k LITTLEJRISH GIRL, f |a\;' My “Hi* Onrliwa," h CHAPTER VI—Continued, ■ ■ ••Oh, wait— wait! Hy-the-bye," bringing out her loft hand from behind her back, "I hntl nearly forgotten, but I found these, and I brought them to you. Violet*! Smell thoro,” thrusting them under hi* nose. ••De licious, aren’t they? I found them tiuder the ivy wall. Andy and i planted them there last year." ••Andy and you seem to bo great friends," says ho in a gentler tone, taking her hand, violets and all and holding it. Somobow it has como to him that this charming child is not in love with ••Andy," however delight ful that young gentleman may ho. "Oh, the best, tho dearest! I don’t disguise from you," says Miss McDor inol, growing suddenly serious, “that at times we quarrel. “We” (thought fully) “quarrel a good deal when to gether. Rut when Andy is away from me—ah! then I know what a per fect darling he is!" •“Absence makes the henrt grow fonder,”’ murmured Mr. Kyro, wisely refraining from a smile. "And Andy, how dees he regard youP—hero—and merer “ 'Here.’ its I toll you,” says she, with a fresh, delicious laugh. ••Iio makes himself abominable now and then. But when lie is •there,’—oh, thou ■;r Andy loves mol” “ltfhoiild think you and ho should y. always be •ihero,' ” says hor com lianlon gravciy. “Well, I don't. I'm dolighted he's -vis sominjr. Ilh-s* me!'’ plancing at the dock, I've only half an hour to see about his sheets and things! and I don't believe Bridget has thought about lighting, a firo in his room. There! (Jood-by for a while. I must run. ■•llo’ll hill mo if ho finds him solf without a firo in his rooml" i : ■: She rushes out of the room hb sho had oatorod it—like a heavenly {Spring wind that brings only joy to the receiver of it. Eyre, staring af ter, fecBng a quick throb at his heart. What a^folfght she is! How different from most girls! And this cousin of hers—this Andy! No doubt he is a young Adonis; a “curlod darling’’—a creature half boy, half man and wholly charming. But she is not in ry love with him. So much can be read ■ by those who run. When ho does see Andy, which is three hours later, his astonishment knows no bounds. Andy is indeed a revelation! Ho is perhaps the ugliest ■ young Irishman on rocord, and that it saying a good deal. As handsome as Irish women undoubtedly are. so in proportion are Irish men hideous. But his manners mado up for a good deal, lie is full of bonhomie, brimming over indeed with the milk of human kindness. In tho course of the five minutes he is permitted to speak with Mr. Eyre, who is still con eidered an invalid, he fires off as many jokes as would have made a reason able supply for a month with anybody else. Having then said he felt ho ought to ffo and present himself to The Mc Dermot, who Is his guardian, ho beats a retreat, dragging Duleio into the corridor outside us he goes. “I say, he isn’t half a bad fellow; but he isn't tit to hold a candle to Sir Ralph,” says he in a whisper, still clutching Dulcle by the arm. “You know my opinion of Sir Balph!” returns she, trying unavail Inifiy to extricate herself from his grasp. “Girls never have an opinion worth a ha'penny!” retorts he, letting her go with a disgusted grimace. Already one of the quarrels! CHAPTER VII ‘‘Honor** a mistress all mankind pursue; Yet most mistake the false one for the true.* >i Eyre having received permission, and being anxious on his own part to bring matters to a climax, makes an early opportunity of requesting a pri »wnte interview with his host The : time ohosen is to-day- As wet a day as ever came out of the heavens, and the one after that on which Audy Mc Dermot arrived. There had been a hurried interview between Eyre and Dutclo in the morn ing, in which the girl had Boomed downhearted and dispirited, and in clined to let matters stay as they were, bad as vhey undoubted by trniBt be con sidered; but Eyre—fired with sorrow for her. and determination to save, her from the impending disaster that threatens her—namely, her marriage with that miscreant Anketell—had re fused to listen to her fears, and is now •landing outside The McDermot’s private den, waiting for admission. It is soon gi veu. The den is an awful agglomeration of things useful and useless—princi pally useless—but beloved as having o&ce belonged to better days than these. In the midst of the chaos sits The McDormot, calmly smoking a pipe that could never have seen a bettor day .than this, as it is now as black as black can be. ‘‘Bless my soul. Mr. Eyre! You,” eays be, rising and pulling forward a chair for his guest—“you sent me word, 1 cow remember, that you •ranted to see me. Feeling strong, «h?~better, eh? Have a brandy and soda?” “No, thanks. No, I assure you. The fuct is, I—I wanted to, .speak to you about your daughter.” , * “About my daughter?” The Me Dermot lays down the decanter, and turns his eyes fall upon Eyre. “Well, and what about her?” and what about her?' “It is a little difficult to explain to you; but—I have come to the conclu de sion that your daughter is not happy •' in the engagement she has oon traded." “Ah!*’says The McDermot, wrink X- ling bis brows. “B that ail? Don' t ' V you want to tell me you have fallen in .. love with Pulclnea—that she would be happier in an engagement with you? ; > and therefore yon think her coming marriage with Sir Ralph Anketel an pt iniquitous arrangement? ' “Not' iniquitous so much as mis .'dX taken,” says Eyre, keeping hif temper rr ' admirably, under the other’s ill-oon 7 cealed sarcasm; “besides, must it f * come to marriage?'’ “Sol have been given to under Sex Stand by both parties.*' , . ‘‘Kngugemontshavo boon broken bo foro now.1' “I daro any—I know nothing- of that I know only this, that my daughter1! engagement with Sir liulph Ar.kcte ahull not be broken." ••Not even if it were for hor good.’ •‘How should it be for her good?" "Happiness counts," say* the young er tnnn quickly. “Mcllermot” (earn estly) “I should not try to disarrange your views for your daughner, if 1 could not offer as much as i cause hor to lose. I can make settlements.” "No doubt, no doubt! That is mat ter, sir. for the lady you may choose to marry.” "Just so; that lady is your daugh ter.” ’> ••There'you make a mistake, Mr. Eyre,” said The Dormot distinctly. ••You will nover marry my daughter with my consent. With regard to her own consent, that is already forfeited. Her word is given to another. And one word, sir; permit mo ti ay that as my guest you-” "No. 1 shall not pormit you!” inter rupted Eyre passionately. “Is every sacred, earnest fooling to be ruled by society’s laws? Your daughter is un happy. Surely there are occasions when tho best, tho most honorable rules should be broken! And, know ing her unhappy-” * “You are eloquent, sir," says The MeDermot, ’with a reserved smile. "Forgive mo if 1 break in upon your admirable dissertation on tho weik [mints of society. “You say my daughter is unhappy. May I ask your authority for that speech?" “Certainly," hotly. “Sho herself has said so!” ‘•Excellent authority indeed! My daughter," grimly, “is evidently a greater fool than 1 thought her!” "You misjudge her,” says the young man, eagerly. Tho MoDerraot lot his eyes rest on him for a moment. “I can follow your line of thought,” says he, slowly, “The woman who could appreciate you could be no fool, oh? "Sir!” says Eyre, frowning. “But are you so sure of her affec tion? Is every young girl’s first word worthy of credit?” '?!>• ^ “I desire to keep to the point," says Eyre, a littlo haughtily. “I cun offer your daughter a position. I, on my uncle’s death, shall inherit a title, I esn offer her quite as much as Sir Ralph can. I-” “Sir!” interrupts The MeDermot, sternly, "If you could make her a duchess, I should still decline your proposal. My daughter has given her word to marry Sir Ralph Anketell, and by that word she shall abide!” So it is all over, then—in that quar ter, at all events. Eyre, having bow ed himself out of his host’s presence, after forcing himself, as in duty bound, to make courteous acknowledgement of hospitality received, which ac knowledgement has been as courteous ly accepted, lias sent a message to the village for a trap to take him and his belongings to the inn down there as soon as may be. Ho is raging with indignation and disgust. That old Goth! He will give his duughter to a man she hates just beenuso in a fool ish moment the poor girl has been co ercod inio an engagement with him. Never had the Bpirit of Don Quixote been so strongly reproduced as in Mr. Eyre’s heart at this dement. He will come to her aid, father or no father! What? would any man stand still and see a girl wantonly, deliberately sac rificed, and not put out a hand to help —to sayo? II so, his name is not Lu clon Eyre! To see Dulcine i is, however, neces sary. She must be made cognlzaat of the plot laid against her happiness. Up to this, poor child, she has re garded her engagement as a usual thing, if hateful; but she must ifow learn that force will be employed if she refuse to go calmly to tho altar with that abomination. Sir Ralph. . He has only just Stepp d into Ihe corridor when he c.tues face to face wit? he-. "Well, I’ve seen your father,” says he. “What! Oh, nol" sa>E she. “^Jes, I have; a d a bigger old—I hog your pardon. But-” “He says I must hold to mrengawe m nt wth Sir Ralph?” ' , ••Ho save t at, and that onlv. If you were a slave, he conld no' hive made it uioro distinct that you were without poaor in tit« matter.” • Sure y, gro«iug very pale, you ex aggerate a littl . A slave! Whose slave?" "S r Ra'ph’s presentlr, il you don’t take swift measures to free < ourself. Duicle. you trust me. don’t you? Come away with me. Como thi‘s even ing. There is a train at h .If past s x; me t me there, and-” • And what?” “I’ll take you up to t wu 'o my sister’s. Hid we o<.u to married t-> nr rrow morning.” < v > “Mr Tie I to-mor ow morning! And -and hn-” * ‘•Ho.” mea- Ing Hot fnths»-, she ho a ever, had not meant t or father.