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About The Loup City northwestern. (Loup City, Neb.) 189?-1917 | View Entire Issue (Feb. 3, 1899)
MY POOR WIFE. BY J. P. SMITH. mmmmmmrnmmmmmmmmm m. mm. *• A H A JLA AAAJ AAAIIA • JL*.« CHAPTEIl XVIII.—(Continued.) "I made cautious Inquiries, and found to my surprise that my miser able Identity wait quite lout. I had given no hint, uttered no namo during my stay there, that would lead to dis covery. I learned that the clothes I wore when taken up by the police were mere rags of the coarsest, most loathsome kind, and u bit of soiled pa per bearing the name 'Elizabeth Thompson’ found In the pocket of the dress served as my certificate of bap tism, and so Elizabeth Thompson I re mained to all who met mo during those seven years. When and how my clothes were changed and stolen, as they undoubtedly were, I don’t remem ber. After three years I was dis charged as cured, and, as I hud shown some capability for nursing during an epidemic that visited tbo asylum, a kind nun who had charge of the Cath olic ward offered to get me a place as attendant In a hospital, where I re mained some time.” ‘‘And you never thought of me— never longed to see me, to know how I—’’ She laughed bitterly, as she waved «he eager Interruption aside, with a gesture of pain. ‘‘Never thought of youl Ah, you will never know how you filled my life, can never understand what I felt—and suffered! I knew you must believe me dead, and I knew the best thing for your happiness, your peace of mind, was to let you remain in that belief. I struggled to keep away from you, to learn nothing about you; but, when nursing a patient whom I casually heard had lately been In do mestic service In the neighborhood of Colworth, I could not resist the temp tation of questioning her. From her I learned, Paul, that Mr. Dennys of Colworth was married to a Miss Stop ford, with whom he had Inherited a large fortune, that he was very happy and prosperous and the father of three beautiful children. • j nis news anayea an my aouDts, drove every lingering spark of hope and happiness from my future. I begged the reverend mother who had procured me the place in the hospital to accept me as a novice; but she hesi tated for some time, knowing of the taint in my blood. However, after a couple of years, seeing no sign of a relapse, and getting a very favorable opinion of my case from the asylum doctors, I was received into the con vent, and on application allowed to join the mission going to New Zea land. "We were to have sailed next week, and as the time drew near a terrible restlessness came over me, a longing so intense to breathe the air you breathed once more, that I felt I could never be a useful and contented servant of Heaven unless my longing were gratified. I appealed to the rev erend mother, and she with her usual goodness gave her consent. I arrived at dusk that—that blessed night, in tending only to say a prayer for you and yours at the cross preserving my memory, and then steal away as I had come. "At the station I saw your brother accidentally, believing him to be you —his features are wonderfully like what yours once were. I found to my utter bewilderment, and I think relief, that my love was dead—completely dead, that Edith’s husband was noth ing to me. "I wandered out, pondering the meaning of this discovery, and saw you stretched across my grave. At the first sound of your voice, at the first glance Into your worn altered face—ah, beloved, I knew that I was not free, and could never bo, no mat ter what gulf divided us. I tried to save you as I thought—to leave you; but—but—” CHAPTER XIX. She stopped a little hysterically; and he laid bis hand on her lips. Presently the lifted It away, and »uld with eager wlstfulnesa— "Hut you loved her, Paul, ulster-in law or not; you never ran explain that away. No no; do not try! You want ed to marry her before you met me. 1 urn sure of It. You loved her—you wanted to marry her once," ahe re peated monotonously, "Yea. yes, 1 wanted to marry her once. Listen, listen to me Helen! I was a mere boy, home front an out shirt station In India, where 1 never saw a woman's face. I was lonely and sad; ahe was kind and beautiful, and did everything In her power to fasci nate and enslave me. How could I help falling in the trap? I left her In a stale of melodramatic despair, which 1 now know waa only skin deep, though I believed at the time ahe had dealt me a Ufa-wound. •*| met you. wa ware married and apent all rnontha together abroad. Ah. Helen, 1 did not understand until long afterwards how happy those sla months were, bow thoroughly they had made you part of my Ufa. the