The following text may have been generated by Optical Character Recognition, with varying degrees of accuracy. Reader beware!

 '[-â- l ^!^ ' ^f' lif' ^^^JJ"-^'S^^^ g^^-lV--'X-«^^»^ T^s!p!P^?^W?'?T^^W??W!^pP^P^ V'^. -- ofa "ill at on5o'2?^i iL d depart. IdoffjjV'H h« voice andS*«*2i t even want to **ff« r- I never -Jf« "nftA or your life "r?* *» |y *r.I have in ti**** gin esaion." '^»0ri4l^^ '«Ione by Strong Hi»«. ^Jdherhuabandw^ »nd of work Tk "«thfr. t3Hve upon the cf^'*«M vere sitting do^t,;[;J»tl e was invited to .if ^â„¢P'*f- 1 very good." J^K,^"" as here. He's veil' Jj^l very poor and can?,* 4 expensive." °*"*»*rdto| '^aa considered rather a. f arnham handed Mm T?"" go'^g.apoundpar^d""?* aaid Mrs. Hogan- ..t .tea, but 'taint 0^^^ ^^ milk waa consigned to \J dahe, "now if we had so J d be provided." "M m procured a pound and g»,J ve a good cup of tea. Th«Sl h with tea like apple S j en aays." *^*^ P"' "I .y^trong enough to brmg out said Mrs. Hogan, as she took I r hands, " pie ain't pie unS ese to eat with it If th«^ e It s cheese. ' isible to resist such an appeal nple slice having been pU«d m she paused for a moment, e; w nether there waa not acme might call for. Failing to ing she was about to move off t struck her. g8 are rather heavy and I as I used to be. I don't 1 be able to get home." m volunteered to send heraoi a parr of the articles, an of. Hogan accepted without the 1. When John had landed logan hinted that she had would like to have split, but ieve in hints and left without Pigures Lie had thirty chickens each, ok to market. They agreed l!y the proceeds of their ule. r chickens two for a dol'u, • thirty chickens fifteen dol- d hers three for a dollar, get- rty chickens ten dollars. renty-five dollars realized for ens. t called on to divide the mo- our thirty chickens twofw* u sold your thirty chickeoi ir. That makes sixty chick- of five for two dollars. Well r goes twelve timesâ€" twice p^-four. That makes twen^- ir chickens have b'onght' n above, the women actoallj in their pockets. Anij»i igures were right pload of Brides. Jovemment display 8'e»*'J" I their colonies popntated. ued an advertisement to tw :_•• Wanted, for an Island icinity of Numea, which a ench emigrants, 100 young )h to enter into the state « The inducements set !«» ded brides should not only M a free passage, hn* "" â- nment a dot of 100 fran« (ry short timeâ€" as boj.F' ed-the hundred mv^ rere found, and a ship WW ;he Government to convey destination. This cuno« npoaed for the most partw .ble girls, includmg aoong .tives of almost every te»« samakera, rimnen,^^ Ireasea, etc., all figure «»'» nising ClmicJies." dan festival in Bortona^ Louis remarjied ttot WW" tothe"unien«rfPj*^ was always temptodW Jem ivations that »w«w2 ,hnrches"-that«,«*' pay $700 .Vf^S- J their promwe.. f^Tl^' dsuch'Ven^!"^** such a long trip. ^staJrf'^lJSjthy Self alone, thy •t«*y"' Tinning *^X*W'*: kiUed a "'JJflda ' iow.andshe »tew^^. the value «»*•**,»*• ee, it being "^Zgi^- e result. SM»*Vj^ ard,and,aatherj«,^ ^him,.heb-*oj2^. i she took â„¢%^tiSt0f' withahW»^| k iot^^ST^^ jijBBT PTJBU8HM.1 [All Bieaxs Busbykd.] IJKE AND UN LIKE. By M. E. BRADDON. ACTHOB OF " Lady Audlct's Secret, Wtllabd's Whbd, Era, Etc. CHAPTER XXIII.- (COXTINTJED.) idrian bad a good many oppoâ€" -- *^n2 bis siater-in-law after I"^Udy Glandore's, and N -Iff only convinced him *^- b'"'A"rwell with her. natural home, and my mother yoor natural .^agoodn^yopportu^ti^for 4~te,^.^-^^^^^ ought to be yoor haven of refage. Neveir fear to fly there never fear to confide in that every the more new that You are very good. Lady Belfield is IcririBg, "LordSt. Austell. in her I rei [warning She could hardly I •• 10 know her sister's friends, while Y^ chaperoned by her sister and St. 1*^' U was an old friend of Major and Mrs. ff took the opportunity of a tete-a-tete â-  with Valentine at the Junior Carlton, "'".i, „f his married life. he asked, all don't I I -neak of his married life. r'Aou are quite happy, Val?" • iour marriage has realized â- '"^ffell, yesi I suppose it has. I J r ff very exactly what my hopes were. li know that I was desperately in love. Id that you were a good fellow to give me r «»lrl and are a still better fellow for rriving me as you have done. He stretched his hand across the table to jke hands with his brother, with more ing than he was wont to exhibit. lime has been very good to me, Val. I heart whole again, and I can think of yen as mj sister, and love her as a sister â- eld be loved. I can never forget that j is the first woman I ever cared for." " How about the second, Adrian " "Ihere is no second yet, ,f myself that I shall never ji means mutability, and â- yn Ibes he may change. Lhitg, Val, that you and Helen were Jjtl!! less fashionable. I don't like yo Li-detached way of«living." 