CHAPTER II.—(CoNTrsvBDl) "I fancy I shall never marry,” said Carriston, looking at me with his soft, dark eyes. “You see, a boy who has waited for years expecting to die, doesn't grow up with exactly the same feelings as other people. I don’t think I shall ever meet a woman I can care for enough to make my wife. No, I expect my cousin will be Sir Ralph jyet." v I tried to laugh him out of his mor bid ideas. “Those who live will see,” $ said. “Only promise to ask me to your wedding, and better still, if you live in town, appoint me your family doctor. It may prove the nucleus of that West end practice which it is the dream of- every doctor to establish.” I have already alluded to the strange beauty of Carriston’s dark eyes. As soon as companionship commenced be tween us those eyes became to me, jfrom scientific reasons, objects of curi osity, on account of the mysterious ex pression-which I at times detected in them. Often and often they wore a look the like to which, I imagine,' is found only in the eyes of a somnam bulist—a look which one feels certain fs intently fixed upon something, yet Upon something beyond the range of one's own vision. During the first two or three days of our newborn intimacy I found this eccentricity of Carriston’s positively startling. When now and then I turned to him, and found him staring with all his might at nothing, my eyes were compelled to follow the direction in which his own were bent. It was at first impossible to dlyest one's-self of the belief that something should be there to justify so fixed a gaze. However, as the rapid growth of our friendly intercourse soon showed me that he was a boy of most ardent poetic temperament—perhaps even more a poet than an artist—I laid at the door of the muse these absent looks and recurring flights into vacancy. We were at the Fairy Glen one morn ing, sketching, to the best of our abil ity, the"swirling stream, the gray rocks, and the overhanging trees, the last just growing brilliant with autumnal tints. So beautiful was everything ’ around that for a long time I worked, idled, or dreamed in contented silence. Carris ton had set up his easel at some little distance from mine. At last I turned to see how hi3 sketch was progressing. He had evidently fallen into one of his brown studies, and, apparently, a hard er one than usual. His brush had fallen from his fingers, his features were immovable, and his strange dark eyes were absolutely riveted upon a large rock in front of him, at which he gazed as intently as if his hope of heaven depended upon seeing through it. He seemed for the while oblivious to things mundane. A party of laughing, chattering tourist girls scrambled down the rugged steps, and one by one passed in front of him. Neither their pres ence nor the inquisitive glances they cast on his statuesque face roused him from his fit of abstraction. For a moment I wondered if the boy took opium or some other narcotic on the sly. Full of the thought I rose, crossed over to him, and laid my hand upon his shoulder. As he felt my touch he came to himself, and looked up at me in a dazed, inquiring way. “Really, Carriston,” 1 said, laughing ly, “you must reserve your dreaming fits until we are in places where tour ists do not congregate, or you will be thought a madman, or a least a poet.” Ho made no reply. He turned away from me impatiently, even rudely; then, picking up his brush, went on with his sketch. After a while he seemed to recover from his pettishness, and we Bpent the remainder of the day as pleasantly as nsual. As we trudged home in the twilight, he said to me in an apologetic, almost penitent way: “I hope I was not rude to you Just now?*’ "When do you mean?” I asked, hav ing almost forgotten the trivial inci dent. “When you woke me from what you called my dreaming?” "Oh, dear no. You were not rude. If you had been, it waa hiii tfL' penalty due to my piea'jjpptton. flights of genius attbitfdbe respected* not check$M0^j*aterial hand.” ' T^ai^jKJhsense; I am not a gen tpafSadyou must forgive me for my wfenecs,” said Carriston simply. After walking some distance in silence, he spoke again. “I wish when you are with me you would try and stop me front getting into that state. It does me no good.” - Seeing he was in earnest, I promised to;do my best, and Was curious enough to ask him whither his thoughts wan dered during those abstracted mo ments. ”1 can scarcely tell you,” he said. Presently he asked, speaking with hesitation, “I suppose you never feel that under certain circumstances—cir cumstances which you cannot explain —you might be able to see things which are invisible to others?” “To see things. What things?” k “Things, as I said, which no one eloe ®o see* You must know there are >ple who possess this power,” ,• know that certain people have as d they possess what they call sec ohd-,?ght; but the assertion is too ab surd \ waste time in refuting." “YfejpL said Carriston dreamily, “I teWaTthat if I did not strive to avoid it so tie such power would come to me.” “Ybu