* why, ho doses os all hi will get—no more.” ‘•True, true!” says she, as if tr.ing to work herself up to ibe neoessary Sdnf of ' valor. “A slave, yoa said, utstill-” •‘Dulc nea! Dulcinea!” roars somo one in t e distant e. It was tie voice of Goth!” - u “He’s calling me; I must go!” says she, takiug her hand away from Eyre in a lit le frigh'enod fashion. ‘ Remember,'’ whispers he. holding 1 or by the si eve, “remember the train; the station is only a mile from this; 6:80, k ep it n m nd. I shall be there. It is noth ng of a walk, and ——” . “Bat, my c’.othes!" “Oh nonsense! My s'ster will-” “Dulcinea!” It is a very ungry roar this time. Dutoinea. with a wistful, undecided planoe at Eyre, rushes hat to make love to a girl in her father’s houae without her father's consent was a moat damnable lo sort of thing to do.” ■ "You u e wrong Mr! ft ro when yot tit!k of him like tbut,” says Dulclnea loyall-. Kyie hat meant to befrlenr i h r. A rnv of the tin that blazes within her fut er’s ejcs shines in hei own nt t 'is moment. ••Kook hero!” nays The McDcrmot, furiously; “yon can fancy yourself in love with who n tou Ike, but you shall marry Anketel'. a'l the same. Y u’ve giv.n your wo tl to him aud I'll see that to i keep U.” "I shall > o>. marry him unless I wish it.” says hit daughter with distinct defiance; whereupon The McDerm< t hre.ks out in a terrible way, and says all s rts of bitter, unpardonable tilings, until the girl, who is in a white hoat of rage in hero*u way, flings wide the door and rushes into t a guidon, to find rest nnd peace, and room tor thought. She finds, however, only her cousin CHAPTER VIU. “Is it not time, then, to be nisei— Or now, or nover.” Perhaps to her it lias seemed that • rest” and • pence” may be fount) in him. Fond hope! “An 'y!” tails she: “Andy!” He is at the otliob end of Uo garden, and at lirst doe* not hear hor. “Andy!” how ev r, resto es hiin to a proper frame of m nd. “Hi!" says hi, from the niiddlo of a bed of cabbage. * Com * here! Come at oneo! It is som t ling very impor ant.” 'This b ings aim to her at the rats of forty knots an hour. “Well, what’s the matter now?” says lie. “Everything!” says Miss McDermot with commendable brevity. “That generally means nothing with a girl,” says her cousin, contempt uously. “However to do you justice, you look 'ike business this time. What is it, eh!” “If I cou d be sure of you, Andy.” says she, forlornly; ‘ but iou will be as like y as not to take his side.” “IV hose sideP" “Well, you see!”—hesitating—“It’fl this way”—dead pause. , “Oh go on, for goodness sake. If you havo anything on what you are pleased to call your mind, get it off! You look,” with all the delightful sympathy that, as a rule,distinguishes tho male members of one’s family, “like a sick chicken. Anything fresh? or is it the same old game?—our well beloved uncle on the rampage again?” [to be continued.] GENERAL ORDER NO. I. Tlifj May Not Hava Known What It Meant, But They Obeyed It. John F. was a soldier. Ho was a member of the Tenth Maine regiment and orderly sergeant of his company. He was every inch a soldier, brave and true; albeit a little prone to stick to the letter rather than the spirit of the law. The articles of war were his study —his vade meeum, according to the New York Ledger. In short he was excessively military — military all through. At the close of the late war John came home and was shortly after ward Installed Into the responsible po sition of sexton of our church. And he straightened things out wonder fully. On the very first Sabbath after his taking charge we found posted upon the wall of the church vestibule an imposing document headed “General Order No. 1." There had been trouble in certain quarters resulting from the difficulty which ladies who came to church late found in gaining their seats when gen tlemen had got iu ahead of them. John determined to remedy this, so he Issued 'General Order No. 1," which read as follows: “Rules to be observed when a lady wishes to enter a pew in which gen tlemen are already seated: Let the lady advance one pace beyond the pew. halt about face and salute. The pew will be vacated by the gentlemen by a flnnk movement “The squad should rise simultan eously when tho lady presents herself, and'face outward—then deploy into the aisle, the head man facing the lady, the others passing to his rear, when if necessary, the line will be perfected up and down the aisle by right or left counter march, as the case may re quire, tho right in front “Tlie lady, when the way is clear, will salute again, and advance to her position in tho pew, after which the gentlemen will break from the rear obliquely and resume their places. “Parties performing this evolution have- possession of the aisle until it is j completed, and none others will inter j fere. “(Signed) John F. F.. Sexton.” Things went straight after that. Behind the Tlmea. "Young man,” said the adored one's father In a business-like way, ••I don’t care anything about your an cestry, and as for your financial stand ing, I find it very satisfactory." ••In deed. n’s very kind of you. sir; I’m grateful-” ••As I was saying when you interrupted me. ” continued the old man. in a tone almost severe. • -I don’t care about those things and your character and habits seem to be quite worthy of approval." "You can’t know how glad I am to have pleased you. ” began the happy lover of such a father's daughter, only to be shut off with: "I am considering the matter of offering you a partnership in our firm." "You overwhelm me." "But there is one question I wish to ask you—and I want a candid answer." “Anything anything!’’ assented the bewildered youth joyfully. ••!„ there any tendency to insanity in your family?” "Not a trace, not a trace." was the prompt reply of the delighted chap who had been half fearing some awkward inquiry. The look of pleased enthusiasm that had pervaded tlie prospective father-in-law's face vanished. He seemed utterly crushed. *