1 " My dear soul, we live as most of our Mow creatures live," answered Valentine, ehtly. " I am not the kind of man to be lied to any woman's apron string, wife or liiitress. To stand in door-ways while my Irlfe dances to sit out plays I am sick of Ifcile my wife looka on, or to jog up and lTO the Row at her side. If Helen and I Le to hang together for the rest of our lives Iwemuat be free to enjoy ourselven after otir Icn ideas. She has an excellent chaperon, Ld I am letting her sow her wild oats. She liill be tired of gadding about in a season or I will not say love again, so long as a 1 can't help a your ,„. Wl with her. St. Austell's I "^y "»*»'«'•' 1°^«-" ^**' ^nllow^ her like a blight and yefc ' " ^^^ »" ^^'y .-- ,. kjjff foiioweu u .„J+i,i„„ :„ u„- I the dearest woman in the world. Of course Sd h»4 "*^* M wift Mm if iLi^ 1 1 ehaU be charmed to eo to the Abbey if J2, which would justify hmmremon- Valentine will take me, and I daresay^he " ...ith her. or even in .warning her ^^ j.^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^' ^^^ ghooting," re- plied Helen, hurriedly, with a troubled manner, Adrian thought, not as one whose mind was as ease. " Your horse has more breed than mine," he said, by way of changing the conversa- tion. " He is a very beautiful creature. Where did Valentine pick him up " " He was bought at TattersiU's. It was not Valentine who chose him. It was Mr. your Beeching â€" or Lord St. Austell â€" I am not sure which of them really bought him. They are both considered good judges." " No doubt. But Val paid for the horse, of course " " Ot course," answered Helen, reddening at the question. " Who else should pay for him?" " He must have given a high figure, I take it?" " No the horse wm a bargain. When I told him I wanted a horse, Valentine said he would only give sixty guineas â€" that was all he could afford â€" and 1 believe Ravioli was bought for that money â€" or a little less." "Then there is something wrong with him, I suppose. I hope he is not a danger- ous horse. ' " Dangerous Not in the least. He has perfect manners." " And he is not a whistler, nor a roarer " "Certainly not." " Then I congratulate you on having se- cured a wonderful bargain. Anyone would give you credit for riding a three hundred guinea horse. I gave very nearly two hun- dred for this fellow, and he is not half so handsome as yours. Ah, here comes St. Austell. Was he in your cotillon last night?" " Yes he is devoted to the cotillon." Lord St. Austell met them both with the easiest air. He, too,complained of sleepless- ness. " These late parties are killing us," he said. " One losea the capacity for sleep. I shall have to go to' a hydropathic in the wilds of Scotland or Ireland for a month or two, just to pull myself together." "I should hardly have given you credit for bein? out so early." said Adrian. " Wouldn't you Oh, I am better than my reputation, I assure you. I bate the Bow when the mob are out, and the band, and the talk, and the nonsense. Good day. " He saluted Halen and cantered away, as if he had no other purpose in his ride than healthful exercise, and Adrian and his com- panion saw no more of him. They rode up and down tor an hour, Adrian trying the paces, of hia new horse, which behaved in the "new broom" manner of horses that have been nourished in a dealer's yard for a space, to the subjugation of their original sin. After that quiet hour's ride and quiet talk, Adrian escorted his sister-in-law back to her door, where the man from the livery yard was chewing his customery straw and here they parted. " My mother and I