stately father W..8 not in some way connected with %he secret of his life. Little did Roy think how near he came to the truth. "I think, Uncle Richard, you have made a mistake," he said gently. "Miss Anthon told me herself only a week or tw o ago, that she waa nineteen years old the Iwenty- tirst of last October." There were restless gleams ot light coming and going in Richanl Brandon's eyes, the blood was settling in spots upon his ashen gray face, his fingers were twitching ner- vously; and still he shook his head, while he muttered as thcngh he was speaking to himself. "It could not be.' He spoke only those few words, yet in his ,.brain strange confused thoug ts were slowly shaping themselves. And R03" feeliug very uncomTortable, utterly at a loss how to account lor his un- usual manner, and wi.-hirg he understood tDe reason for it. triid to apcuk lightly. as he said that, af er all, it did not make much difference j-st how old Louie Anthon was, although ne was almost positive that she had been born in Octob?r of a certain year which year he mentioned. He was totally unprepared f;r the effect produced by his words. Richard Brandon sprang to his feet, gra' ping the carved back 01 a chair near him so tightly that the veins stood out tense and swollen. His great dark eyes were like smoldering fires, his face was flushed a deep dull red, his lips were quivering; he was trembling in every limb. It was surely no trifling thing that had shaken this quiet, reserved, grave man to the very care and centre of his being. "Roy," he gasped," you say â€" she was bornâ€" the Octooer of that year! My God, boy, think M-hat you are saying You do not Know what it means to me. If what you say is true â€"then â€" " He paused, sinking down heavily into his chair. If what Roy said was trueâ€" If Louie Anthon had been born in October of that fatal year â€" then she was his own child. He bowed his head upon his hands, trying to stem the wild rush of his thoughts, try- ing to think calmly, thinking instinctively that if he allowed the flo;u ut wild joy and terrible bitterness that was rising within him to sweep over him uurcstrained, reason would give way before it. "Uncle Richard," taid Roy, his own face paie now, feeling like a man who gropes his way in the dark, "I cannot understand; I know that what I have said has affected you terribly, yet I know not why." R,ichard Brandon raised his head, master of his own emotions even at this great mo- ment of his life; for self-control is more the result of habit, the outgrowth ot will-power, than it is a natural characteristic, and for many years he has been used to keeping his own feelings in check. "Roy, you cannot understaud, nor can I explain to you. There are secrets which must remain secrets to the end of time. If my secret concerned only myself I would tell it to you, but it ccncerns more than me. I have acted strangely and unnaturally â€" it is because I have been moved and shaken as I thought nothing could ever shake me again, aud there are times in life when our emotions are stronger than we are; but you must try and forget itâ€" or, if that is im- possible, think as little abont it as you can. This much I can say â€" and it is only justice to you that I shouldsay it, because 1 think you love me. If 1 have led a strangely quiet and reserved li!e, mingling but little with my fellow men, it has not been be- cause there was a stain upou me which I feared the world would discover." For a moment there was silence in the roomâ€" a silence broken only by the crackle of the tire in the grite. the ticking of the clock upon the mantel; then Roy spoke. "Uncle Richard, I want no explanation: 1 am content to let things remam as they are. I have always felt that there was a bitter sorrow iu your life, but that it was not of your making I have been sure. I have only one thing to ask you: ^Vou:d it displease or sadden yoa if I should marry Miss Anthon? " Fjr he know now that m seme way the Anthons were connected with tlic secret of Richard Brandon's life, Richard Brandon did not a:.swer at once â€"he was thinking. If it waa true that Louie, this girl that Roy loved, had been born the Ojtober following the March of that year when, leaving Muriel, his young wife, and his beautiful home, he had gone to Mexico in search of Aruudel, then in all truth she was his own childâ€" aud his weary, sad hearts leaped and grew glad at the very thought. But it was too late to claim her now â€" that time had long 2. ne by. He could call her daughter never, u.ver; he had a