are too ridiculous, Carriston,” i I said,, "Some people see what others | ■ • v - \ don’t, because they have longer sight. You may, of course, imagine anything. But your eyes—handsome eyes they are, too—contain certain properties, known a<3 humors and lenses, therefore In order to see-” “Yes, yes,” Interrupted Carriston; “I know exactly all you are going to 3ay. You, a man of science, ridicule every thing which breaks what you are pleased to call the law of nature. Yet take all the unaccountable tales told. Nine hundred and ninety-nine you ex pose to scorn or throw grave doubts upon, yet the thousandth rests on evi dence which can not be upset or dis puted. The possibility of that one proves the possibility of all.” “Not at all; but enough for your argument,” I said, amused at the boy’s wild talk. "You doctors,” he continued with that delicious air of superiority so often assumed by laymen when they are in good health, “put too much to the credit of diseased imagination." “No doubt; it’s a convenient shelf on which to put a difficulty. But go on.” “The body is your province, yet you. can’t explain why a cataleptic patient should hear a watch tick when it is placed against his foot.” “Nor you; nor any one. But perhaps it may aid you to get rid of your rub bishing theories if I tell you that cata lepsy, as you understand it, is a disease not known to us; in fact, it does not exist.” He seemed crestfallen at hearing this. “But what do you want to prove?” I asked. “What have you yourself seen?” “Nothing, I tell you. And I pray I may never see anything.” After this he seemed inclined to shirk the subject, but I pinned him to it. I was really anxious to get at the true state of his mind. In answer to the lead ing questions with which I plied him, Carriston revealed an amount of super stition -which seemed utterly childish and out of place beside the intellectual faculties which he undoubtedly pos sessed. Yet I was not altogether amused by his talk. His yild arguments and wilder beliefs made me fancy there must be a weak spot somewhere in his brain—even made me fear lest his end might be madness. The thought made me sad; for, with the exception of the eccentricities which I have mentioned, I reckoned Carriston the pleasantest friend I had ever made. His amiable nature, hie good looks, and perfect breeding had endeared the young man to me; so much so that I resolved, dur ing the remainder of the time we should spend together, to do all I could toward taking the nonsense out of him. My efforts were unavailing. I kept a sharp lookout upon him, and let him fall into no more mysterious reveries; but the curious idea that he possessed, or could possess, some gift above human nature, was too firmly rooted to be displaced. On all other subjects he argued fairly and was open to rea son. On this one point he was im movable. When I could get him to notice my attacks at all, his answer was: “You doctors, clever as you are with the body, know as little of psychology as you did three thousand years ago.” When the time came to fold-up my easel and return to the drudgery of life, I parted from Carriston with much re gret. One of those solemn, but often broken, promises to join together next year in another sketching tour passed between us. Then I went back to Lon don, and during the subsequent months, although i saw nothing of him, I often thought of my friend of the autitmn. III. N THE spring of 1865 I went down to Bournemouth to see, for the last time, an old friend who was dying of consumption. Dur ing a great part of the journey down I had for a traveling companion a well dressed gentleman of about forty years of age. re alone in the compartment, Iter interchanging some small -s, such as the barter of news glided into conversation. My raveler seemed to be an tntel iectfcatjlman, and well posted up in the the day. He talked fluently ly on various topics, and, judg his talk, must have moved in iety. Although I fancied his bore traces of hard living, and tll||ipation, he was not unprepos sess igjin appearance. The greatest fauii | 1$ his face were the remarkable thin iisi of the lips, and his eyes being a sh ilek'loser together than one cares to s $ With a casual acquaintance such peculiarities are of little moment, but f l* ijpy part I should not choose for a frf< idjone who possessed them, with out i Je trial and searching proof. time the English public were At much (interested in an important will case ' vf reverkm ph was then being tried. The to a vast sum of money de pendci||ipon the testator's sanity insan ty. duly I* from to: panloi i He as fcet questif ous Like most other people, we ussed the matter. I suppose, ae of my remarks, my com ulerstood that I was a doctor, me a good many technical and I described several curi of mania' which had come under my notice. He seemed greatly interested in the subject. "Yon must sometimes find it hard to say where sanity ends, and insanity begins.” he said, thoughtfully. “Yes. The boundary line is, in some instances, hard