go back to Devonshire to-morrow morning, Helen. You'll not for- get?" " No, Adrian. Good-bye." And so they parted. She said not a word about going to see Lady Belfield that after- noon, and Adrian did not ask her. He heard afterwards that she and Mrs. Baddeley were at Ranelagh, dined there, and drove home late in the evening to dress for a ball. The beautiful Mrs. Belfield was asked everywhere this season, and fresh young beauty had opened many doors which had hitherto been closed against Mrs. Baadeley. There was an awkward story about that lady's diamonds, the particulars of which had been only correctly known to a select few, but which the select few had not for- gotten, while even the vulgar herd knew there was a story of some kind, not alto- gether creditable to the wearer of the gems. 'And when she is tired of gadding about, liishe to sit by the fire â€" alone " "My dear Adrian, don't lecture. Who Ijaows By that time I may be tired of laocking about London, and may sit by the lire and smoke â€" or take to books, like you. lit the meantime, Helen and I get on capi- J:^y," Yes, and she gets on capitally with men W20 are ever so much more attentive to her •can you are â€" men who don't mind looking s when she dances, and don't mind jogging ;pand down the Row. St. Austell, for in- iMce." Valentine frowned, and then shrugged iis shoulders, •'You don't suppose you can make me lilcus •;" he said. " I am not that kind of ;«son. My wife may accept as much ad- dration as she likes from ^other men. I bow her heart is mine. He smiled, recalling his slave's devotion :er delight at a kind word, her blushing pleasure at a casual kiss. He forgot that iose things belonged to his experience of 'te. year. He had not even noticed the iiowing charge in his wife's manner, so completely was he absorbed in himself and :i8 own pleasures. " Indeed, Valentine, I have never doubt- ed Helen's affection for you but I think siie deserves a little more of your company little more of your care. She is too young and too beautiful to stand alone in -3ndoc society." "Bosh A good woman always knows ;ow to take care of herself. It is only bad aes that want looking after." Adrain was silent. He felt that he had !.id as much as he could safely say to Valen- but there waa something which he ~eant to say to Helen before he went back â- -0 Devonshire. He rode in the Row the day before he left JJndon, to try a saddle hcrae which he had :nght at Tattersall's on the previous after- noon. He rode early, and was surprised to seet his siater-iu-Iaw coming in at the Ken- f^ton Gate, quite alone, as the clocks were s^king nine. "I heard you were to be at two dances i't night, Helen, so I haadly expected to you out so early," he said. "I couldn't sleep," she answered " so "w8 just as well to have my ride Defore â- -eherd came out." Ae had flushed suddenly aa he rode up •" ^», but the colour faded as quickly as it 'ime and left her very pale. You look as if you wanted sleep, more r^^^n early ride," he said, gravely, shocked 'â-  Her waxen pallor, but still more at the ;^nled guilty look with which he had re- -^Sjused him. 'I daresay I do,' she answered, careless- " We were dancing the cotillon at five I had no idea you rode in the clock, â- irk.' "Very 'inter. " I am only here because of my purchase •'*«rday. How do you like him " ^eleu looked critically at the handsome "â- ^" I bay. much. He looka every inch a illJv" ' l"*y that I only want him for j^k Mid Adrian, irith a touch of bitter- O; ""^^mbering those days, when his be- =T«^w 'lad lamented his deficiencies as a S*°-. "Never mind, Helen, you can -.. ,^ hi the autumn when you come to ..f^M- You wiU come, of course ' ..^aon'tknow." jjj^"' but you must come, Helen. Yon M.. **°^e and stay with my mother, and J J"'"' fill of rest, and dulness, and Lojj^ »" after the whirl and wear of There is nothing in the world â- 5^ as perfect rest in a quiet old conn- "good iiiSs Valentino will have the shoot- jjT._f-P'ember and October, and you can 5i tjf'\% of cub-hunting. I will get pne iC* ^1188 Treducey's to look after yon. 7!ever miss a morning." K^Th "•' bending over her her hone's ii^^said, with gentle eamestnesB '«meniber, Helen, the Abbey b your CHAPTER XXIV.