child, yet he must be to all 'the world a childless man. .Still, it Roy should marry herâ€" if slie was the wife of the man he had loved froiu his babyhoodâ€" no one would think it strange if ne- loved her; and she would love him, too,â€" oh I the peice and blessedness of that! He would live with themâ€" he woald teach the little child- ren that would corns to Ray and her to call him grandfather, and they would not know â€"Only he and God would knowâ€" that he waa really their mother's father. He had never dreamed that Each hapoinesa would come to him, and there was" a soft, sad smile upon his grief worn face as he ?aid- "It would not displease me Roy, no for it would bring happiness to me, not sorrow." earnest e itrd; morrow nignt 1 anaii go to Mr. Anthon and ask hia conseKttO'iifitefcis'^wgkter •ny •wife You say you knew him once, it is rtrange he did not rem^mbei- your name, for 1 know I have spoken of yon m his presence." ' Richard Biandon's brow darkeiied. "He does not know me," he said he knows no such man as Richard Brandon. Roy, you are quite sure that Louie Anthon waa nineteen years old last Octob^?" "Perfectly sure," answered R6y, hrmly. The thought had come to him within the last few moment that perhaps iu his early manhood Richard Br^indon had lo ved Louie s beautiful mother, bad loved her so dearly as men do sometimes loveâ€" that when she had married Mr. Anthon it had swept joy and brightness forever out of his Hie, and his bitter disappointment had made him the grave, quiet man he was. Even if Russel Anthon did not know Richard Brandon, Richard Brandon would know him, because he was the man who had won that which he had striven in vain to win. If stich was the case, if Mr. Anthon had married the woman who was dearer to Richard Brandon than all else in the world beside, Roy thought it was net at all strange that his uncle's face had clouded at the very sieht of the name, Russel Anthon, or that the mention of it had brought up a host of bit- ter, painful m.emorics. So in his own way Roy accounted for it all, until it no longer seen ed strange 01 hard to cnierstand. "After Roy had lelt him that night, and he was alone, Richard Brandon gave his thought! free scope, [t was almost like that other night ao long ago, when the full realizition of ArunJel's faithlessness and dis- honor had overwhelmed him, Bittsrness long suppressed rose iu his heart; fierce, terrible auger for Arundel, and rebellion against the fate which had laid waste his life. He had thought he had suffered all he could possibly suffer, and now the al- most ceriaiu knowledge that the child which ho had though; the strongest link between Muriel and Arundel was his own child, brought with it agony which well nigh piostrated him. Tne patience and resignation which had helped him to bear his rorrowall these years left him; passions which he had thought were dead, awoke within him; hate and resentment and re- lentless Avrath. He felt that he must go now to Arundel and shoot him down like a dog; what right had he to live â€" that false, black-hearted man whose life was a mon- strous lie? The gray dawn still found Richard Bran- don still crouching in his chair before the fii'e, which during the night had burned it- self out and was only a heap of ashes, and in the pale, dim light his face looked hard and cold and pitiless, there were deep-drawn lines abont his colorless lips, and he spoke through his clenched teeth as he muttered: "You stole my wife, my name, my friends away from me, Arundel Anthon; you robbed me of joy and happiness and peace, and if it is indeed true that the child who has called you father all these years is my chil 1, then if God can forgive you let Him do it, but I can never, never 1" CHAPTER XXXYI. "I know you are very much disappointfd, Russel," said Muriel, regretfully; "but Louie sajs she knows now she never loved him, though for his sake and ours she has tried t» make herself believe she did, and she baa only discovered a few days ago that her feelings for him could never be any warmer than those ot friendship." "Bah " said Arundel, contemptuously, an ugly frown darkening his handsome, high-bred face. "Is that reasonable,Muriel â€" does it take a woman so long to discover whether n no she loves a man I can find no excuse for her actions. Why did she not tell us all in the first place that she would not be hia wife But no, she knew how much he cared for her, and she encouraged him to think she would accept him, she knew how much I wished her to marry him, and she gave me every reason