to detine. To give, in such a dubious case, an opinion which would satisfy myself, I would want to have known the patient at the time he was considered quite sane.” "To mark the difference?” j “Exactly. And to know the bent of i the character. For instance, there is a [ freind of mine. He was perfectly sane when last I saw him, but, for all I know, he may have made great prog ress the other way in the intervnl.” Then, without mentioning names, dates or places, I described Carrlston's peculiar disposition to my intelligent listener. He heard me with rapt in terest. v. "You predict he will go mad?” he said. ! "Certainly not. Unless something [ unforeseen arises he will probably live I and die as sane as you or I.” “Why do you fear him, then?” * “For this reason. I think that any sudden emotion—violent gflhf, for in stance—any unexpected anw crushing blow—might at once disturb the bal ance of his mind. Let his life run on in an even groove, and all will be well with him.” My companion was silent for a few moments. “Did you mention your friend's name?" he asked. I laughed. “Doctors never give names when they quote cases.” At the. next station my companion left the train. He bade me a polite adieu, and thanked me for the pleasure my conversation had given him. After wondering what station iii life he oc cupied 1 dismissed him from my mind. as one wno nan crossed iny pain :or a short time and would probably never dross it again. short time and would probably never Although I did not see Charles Car riston I received several letters from him during the course of the year. He had not forgotten our undertaking to pass my next holiday together. Early in the autumn, just as I was beginning to long with a passionate longing for open air and blue skies, a letter came from Carriston. He was now, he said, roughing it in the Western Highlands. He reminded me of last year’s promise. Could X get away from work now? Would I join him? If I did not care to visit Scotland, would I suggest some other place where he could Join me? Still, the scenery by which he was now surrounded was superb, and the accom modation he had secured, if not luxuri ous, fairly comfortable. He thought we could do no better. A postscript to his letter asked me to address him as Cecil Carr, not Charles Carriston. He had a reason for changing his name—a fool ish reason I should no doubt call It. When we met he would let me know it. This letter at once decided me to accept his invitation. In a week’s time my arrangements for leave of absence were complete, and I was speeding northward in the highest spirits, and well equipped with everything neces sary for my favorite holiday pursuit. I looked forward with the greatest pleasure to again meeting Carriston. I found him at Callendar waiting for me. The coach did not follow the route we were obliged to take in order to reach the somewhat unfrequented part of the country in which our tent was pitched, so my friend had secured the services of a primitive vehicle and a strong shaggy pony to bear us the re« mainder of the journey. • :to»( coxTixuau.t A College Student u Blnekamltli. At Cornell all the mechanical engi neering students have to learn seven trades. One of these trades, that of blacksmith, is very distasteful to some of the students, but it has to be learned all the same. One young fellow, who was unusually averse to soiling his hands, begged hard to be exempted from wearing the leather apron, but the profesor took special care that there was nothing lacking in thoroughness of his training at the forge. Last fall the student went to the professor and thanked him for being compelled to learn blacksmithlng. “You see," he said, “I am now superintendent of a mine away back in Colorado. Last summer our main shaft broke and there was no one in the mine but my self who could weld it. I didn’t like the Job, but took off my coat and weld ed that shaft. It wasn’t a pretty job, but she's running now. If I couldn't have done it I'd have had to pack that shaft on mule back and sent it 300 miles over the mountains to be fixed, and the mine would have had to shut down till It got back. My ability to mend that shaft raised me in the eyes of every man in the mine and the iS.iuired by the dilu tion process o 1 ration, and all the treafa is save A, 'as soon as the milk is fiiixed with cold water the separa tion goes on naturally while the farm er is attending to other duties.