â€"" It Gaxnot Be." Lady Belfield went back to Devonshire disspirited at having seen very little of her younger son during her stay in London, and not altogether satisfied aa to the aspect of his domestic affairs. That marriage which was no union, that laborious pursuit of pleasure which husband and wife were carrying on in opposite directions, filled her with anxiety. â- , Those darker clouds which Adrian has perceived on the horizon had not revealed themselves to the matron's innocent eyes. Her experience of life had not familiarised her with the idea of false wives and deceived husbands. These too had married for love, she knew, casting all other considerations to the winds, in order to belong to each other; and it never occurred to her that such lovers could weary of each other. She saw that they were leading frivolous lives, and living very much apart she saw many tokens of folly and extravagance on both sides; and she left London full of vague fears for the future. But those fears were only va«ue, and there was no forecast of sin or ignominy in her mind, when she bade Helen good-bye in the little Japanese drawing-room, just before she drove to Paddington. It was within an hour of noon, and Helen came out of her bedroom, pale and wan, in her white muslin wrapper. ,^ ,. „ " Yon have had a very short night, 1 tear, said Lady Belfield. " Oh I wouldn't mind how short it was if I coidd only sleep," answered Helen, im patiently. "My nights are always too long. The birds were singing when we came home, and I thought if I could only sleep for a couple of hours I should be as fir«h as th^ were • but I lay awake till the birds changed to Ihe mUkm4 and the milkman to the postman, and then came the tradesmen s *^«*Yln muBt come to the Abbey, Helen there will be sflence and rest for you in your "^^•oTt love those old rooms, ihongh I have h^ some sad thonght« in them. Yes, VrsaJabTwin be delighted to go to yon f or the phea»nt "hooti^. ^4. « ButS»t ii » long time for me to wait. I waat yoa vary won, Helaa. A qoartar pwt elOTCD. I ana* fB» iBve, vnr traia â- tarti pX a quarter to twdve. Good-bye." AadaotMy parted with Iriwea, and not wlthoDt teaca on Helen's part. Tbe door had Maroaly eloaed when aha flung heraelf on the aofa and buied her faoe in the cnahlona tottifie her loba. Valnitlne was f aat adeep after a late night at the dab. He had the happy temperament of the man who can live hani, and alomber after a night of riot as serenely as a plonghman sleeps after his placid labours. Adrian met his mother at Paddington, and they went down to Devonshire to- gether in the seclusion of a reserved coupe, with books and newspapers, fruit and flow- ers, and all the things that can make a long journey endurable on a hot summer day. " I'm afraid Mrs. Baddeley is not quite the best companion Helen could have, al- though she is her sister," said Lady Belfield, after a long reverie. " I only hope she is not quite the worst," replied Adrian, laying down the new Quar- terly. "I wonder that Valentine does not see the danger of such an association." " Danger is an alarming word, Adrian." " I can use no other. The beautiful Mrs. Belfield, the latest fashion in beauty, ought not to be meet everywhere in London without her husband, and with such a woman as Mrs. Baddeley for her chaperon a woman who prides heraelf in going everywhere with three or four men in in her train." " It is all very sad, Adrian." It was all very sad, and it was sadder that Lady Belfield and her son could do nothing to stop this headlong progress of reckless husband and foolish wife, drifting towards ruin. Constance Belfield felt that it was worse than useless to dwell upon the sub- ject in her conversation with her elder son. She wished on his return home, that all things should be made bright and plea- sant to him, and yet her own uneasy fears about that other son weighed upon her spirits and made happiness impossible. She was surprised and somewhat agitated one morning within a week of her return, at receiving a better from Helen, hurriedly written, and with unmistakeable signs of agi- tation. " You told me there were silence and rest for me at the Abbey, and