to believe she would do as I wished, only to disappoint us both in the end." And Arundel arose from his chair and wa'ked up and down the long room, finding great ditfijulty in controlling himself. It was not quite eight o'clock in the even- ing, and he aud Muriel were alone together m the library. For the past forty eight hours AruQdel Anthon had been in any- thing but an angelic frame of mind. He had oeen so sure that Louie would accept Percy Everingham that when she told him sne had refused him he had been horribly disappointed; what is more, it had galled him to think that this girl whom he had dis- liked from her very birth, had dared to thwart him, had defied him to his face, looking at him with her great brown eyes â€"the eyes which he could not bear to meet. He would have liked to have been able to force her to marry Percy, to make her bend to his wishes. "Don't think too hardly of Louie," said Muriel, wistfully. "I am sure she did not mean to give either you or Percy any false hope, she is too true by nature for that. Did Percy seem to feel very bad when you saw him yesterday, dear " "Yery badly.indeed," answered Arundel "he was bitteriy disappointed, for he had never thought for a moment but that Louie would t-11 him she would be his wife. Muriel," and he paused in his walk up ancl down the room, aud stood still on the hearthrug, "do you think she refu?ed him because she cared for some one else?" "I have been;thinking about that myelf " said Muriel, earnestly. "I am quite* sure something has happened very lately to change her fceiings toward Iiim. She mav have discovered that she didn't ca'-e for him only when she found that she loved some body else." "Bat who could it be? " asked Arundel a most unamiable feeling arising with him to wards the person who had frustrated his plans regarding Louie and Percy Evrin? ham. "Does any gentleman come to the house for whom you think she has a particu- lar iitintr \fni-i„l9" l-ini-ll lar liking, Muriel? Muriel hesitated an instant, that what^^he was a! out TJTay' STuS 1 think she cares more for Rov Glen more than for any other gentlemim who callsnpon her," she answer^. 'J,^^ Glenmorej" exclaimed Arundel rowniDK asatf. "I hav, nerer liked thai "ery soou «ive him to u«Jer.tM^ that w. can dispiifife with hffl «««if v.. B^, Munel, why did you not teU me this b«»*e| "Becailse^ dear, I had 1.0 jdea of .uohj» thing myself until the day befpreTesfcerdsy. I happened to go into the Parlor Wnd found them there toglther, and sometkwg- m her face and manner put the thought into roy â„¢ "Well, he will never get my consent to m«ry her," said Arundel decidedly. I have always disliked him; I more than lis- like him now.' ... « 1 " "I have never disliked him, Kussei Muriel saio, nnwUling to admit to herself that her hnstandsopinions with reference to Roy Glenmore were unjust, to say the least. "He 18 very gentlemanly and intebistent, and his manners are perfect; the Van Al- Btynes think everything of him; still I have always wished that I knew more about his family. Jt is so strange, Russel, he seemt to have no other relative, except his uncleâ€" a Mr. Brandon." " He is Richard Brandon, one of the firm of Disbrow Co.," said Arundel. "Some one was telling me about him the other day: a grave, silent man, who does not go into any society, has no intimate friends, and who never, under any circumstances, can be induced to speak of his past life. VVe do not want to have anything to do with such people, Muriel. I am sorry, very sorry, that Louie ever met this fellow Glenmore." There was silence between them for a moment; then Muriel was just about to speak when there was a knock at the door, and a servant, coming into the room, informed Mr. Anthon that Mr. Glenmore had called, and would like to see him. " Oh Russel, don't say anything to hurt his feelings," pleaded Muriel, as she rose to leave the room, "lean imagine what he has come to ask you." "So can I," said Arundel, quietly. "But, dear. Louie may love him ^e^y dearly," said .Vluriel, anxiously. "Had we not better consult her, Rsssel, before you give him your answer?" Arundel looked down into the lovely, troubled face. "Muriel do you think it would be right for us to allow Louie to marry a man of wh se family and antecedents we know positively nothing, whose only known rela- tive is a man whose life is a mystery to those who know him " And Muriel answered "No." When Roy Glenmore entered tho library he found Mr. Anthon standing in front of the fire waiting for him, and though ho greeted him with