vary essence of my rontent and hap pines*, for I was happy; hut blind, ruiiMitol dolt that I was, I attributed my contented stale uf I tag to my uwu aeltahaeaa and generosity la marrying you, and accepted as my due your de votion to me Writ, wall, I waa pun lahad, cruelly punished for II nil. I lived W Unger ever every day. every hour of those six month* with a yearn ing passion, a sickening remorse that left those lines you see on my face, and streaking my hair with gray be fore I had reached the prime of life. “When wo returned she came across my path again, and necessity compell ed her to confide a secret to me. When I learned by It how shamefully she had been treated, I believed I had mis judged her cruelly, and wan only eager to offer reparation in my power. I felt that no sacrifice or exertion I could make would atone for the Irre parable wrong done her by one of my name, and—" “Your brother Arthur, you mean; he had—” “He had forced her—an Ignorant thoughtless girl of sixteen to marry him secretly when she was staying with an Invalid aunt In London.” “Of sixteen!” she exclaimed eager ly. "You mean that she—she was your brother's wife before I left you— all—all that time she was with us, your brother’s wife?” "Yes, yes. At first the excitement, and adventure had pleased her, but later on, when she came to know Ar thur’s true character and mode of his life—how ho had squandered his for tune, was shunned by honest men and respectable women when her uncle, who had heard some rumor of a child ish attachment between tho pair, In formed her that, if she exchanged an other word with Arthur, he would not only alter hlu will and leave her pen niless, but would expel her from his home, her complacency changed to a state of misery and almost unbearable suspense, which by degrees taught her to hate the cause of her selfish ter ror, and made his existence a posi tive nightmare to her. ai last, auer a stormy interview Arthur consented to emigrate to Aus tralia, pledging his word to remain there until the General should die, and Edith’s Inheritance be quite safe. “He sailed, hut after a time tiring of Colonial life, broke his solemn promise, and a month after our arriv al at Colwortb he turned up at South ampton, and Edith in her terror of discovery confided her secret to me, Implored me to help her and induce my brother to return to Australia at once. “I promised to help her by every means In my power, wrote at once to my brother, begging him to leave; but he refused point blank until he had had at least one Interview with his wife, whom, with all his faults, I be lieve he truly loved, as his conduct within the last seven years has amply proved. Seeing he was not to be shak en, we arranged that the meeting should take place at Colworth, where there would be less chance of detec tion. It was in vain. I begged Edith to let you share the secret; she was inflexible on that point. Her motive for that reserve at the time I thought trivial and unreasonable; but I have since fathomed the terrible overween ing vanity and heartlessness of the woman, and can now understand It perfectly. She was jealous of you, my darling; that I should have so quick ly recovered from her wanton attack was a stab her vanity resented bit terly; she saw more clearly than I could see myself—dull fool!—how thoroughly happy I was, how dear you were to me; and so she set about, with a thousand nameless, almost In tangible wiles and artifices, to wreck the happiness of a man who was shel tering and protecting her, fighting to preserve her fortune and honor. With broken, half-stifled hints and lnun does, she gave me to understand that I would have been her choice had I spoken long ago, before my brother tried by every means in power to wean me from your influence, to force on me the fact that 1 had made a tremen dous sacrifice in marrying you, that my chivalrous and tender bearing to wards you awoke in her feelings that made her own wretched fate almost unbearable, and at the same time, I presume, from what I've heard, that you, my poor darling, did not escape her “Paul, that time when you left me alone with her, when you went to Lon don-” “To meet her husband - yes?" “She told me not at once, you know, but by degree* It—It took three days, Paul that you - you had loved her passionately for years, that you bad proposed to her a few days before you met me, that, even after her first refusal, you had followed Iter about Ijondon, trying to make h«r change her mlud, and that, falling that, you you had rushed back to Ire land In wrath and despair, and and married me " “She told you that the Jade*** “Not boldly, as I tell you now, hut with