—Ex. Do not purchase trees of irresponsi ble parties. Be sure that the trees you buy are of first quality, and from a reputable nsmery. Tight bans save feed, EVOLUTION OF THE UMBRELLA From the Old-Time Whalebone Spread** to the Bow. Channel Steel. Forty yoara or so ago umbrellas wera made with stretchers or bows of whale bone. These bows were rather bulky In themselves, and they were apt to get a little permanent bend from long use so that they bulged when the umbrelln was rolled up; making the big, baggy umbrella, familiar, to. middle-aged and older people, and occasionally still seen, though on the stage oftener than In real life. With the introduction ot petroleum oil,into general use as an 11 lumlnatlng oil,.. and. the consequent very general abandonment of the use of whale oil came the decline of the whal ing industry. Fewer and fewer Teasels I went after whales, because there was less and less demand for the olL Of course, the supply, of whalebone de creased with the supply of oil, but the price did not,. nor. did the demand. There are still some uses for which, whalebone Is considered most desira ble, and with constant demand and de creasing supply the price of whalebone steadily advanced*, aa It has continued to do. Whalebone soon became toe oostly to permit of its further use for umbrella Btnetchera.. At first a slender, round, tempered steel rod. With these slenderer bows the umbrella could be more snugly rolled and the old baggy umbrella began ho disappear, and the modern, tight roller to take Ita place. Then came umbrella bows of light steel rolled in V shape, and then, in the quest for a still tighter roller, umbrella handles' were made of metal. The first tubing handles were made of brass. Steel would have been cheaper, but there had bean discovered no satisfac tory method of bracing steel tubes such as are used In umbrella handles. There Is such a method now, however, and umbrella handles of steel tnblng are now made In great numbers.- And nowadays many spreaders are made of steel, rolled channel-shaped. In croaa ’ section this spreader la shaped some thing like a capital letter E without * tongue, and the riba of the umbrella— the steel rods that run from the slid ing ferrule, or runner, aa It is called, on the handle of the umbrella, by means of which the umbrella la spread ; —are so attacned and adjusted to tho spreaders that they shut into the chan nels when the umbrella is closed. ITS LATTER-DAY DEGENERACY.. Tli* IlMbnllt b No Longer • Portly* Bee pec table Instrument* Ttie real old family umbrella haa gone out. Coll that Bllm, stuck-up, hf- i fected, attenuated thing a family um brella? Go away, says a writer In Lon-' don Queen. I remember the genuine family umbrella; it was kept in readi ness behind every front door; It waa n large, portly, heavy instrument. As an emblem of respectability it was highly esteemed In middle-class society; it waa serviceable as a tent in rainy weather;. It could be used as a weapon of offense and defense on occasion. I have seen a picture of an elderly gentleman keep ing off a footpad by means of this lethal umbrella. He made as it he would spear or prod the villain. Why, one prod would alone make a hole of six Inches diameter in that murderous car case. The nurse used to carry it, with, difficulty managing the baby and the ' umbrella; it went out to tea with the young ladies; the maid who "fetched’" them home took the umbrella with her.' It succeeded the lantern and the club formerly carried by the 'prentice wheat he escorted his mistress to the card, party after dark. I remember it, I say. There were three brothers who came Is the same school where I waa but a tiny little boy. They lived at some diey. tance and had to pass on their way to school through a stratum of inferior respectability. Every morning brought to these three brothers the delight and excitement of battle with the boys be longing to that Inferior respectability. To the eldest brother, who carried the really important weapon, the umbrella was exactly what his battle-ax was to the Lion Heart So he.raised it; so be wielded it; so he swung it; so he laid his enemies low to right and left of him, before him and behind him; while the other two, relying on the books tightly strapped, brought them to bear, with shrewd knocks and thwacks and poundings, on heads and shoulders and riba i. 'Twas a famous family umbrella—. green, too, if I remember aright. Ufa In tha Ueorfli Moan tain*. From the Ellljan Mountain SentineL —Mr. Henry Shepard waa in town Monday, and showed us the head of a squirrel which his little boy killed that a as quite a curiosity. It had only one ear, and its lower teeth had grown . upward into its upper-jaw and the up per teeth grown downward through its tongue into the lower jaw. It is a mystery how it lived, as it was impos sible for it to have opened its mouth. Cripple Creek’s Output. The total output of the Cripple Creek district from 1892 to 1895, inclusive, was 813,700,000. It is expected that this year’s output will reach 810,000,000, making a total of 823,700,000. It is claimed that of this year’s output $3, 500,000 will be net profit to tho owners. Market for Iiailroad Tie*. It takes each year 200,000 acres of forest to supply crossties for the rail roads of the United States. It takes : 15,000,000 ties to supply the demand, for which the contractors get on an aver age 35 cents apiece, making in the ag gregate 85,250,000. Tho Apparel Question* Little girl: “Do children keep oft growing after they get to heaven, mamma?” Mamma: “Yes, I suppose so.” ’ Then where do they get thotk I clothes?”—New York WoxML