that you wanted me soon," Helen wrote. " May I go to you at once I am tired to death of London and the season, and I think sleeplessness would kill me if I were to hold out much longer. Valentine has Goodwood and half a dozen other race meetings coming on, so he leally does not want me here, since he can hardly ever be here himself. May I go to yon to-morrow, dear mother? I shall not wait for a letter, but shall start oy the II 45 train, unless I rece ve a telegram to forb'd me," The telegram sent in response to this letter was of loving welcome. " Ask Valentine to come with you if only for a few days," was the last sentence m the message. Lady Belfield drove to meet her daughter in-law. She stood on the platform as the train from Exeter came slowly into the ata- tion, and the first glimpse of Helen's face startled and shocked her. That pale wan look which she had noticed un the morning after the ball, had intensibed to an almost ghastly pallor. Helen looked wretchedly ill, and there was an expression of misery in that pallid countenance which was more alarming than any physical decay. Constance Belfield bad too much tact to remark that appalling change as she and Helen clasped hands on the platform, or during the drive to the Abbey. She did not even ask what had brought about the change in the young wife's plans. " I am very glad to have yon here, my dearest," she said, and that was all. Helen was curiously silent and offered no explanation of her sudden visit.. She nestl- ed affectionately against Lady Belfield's shoulder, resting her weary head there, smiling faintly, with a smile that was sadder than tears. "I feel so much happier here than in London," she said. " I feel so safe, with you, mother." She had hitherto refrained shyly from that familiar name, but in her yesterday's lett«r and in ber talk to-day, the word mother seemed to come naturally from her yearning heart. " Yes, dear, you are safe with Adrian and me. He has forgotten and forgiven the past, and you are to him as a dear sister." " That is so good of him. But how poor- ly he must think of me. Yes, I know he must despise me for the past, and for the foolish, frivolous present, for all my life this last season." " The season is over now, Helen, with all its frivolities. It is not even worth tank- ing about." "No, it is all over now," answered Helen, with a faint sigh. " I don't suppose I have been much worse than other people. I know I have not been half so bad as some women â€" and yet I hate myself for my folly." " As long as it has left no sting behind it, dearest, the folly may so easily be for- gotten." " Oh, but there is always a sting, the sting of self contempt." " I will not hear you talk of self -contempt. You are coming to the Abb^ to be happy, and to get back your roses and lilies. Atfrian haa a horae that he says will suit you admir- ably. You will enjoy riding on the moor in the early mornings." " Adrian b too kind bat I don't care much for riding now." " Don't you think riding would brace you up after your long spell of late hours and hot rooms At any rate there will be cub-hunting for you In a month or six weeks, and that yon are sure to enjoy. Helen only answered with a sigh, which sounded like an expression of doubt, and was silent for the rest of the drive, as If too weary for speech. Adrian was in the porch ready to reoelTe his sister-in-law with a brotherly Welcome and he too was startled at the change for the worse which the last week had made In Helen's appearance. That deterioration gave strength to those fears which had troubled him when he left London. Helen's rooms were In the southern wing, immediately over the library. There was a large bedroom with a wide Tudor window, and an oriel at the southwestern oomer.; and there was a spacious dressing-room ad- joining, which served also as a boudc»r, and was provided witii all Inxnriona appliantiea for reading and writing, or repose. There was a secondary dressing romn tm tiie other ride rf the bedroom, which Valentine had naed on former visiti, and where them wwe still some (rf his banting and zidmg whtaM in the radi, and some of his faanting gear m the diawen Dm oaaaBMnta wan open, and tiia aoent