perfect politeness Roy could not help I ut notice the chill in his manner. There was a few moments' conversation upon various everydiy subjects, a pause, and then Roy said: "Mr. Anthon I cam h-tm to-night to tell you that 1 love your da "iter, to ask yon if I have your consent t uk her to be my wife." A slight inclination ot the handsome head which might mean anything or nothing; Roy concluded that it miant "go on," and he went on accordingly, his face flushing, his eyes darkening with earnest- ness. " I have loved her ever .since I first met her, and I woald strive earnestly and â- faithfully to keep every shadow, every sorrow out of her life. I know that what I am asking of you is no small thing, Mr. Anthon, I know she is your only child, that she is very dear to you but if you will give her to me, I will hold her as the dearest, most precious thing on earth." "Do you think, Mr. Glenmore, that daughter returns your love '" A look of rare tenderness gathered about Roy's mouth. "I think â€" I am almost sure, Mr. .An- thon, that she does." Arundel leaned back in his c'lair, his face haughty and cold. The dislike he had al- ways felt for Rjy GLmmore had increased a thousand-fold. He was the one then who had spoiled Li^ plans; but for him Louie would not have refused Percy Evringham; he had already made love to the girl, well, he would punish him for his presumption. "Mr. Glenmore, you must pardon me for speaking so plainly, but 1 cannot giv« my consent to your marriage with my daughter until I know more about you and family tlan I already do you mui mem}er you are almost a stranger to (TO BE CONTIXCED. my your sc re- me." The Composer of "Kathluen Mavourneen. ' In a scantily furnished room at G2 Parkin afreet, sits an old gray-haired man, finger- ing an ancient piano. It is Frederick iNTic- hoUs Crouch, the author of "Kathleen Mav- ourneen." Bis personal appearance is strikmc Of a saort, compact figure, his movements are astonishingly quick and act- ive. He has a bushy gro'wth of hair and beard, hia complexion is ruddy, and from under rugged brown shine bright hazel eyes His dress consists of an old soldiers coat dark blue flannel shirt aud well-wora pant- aloons Prof. Crouch says he knew Payne, ^d led the music on the night, when, at Drury I^e Theatre, Paynes opera of "Clari, the Maid of Milan," vas produced. Sir Henry Bisnop wa« the composer. Payne wrote the words. Both men were in the wings and in full view of Prof. Crouch dur- lug the^performanco. The song of "Home, Sweet Home, ' was written for this opera! Prof Crouch told how his own famous song, Kathleen Mavourneen," was composed. He said tae words had been sent to him from London by Mrs. Crawford. He was riding one day along the banks of the ramar in west England, when the melody came tohim "I was so infatuated with u said Prof Crouch, "tHat I sang the song ^LkY^ p '""'*â„¢^^ '° *^« Plymouth As- sembly Rooms, Plymouth, Devonshire, and within a week it began to spread. Thus the child of the world." •^/'i^"R^T*'^7f ^°.â„¢^" England, July 31, 1808, ot good famUy. Hg is now out of employment and too old to help himself. He has a wife and five children, fie to ^ik cheerily at fate, but the smile is fS of "You A^ttldn-t take me for a married think I woald If yon â- bonlf ask m^,'"';;; the resDOwe. He bought m ^tmg nex't d^, response. r4»i»Kr?fww ~- -.^^ {ffr Ola Ato No one denies that it is ,v, JV vision for old agoc-*at «„ ^iid," tola^m. CJertaint;^ wclhaV money, for a destitute oldm' **"9' Borry eight; yes, save mon,,*""' V But an old man needs just r. "'J^l kind of strength whiel. youo' 1!^' P apt to waste. Many a foolii" 'C will throw away on a holidZ°'°«:« amount of nervous euergv '1* never feel the want of untiu" "^^l and then how much he ^xju v, ""tW curious, but true, that a bottle ^V"' H, at twenty will intensity the rh ""l threescore. It is a fact thai ' the eyes at fourteen may neces " of spectacles at forty instead of""' advise yonng readers to be savl '^^^ for their old age, for the mS«^ in regard to health as to n^!^°'^» not, want not.' It is the T^?'"" to suppose that violation of ti*""^! health can escape its f c-nalty v gives no sin. no er-or she l,.t. 1'^^*] fender for fifty y.ars sZ!S:\k\ catches bim at last, and inflict;!^' "°' ment just when, j.ist uh^v anl^ he feels it most. Save up to- "n"" save knowledge; save tae iJl"' good and noble deeds, innocent .T'"' and pure thoughts save friends â- "'I Save rich stores of that 1; which time can not away. liiii.nul save W I of â-  ' ""r licit!; t '«iJ for to I'.eoK A Kemarkable Joumey I must tell you of the remarkable' performed by one ot those litde n^i 'T' ber balloons, such as are sold' ., tl '"â- ' i few sous. 01- given as an m'i purchasers in some oi th« V goods shops. Mr. Ober/elder ar^ keeper at Auteuil.'saw lus .