little hints aud Jokes, half laugh ing sighs that were almost worse** “My poor brother’ Well, my darl ing. the ead came You followed u* that wight, and saw the meeting ha tween husband and wife " “Paul. Paul! You mean It was tori you I saw holding her In your arutt. Imploring her ta fly f* "No It was Arthur We were more alike then than now, love, and I Hid teat him my big gray ulster, for be complained of the cold. The the mis take waa natural, but. ub. bow awful la It* soaaeoueacea to you had h.a“* "Go on—oh, go on!" she cried breathlessly. "When convinced of your terrible death, brain fever set In, and for some months I was unconscious of mr less I recovered, rose from my sick hod wretched In heart and body, the love, hope, happiness of my life buried In your grave. I loft Europe—traveled aimlessly In Asia and America for six years. In the meantime the old Gen eral had died suddenly a few weeks after your disappearance, leaving his niece sixty thousand pounds In bard cash, but the Hall and surrounding property to a male relative. "Edith married Arthur publicly al most at once, and they settled down at Colworth, renting the place from me. A few months ago my brother, who Is now a most exemplary rdember of so ciety, wrote asking me If I would soil my interest In It, and let them entail it on their eldest son, as It was my avowed Intention not to marry again. I could not make up my mind, and came home to settle the business. "A few days ago at the I^anghnm I met my brother and his wife for the first time since their second marriage, and ho persuaded me to try to visit the old place again. I came down with them, and walked across the fields to the cross which bore your name. When I saw the familiar spot, the house among the trees, the cruel mill, heard the mournful rustic of the leaves and the ripple of the water, all the old pain broke out as fiercely as on the day I lost you. I threw myself upon your grave, call ing out your name. Your voice an swered me, I looked up, and naw you, Helen, standing In the moonlight before me." Two months after her Installation ut Colworth, Mrs. Arthur Dennys, her lord and master, nursery, horses, car riages, lackeys, and maids were storming the sleepy country station again, enrouto for a Sydenham villa residence, where she still bemoans the ill luck of her eldest horn, who will never now Inherit Colworth. (THE END.) A GREAT FRENCH ETCHER. Would Hare Ilaan a Fin* Painter bat for Color lilludnoM. Charles Meryon—born In 1821—was brought up to the navy, going first In 1837 to the naval school at Brest, aays Pall Mall Gazette. As a youth, he Balled round the world. He touched ut Athens; touched at tb then savage coa«ts of New Zealand; made sketches, a few of which, In days when most of his greater work was done, he used as material for some of his etchings. Art even then occupied him, and deep ly Interested aa he soon got to be In It, he seems to have had a notion that It was less dignified than the profes sion of the navy, and after awhile ho chose deliberately the less dignified— because it was the less dignified. He would have us believe so, at any rate; he wished his father to believe so. And In 1845, having served creditably and become a lieutenant, he resigned his commission. A painter he could not be. The gods, who had given him, even in his youth, a poetic vision and a firmness of hand, had denied him the true sight of color; and 1 remember seeing hanging up In the salon of M. Hurty, who knew him, a large, Impres sive pastel of a ship cleaving her way through wide, deep waters, and the sea was red and the sunset sky was green, for Meryon was color blind. He would have to be an engraver. He entered the workroom of one M. Blery, to whom In after times, as his wont was, he engraved some verses of his writing—appreciative verses, sincere and unfinished—‘‘a tol, Blery, mon mailre.” The etchings of Zeeman,the Dutchman, gave him the desire to etch. He copied with freedom and Interest several of Zeeman’s neat little plates, and addressed him with praises, on another little copper, like the one to Blery—"a Zeeman, polntre des mat* lots.” AFRAID OF THE CLASS EYE. .Ispaueie Coolies Would Not Rsrrs tbs Owner of It. A year or two ago an artist from San Francisco who wore a glass eye came to Yokohama and established himself In a little bungalow on the out skirts of the city, says the Yorkvllle Yeoman. The weather was extremely warm, and before the stranger had be como settled he was besieged by a number of coolies who wanted to gat the Job of fanning him at night. The artists looked over the applicants and finally selected an old man who brought excellent recommendations from