th« soft breath of mmmat winds. The view from tiiat wid* eld window was of tiie loveli- est^ a wooded valley throogh which tiie broad folTriver ran sparkling in tiw wes- tern ann, and aoroas this vale rose the bold dsffk oatllae of tiie moor, like a wall that shat off tiie outer world. Helen sat at the broad window seat after Lady Belfield left her, looking out at^e oaks and beeches, the thickete of hawthorn and hoUy, and the river flowins behind them at the foot of the hill, looking and not seeing any of those things which showed themselves with such exceeding loveliness In the golden haze of after- noon. She was seeing another scene, far less fair, yet not unbeautlfuL A lawn sloping to the Thames, with fine old trees here and there, and in the background a white lamp-lit house, with classic portico and long French windows. Across the river other lamps, shining in many windows and tall chimneys and dark roofs, and a large barge sailing by upon the moonlit stream and on the rustic bench beside her. In the shadow of a veteran elm, sits a man whose voice thrills her like music, a man who pleads to her, who dwells with ever intenai- tying urgency upon his own misery if he is to Ims doomed to live apart from her, who im- plores her to pity and to bless his despairing love, to let him be the sharer ot her life, the guardian of her happiness, since without her life is intolerable for him. He pleads as poor humanity might plead to the angels. He revere, he honoun. her in tenderest Ehrases, in sweetly flattering speech, while e exercises every art he knows to bring her down to the level of the fallen and the lost among her sex. He blinds and dazzles her by the glitter of artful phrases, by the lurid light of a phantasmagoric vision â€" the fancy picture of the futore they two would live together, once having broken the bondage of conventionality. " Conventionality " That is the word by which Lord St. Austell defines duty to her husband, respect for the world's laws, and fear of God. Convention- ality alone is to be sacrificed. • So he pleads to her, half 'in moonlight, half In shadow, in that quiet comer of Hurl- Ingham lawn, far away from the bustle and the racket of the club-house and the terrace, where frivolity chatters and saunters in the moonshine. Here there is no frivolity. Here is deep- est purpose. He pleads, and she answers weakly, falteringly. No, again and again no â€" it cannot be. She is utterly miserable, her heart is broken â€" but it cannot be. She returns again and again to the same point â€" it can never be. And he, as he hears her half -sob- bing speech, as he sees her bent head and clasped hands, tells himself that it will be. The woman who can resist a tempter does not answer thus â€" does not listen as she lias stened. But for that night at least he can win no other answer than that despairing refusal. They part after the drive home, on her sb- ter's tlireshold, where they have driven iii a party of four, the inevitable Beeching in at- tendance upon his liege lady, albeit resent- ful of ill-treatment. They part in silence, but even- the clasp of St. Austell's hand at parting is a prayer, scarcely less insistent than those spoken prayers in the Hurling- ham garden. This was the night before last, and she haa not seen him since, and she has sworn to herself that she will never see him again. What shall she do with her life without him That is the question which she asks herself despairingly now, in the golden light of ^temoon, sitting statue-like, with her hands clasped above her head, leaning against the deep embrasure of the good old window. What is to become of her without love, or mirth, or hope, or expectancy All things that gave color to her life have van- ished with that fatal lover, who came as suddenly into her existence as a rainbow glorifies the horizon. (to BE CONTINUED.) J. HANDSOME MEN. Mrs. Frank I«slle Ciives Her Deflnftlon of Male Beauty. To call a man charming in face, or lovely, or beautiful, or pretty, is to minimize â€" al- most to insult him â€" ^writes Mrs. Frank Leslie. A man can only be called handsome, and* very, very few men can be called that. A handsome man must be manly in figme, conveying