^oaJv""i one of these balloon., ^vl,i,h 1 ad " i a shop called "Pygmalion"' iT'i mention that the shops print their Sj the balloons. .Just for a joke thT wrote on the back of his husmess car- promise to pay one Ixittle or old ab-in^" the person who would leturu V'q"\^" and, after tying the card to tbe"nr It adrift. 'Ihis happened on theV-r* December last. A few ^veek.s a'^o il-'ii f elder received a letter from Ru'ssia,",? Andre Jarochewitch, piiest of TchV^' which he asks if it be true that' a li"'" â- ,^' balloon, which he found lu his garJen'o-' ICth of December, bearing the mark "h malion"and Mr. Oberfclder'scard i,--! ly come from Paris' The distari.^-'C Paris to Tchigi direct is about I,!:(j '-C which the balloon dcconiplishc'rn â- â€¢." days; yet it must have drifted alijat'j' traversed a much longer oistance it, journey.â€" ^Vr«' Cor. I'ir.\„l.hrhw U 'What the Buddhists Call Sat -oil Mail A French tra\-cller Mct-ntfy rtfr from Siani gives the ac.ouui ,,} iitwV dhist temple which has just i.cen rompld in the ely 1 church. environs of Bangkok, and t:: closely resembles in appcai:ini.e a Corirj le guide told him to ii:j";:a., surprise that it was a pat:od:i, amlo:! ing the building he had observed the close imitation cf the interior vi a Cit:j.l place of worship. There was f n aha:, a large image of B;ulilha placed on it, -^ ed-glass windows, '/â- '.=-(/;*" and ai! a other accessories of Catholic devotija, " What do you think 0; it ;•â- ' iskcj ;,; Bonze who took him over tiie builliD;. ai:| who was evidently very proud of it, very modem," said the 1o;irist depiextl ly. "Modern it is, o: course, ' Euiiil priest, who took the remark as a C3iiip:| ment. ' ' We have even an ^r-an aaJ a x\ ter one than any you have inl-'rance, for; plays without an organist. \Vc had â- : iwi to order by Messrs. "Bird A C:.. of Lo-kT and, as you will hear, it plays notiia; iJ the finest sacred music." Whereuptisf turned the handle, and tl;e Frenchnjii. his great edification, lizard tlie famd which fits the words " De Madame .tc je suis la fiUe."â€" ,./' .I/;,/, (/( How to Excel. L)r. Chalmers lorci'ly remarks; "Tsal is a certain showy and superficial soEeti^l whi;;h can be done in a vtrv short tinf,' raay a^t the part of a hailcquin w;ti;^2 mind as well as his body, and there" sour.:!e of mental agility wJiich ahvavir.f me the impression of a iMarieiji;in. I^ man, for example, was a the rongnbarK-| in both senses' of the word, wlio k^ that he couid throw nfi'a liundrcd vei poetry while he stood upon one foot. was something for wonder in all tiii? is rarely by auysucli exploit tliat wt deep, and powerful, aud rnduriE.:; i' It is by dint of steady laborâ€" it is I .v i enough of the applications to the wurt.i:- liaving enough of time for the doinjc' " it is by regular painstaking, audlih-f'i of constant assiduitiesâ€" it is by the;;. not by any process of legerdemain, thj^ secure the excellence.' strength and the stapK As to the signs of the /.odiac, V(o:^-- •' Sayoe says that the origin an 1 """ of some of them arf plain enoug!?- 1"" I â-  â-  â-  â-  ;.hc H difficult, for instance, to dis of the bull in the symbol of Tmiriiso'"" row in that of Sagittarius. Ihit iheJ-^'^\ of others, such as the syni Scorpio, or of Capricornn.^, dent. Theee symbols are modern invention, and ;ii' along with the syiiU)ols .- astronomers to denote t: modern though the use is quite otherwise with th liois 0! 'â- '-â- 'â-  ;~ !! .: i-o;f-' (,f .â- oiiiI'A"a:!f SI came io:^' â-  till cii:p.i'y-' ,;,: planeti. /- tiieni ms/-' !si,L;n3 tben!^ uf,'l*l and the majority of the names by ffW"' still call them. Recent rjscircli In^ *^,l that the general voic j of classical afl" J was right in regarding t lie *-"' "j[:[ the first to map out the path ot the sJ^ ^l ing the year into separate regions 0. ^^ stellatious. There are iui^"-^"""^ivijil! names of the zoadical si^iis ^^"l.f'^sj given when the vernal equniox sti^^^ j^.. lOC*! ed with the entrance of the sun ia'" us. There are sixty-six thousand loc""" in the world. And yet ^^^° '"Lt waited for a train at some ^f?ruii«| Station fOT five hours you woulanf ther and. .ere half so many. Sixty' And still a man â- ax tb#l •in miM easily as though there were only oe« on the whole continent.â€" //""""J"' ttmf; eJl* riiki