his last employer. When It was time to retire the artist took out his glass eye, laid It on the stand at hts bedside and went to bed. The old man picked up his fan and the 8an Fran cisco man was soon asleep. He slept peacefully for an hour or two, when he was awakened by a chorus of buss ing insects about his head. He looked about him and found that the man whom he had hired to fan him was gone The next morning when he went In search of another coolie he was amused to discover that no one would work tor him. He was looked upon a* a wlsard and worker of .nlracles with whom It was unsafe to be sl»u». The old man had goue among his friends and told how the Californian had taken out his eye at night and laid It on n »tan l in order that he might watch his •riant at night and see that he kept hla fan in motion, The old coolie a •lory created such excitement that the .■Ian Francisco man was never able te get another Japanesa to fan him after that. 1‘aeeimlsl I tell you the world la goiag la the devil optimist Well. | tee you a re goiag the way of the world. TAL MAGE’S SERMON 'A SUMMER-HOUSE TRAGEDY." SUNDAY'S SUBJECT. from 1IL, IS, m Fallow*: “Hat Wb«o tlM Cblldrwa of IitmI Cried Colo It* Lord. I ho Lord Botood Thom Up • Deliverer. Blind, the don of derm." Ehud was a ruler In Israel. He was left-handed, and, what was peculiar about the tribe of Benjamin, to which he belonged, there were In It seven hundred left-handed men, and, yet, so dexterous had they all become in the use of the left hand, that the Bible says they could sling stones at a halr's breadth, and not miss. Well, there was a king by the name of Eglon, who was an oppressor of Israel. He Im posed upon them a most outrageous tax. Ehud, the man of whom 1 first spoke, had a divine commission tp de stroy that oppressor. He came, pre tending that ho was going to pay the tax, and asked to see King Eglon. He was told ho was In the Bummer-house, the place to which the king retired when it was too hot to sit in tho palace. This summer-house was a place surrounded by llowers, and trees, and springing fountains, and warbling birds. Ehud entered the rammer houso and said to King Eglon that ho had a secret errand with him. Imme diately all the attendants were waved out of tho royal presence. King Eglon rises up to receive tho messenger. Ehud, the left-handed man, puts his left hand to his right side^pulls out a dagger, and thrusts Eglon through un til the haft went In after tho blade. Eglon falls. Ehud comes forth to blow a trumpet of liberty amidst the moun tains of Ephraim, and a great host Is marshaled, and proud Moab submits to the conqueror, and Israel Is free. Bee, O Lord, let all thine enemies perish! So, O Lord, let all thy friends tri umph! I learn first from this aueject tne power of left-handed men. There are tome men who, by physical organiza tion, have aa much strength in their left hand as in their right hand, but there ia something in the writing of this text which implies that Ehud had some defect in bis right hand which compelled him to use hia left. Oh, the power of left-handed men! Genius is often self-obaervant, careful of Itself, not given to much toll, burning incense to its own aggrandizement; while many a man, with no natural endow ments, actually defective in physical and mental organization, has an ear neatneaa for the right, a patient indus try, an all-consuming perseverance, which achieve marvels for the king dom of Christ. Though left-handed, a3 Ehud, they can strike down a sin as great and imperial as Eglon. I have Been men of wealth gathering about them all their treasures, snuff ing at the cause of a world lying in wickedness, roughly ordering Lazarus off their doorstep, sending their dogs, not to lick his sores, but to bound him off their premises; catching all the pure rain of God's blessing into the stagnant, ropy, frog-inhabited pool of their own selfishness—right-handed men, worse than useless—while many a man with large heart and little purse, has, out of his limited means, made poverty leap for Joy, and started an Influence that overspans the grave, and will swing round and round the throne of God, world without end: Amen. Ah, me! it is high time that you left handed men, who have been longing for this gift, and that eloquence, and the other man's wealth, should take your left hand out of your pockets. Who made all these railroads? Who set up all these cities? Who started all these churches, and schools, and asylums? Who has done the tugging, and running, and pulling? Men of no wonderful endownments, thousands of them acknowledging themselves to be left-handed, and yet they were earnest, and yet they were