the idea of strength and energy under the most reposeful exterior. He must have the shapely hands, feet and all that tell of good blood and cultivated pro- genitors; he must have his head well shaped, well set and well carried. Colouring does not much matter, so that there be no red upon the cheeks, and not too much in the lips, and perhaps the mezzo tints lend themselves most satisfactorily to manly beauty, but, above all, the handsome man must never be stout. The heavy throat which overflows the shirt collar never carries with it an air of refinement, whatever it may do of strength. A blonde man runs the risk of weakness and insipidity, and a black beard man is handsome, even though he be a trifle melodramatic, but still golden-hair- ed and black-haired men have been very attractive the world over. Of course, below this grand climacteric In the thoroughly handsome man there are ranks after ranks of good-looking, attractive, pleasant- faced men â€" some upon whom one loves to look and find sweet content in con- templating faces and forms far from fault- less, and yet quite satisfactory. And here we come upon one of the most strange and almost cruel conditions of our being. A man may or may not be handsome, he may or may not have physical attractiveness whatever, but nobody likes him the less for the dofidency, he never finds it a barrier in his c areer, a source of failure In his life women 4ove him and men approve of him jost as readDy as If he is nandsome in fact, tiie woman or women who love him set him down as handsome In serene de- fiance of the rules of beauty or the opinion cH tiie world. The BepaUioui Dela^aSe. A Chicago oorremondent of the New York Timiu says :• -fh» dslonto is not as nnmeroasas he wili ha, itillhe is nomarou and he is eaaly distinguished. He wears aa air that would not become persons engaged in the ordinary a£Bdrs of life. He is n two varieties. If of one, he has been at Natiim- al conventions btfore if of the other, this iv his first expeiienoe. Upon the former the consequential air Is worn with ease it fiUs Ite wearer with a oomf ortii^ sense of impor- tance. Qpon the latter it often rite like a misfit, and is evidently worn under the im- prdsrion that It Is one of those things witii- out which no delegate to a National oonven- tion should appear In public The dele^te is ffregarious, and he la also a monopolist He grabs the best seate in the busses, the best rooms at the hotel, the best seate at the table, but being a nctcessity he is welcomed with an air of unbounded cordiality by everybody, but principally by the hotd keepers. Once at the hotel the delegate becomes gregarious, and finds his way to the large, open space, usually desig- nated aa the rotunda, as natorally as water rolls down ailL He Is coining by every train, but only in retail lote, therefore he does not form in line and march to hia fav- ourite caravansary headed by a brass band and wearing garmente that would, on any other occasion, elicit original but not com- plimentary remarks from the rising genera- tion. The akirmiaking line is attired ac- cording to the teste of its individual mem- bers, and some of the rigs are but evidences of tiie vastness of a country which compel men in one portion of it to don straw hate and linen dusters, whUe in another section â€" at the same period of the year â€" fashion prescribes Prince Albert coate and slouch hate. BnialThiift. I^tle Girl â€" ^Mrs. Brown, ma wante to know if die could borrow a dozen eggs. She wants to put 'em under a hen. Neii^borâ€" So you've got a hen setting, Iwvnyoa t Ididn't know you kept heasL- lAtOe Girlâ€" No'm we don't, bnt Mrs. j3mill| *i goiu' tw land as a lien tiist wants tw «*. aa' ina thoiuht if yoa'd bad oa m^gottbea The BuU-DogB. R. G. O'Mally says My remedy for bullj dogs and flies on cattle is any kind of grease with a small quantity of coat oil mixed with It, rubbed in the parte that are most liable to be attecked, such as the face and nose, the dewlay and back of the arm or shoulder, also the flanks and udder, in fact where the skin is not thick enough to stand the bites or cannot be reached by the head or telL For my horses I use common axle grease mixed with