determined, and yet they were triumphant But I do not suppose that Ehud, the first time he took a sling in his left hand, could throw a stone at a hair's* breadth, aud not miss. 1 suppose it was practice that gave him the won derful dexterity. Oo forth to your spheres of duty, and be not discour aged if, in your first attempts, you miss the mark. Ehud missed it. Take another stone, put it carefully into the sling, swing it around your head, take better aim, aud the next time you will strike the center. The first time a mason rings bis trowel upon the brick he does not expect to put up a perfect wail. The first time a carpenter sends the plane over a board, or drives a bit through a beam, he does not expect to irake perfect execution. The first time a boy attempts a rhyme, he does not expect to chime a "Lalla Itookb," or a "Lady of the Lake.** Do not be sur prised if, In your first efforts at doing good, you are not very largely success ful. Understand that usefulness Is an art. a science, a trade. There was an oculist performing a very difficult op eration on the human eye. A young doctor stood by aud said: "llow easily you do that; It don't seem to cause you any trouble at all." “Ah," said the old oculist, "it la very raay now, but I •polled a hatful of eyes to learn that.” He not surprised if It takes some prac tice before we rea help men to moral eye sight, and bring them to e vision of the Cross. Lift banded men. to the work* Teh# the tioepel for a sling, and faith aad repentance for the smooth stone from the brook; take sure elm Cod dlr*«t the weapon, aad great Oollatks will tumble before you When Uarlbeldl wee gulag out to battle, be told bis troops wbat be wanted them to do, aad after be bed described whet he wealed them te do. they said, “Well, general, what are you going to give us for all this?" ‘'Well,’’ he replied, “I don’t know what else you will get, but you will get hunger, and cold, and wounds, and death. How do you like It?" His men stood before him for a little while In silence, and then they threw up their hands and cried, “We are the men! we are the men!” The Lord Jesus Christ calls you to his service. I do not promise you an easy time In this world. You may have persecutions, and trials, and misrepresentations, but afterward there comes an eternal weight of glory, and you can bear the wounds, and the bruises, and the mis representations, If you can have the reward afterward. Have you not enough enthusiasm to cry out, “We are the men! We are the men!” • • • I learn from this subject that death comes to the summer-house. Eglon did not expect to die In that line place. Amidst all the flower-leaves that drifted like summer snow Into the window; In the tinkle and dash of the fountains; In the sound of a thousand leaves fluting on one tree-branch; In the cool breeze that came up to shake feverish trouble out of the king's locks —there was nothing that spake of death, but there he died! In the win ter. when the snow is a shroud, and when the wind Is a dirge, It Is easy to think of our mortality; but when the weather Is pleasant, and all our surroundings are agreeable, how diffi cult It Is for us to appreciate the truth that we arc mortal! And yet my text teaches that death does sometimes come to the summer-house. He Is blind, and cannot see the leaves. He Is deaf, and cannot hear the fountains. Oh, If death would ask us for victims, we could point him to hundreds of peo ple who would rejoice to have him come. Push back the door of that hovel. Look at that little child—cold, and sick, and hungry. It has never heard the name of Clod but In blas phemy. Parents Intoxicated, stagger ing around Its straw bed. Oh, Death there Is a mark for thee! ITp with It Into the light! Before those little feet stumble on life's pathway, give them rest. • • • Here Is a father In mld-llfe; hi* coming home at night la the signal for mirth. The children rush to the door, and there are books on the evening stand, and the hours pass away on glad feet. There Is nothing wanting In that home. Religion Is there, and sacrifices on tho altar morning and night. You look In that household and eay, "I cannot think of anything happier. I do not really believe the world Is so sad a place as some peo ple describe It to be." The scene changes. Father is sick. The doors must be kept shut. The death-watch chirps dolefully on tho hearth. The children whisper and walk softly where once they romped. Passing tho house late at night, you see the quick glancing of lights from room to room. It Is all over! Death in the summer house! Here Is an aged mother—aged, but not Infirm. You think you will have the joy of caring for her wants