coal oil. Grease itself is very good, but the flies do not like the smell of oil. For stock in general that have to be out all day in pasture, bobbing them all would be quite a contract, and the best way ' out of the diiBculty ia to get some crotehed -; trees and make posts ot them, and make a shed of pole and scrub f ot the cattle to go into in the heat of the day, as anyone knows that bull dogs will not stay in a building of any kind if they can get out of it. The Economical Scot. He ia not ot brilliant qualities, but he is a man of solid ones, who can only be appre- ciated at his true worth when you have known him some time. He does not jump at you with demonstrations of love, nor does he swear you an eternal friendship but if you know how to win his esteem, you may rely upon him thoroughly. He is a man who pays prompt cash, but will have the value of his money. If ever you travel with a Scotchman from Edinburgh to Lon- don, }fOU may observe that he does not take his eyes off the country the train eoes through. He looks out of the winaow all the time, so as not to ntiss a pennyworth of the money he haa paid for his place. Re- mark to him, as you yawn'and stretch your- self, that it's a long, tiring, tiresome journey, and he will probably exclaim, "Long, In- deed, long I should think so, sir and so it ought to be for £2 17s 6d.?" 1 know of a Scot, who rather than pay the toll of a bridge in Australia, takes off his coat, which he rolls and straps on his back, in order to swim across the steeam. He is not a miser. On the contrary, his generosity is well known in his own neighbourhood. He is simply an eccentric Scot, who does not see why he should pay for crossing a river that he can cross for nothing. o Prepared. A minister's wife, who is not so serious- minded as her husband is, tells some laugh- able stories relating to marriage ceremonies which her husband performed while they were living in a newly settled district in the west. This minister always felt it to be hia duty to give each young couple a little serious advice before he performed the marriage ceremony, and for this purpose he usually took them aside, one at a time, and talked very soberly to each of them regarding the great importance of the step ttaey were to take and the new responsibilities they were to assume. One day he talked in his most earnest manner for several minutes to a young wo- man who had come to be married to a bright- looking young man. " And now," he said, in closing, " I' hope you fully realize the extreme importance of the step you are taking, and that you are prepared for it." " Prepared?" she said, innocently, "well, if I ain't prepared I don't know who is. I've got four common quilte and two nice ones, and four brand new feather-beds, ten sheets and twelve paiis of pillow slips, four all -linen table-cloths, a dozen spoons and a good six- quart brass kittle. If I ain't prepared no girl in this countv ever was " â-  MJss Saratoga â€" " Is Mr. O. Shaw any re- lative of yonra?" Miss Wauka Shaw â€" "O yes, he's a distant relative." "How distant " " He's my brother, bnt he is the youngest of nine children, and I'm the eld- est. W. J. Lowns, of Winer parish, Louisiana, Is a df^ulter to quite an amount but, strange to say, there are no hard words for him among the people. For years he has been tax collector, and in each of many cases where enforced collection would work hard- ship he gave a recript In foil, and himself be- came responsible for the money to Ihe authorities. Ex-boardlng-house keeper (at heaven's gate)â€" May I come In St. Peter â€" ^Tm afraid the children would annoy you. The place without children Is over tiiere to the left. The bill limiting tiie time for the employ- ment of mail-carriers to right hoars a day wHl make a large increase In the force tiirongbont the country. There are 401 carriers in the CSiiflaffo oflloe uid the right- hoar limit wfllnilly luurtasu the nmSbwr to 500. At pt sait rt -lfaWHgfapi are «» da«y froomiaa to divMl MNm, tiion^aotao- iifelyeiVagadaUtkafttfaMi '-â-  i =»; k if !;â-  V -y- â- â€¢ 1. • -A â-  â- : • '-â-  5 .;• ' -X Ui^'i ' r â- '.I â- m^k '-/.., iy •CV.-^T^, jMS^Utt^^taim iiii-^..- M^*^^M_ ^â- .M^tSna â-