a good while yet. As she goes from house to bouse, to children and grandchil dren, her coming Is a dropping of sun light in the dwelling. Your children see her coming through the lane and they cry, "Oradmother’s come!" Care for you has marked up her face with many a deep wrinkle, and her back stoops with carrying your burdens. Home day she is very quiet. She says she Is not sick, but something tells you you will not much longer have a mother. She will sit with you no more at the table nor at the hearth. Her soul goes out so gently you do not ex actly know tho moment of Its going. Fold the hands that have done so many kindnesses for you right over the heart that has beat with love for you since before you were born. Let the pilgrim rest. She Is weary. Death in the summer-house! Gather about us what we will of comfort and luxury. When tho pale messenger comes he does not etop to look at the architecture of the house before he comes In; nor. entering, docs ho wait to examine the pictures we have gathered on the wall; or, bend ing over your pillow, ho does not stop to see whether there Is color In the cheek, or gentleness In the eye, or In telligence In the brow. But what of that? Must we stand forever mourn ing among the graves of our dead? No! No! The people In Bengal bring cages of birds to the graves of their dead, and then they open the cages, and the birds go singing heavenward. So I would bring to the graves of your dead all bright thoughts and congrat ulations. and bid them sing of victory and redemption. I stamp on the bot tom of the grave, and It breaks through Into the light and the glory of heaven. The ancients used to think that the straits entering the Bed Sea were very dangerous places, and they supposed that every ship that went through those straits would be de stroyed, and they were In the habit of putting on weeds of mourning for those who bad gone on that voyage, as though they were actually dead. Do you know what they railed those straits? They called them the "Gate of Tears." I stand at the gate of tears, through which many of your loved ones have gone, and I want to tell you that all are not shipwrecked that have gone through those etralta Into the great ocean stretching out be yond. The sound that routes from that other shore on atilt nights when we are wrapped In prayer makes me thluk that the departed are not dead. We ere the dead we who toll, we who weep, we who eta we are the dead. How my heart aches tor human sor row ! This sound of breaking hearts that I hear all about me' this last look of fa«ee that will never brighten *s*ie! this last hiss of lips that never will (peak again' this widowhood and orphanage! oh, when will the day of Mies he gene? After the sharpest winter, the spring dismounts from the shoulder of • southern gale and puts Its warm hand upon the earth, and In Ita palm there comes the grass, and there come the flowers, and God reads over the poetry of bird and brook and bloom, and pronounces It very good. What, my friends. If every winter had not Its spring, and every night Its day, and every gloom Its glow, and every bitter now Its sweet hereafter? If you have been on the sea, you know, as the ship passes in the night, there Is a phosphorescent track left behind It; and as the waters roll up they toss with unimaginable splendor. Well, across this great ocean of human trouble Jesus walks. Ob, that In the phosphorescent track of his feet we might all follow and be Illumined! There was a gentleman In a rail car who saw in that same car three pas sengers of very different circum stances. The first was a manioc. Hw was carefully guarded by his attend ants; his mind, like a ship dismasted, wob beating against a dark, desolate coast, from which no help could come. The train stopped, and the man was taken out Into the asylum, to waste away, perhaps, through years of gloom. The second passenger was a culprit. The outraged law has seized on him. As the cars jolted, the chains rattled. On his face were crime, de pravity and despair. The train halt ed, and he was taken out to the peni tentiary, to which ho had been con demned. There was the third passen ger, under far different circumstances. She was a bride. ISvery hour was as gay as a marriage bell. Llfo glit tered and beckoned. Her companion was taking her to his father’s house. The train halted. The old man was there to welcome her to her new home, arid bis white locks snowed down upon her as he sealed his word with a futher’s kiss. Quickly we fly toward eternity. We will soon be there. Somo leave this life condemned culprits, and they refuse a pardon. Oh, may It be with us, that, leaving this fleeting life for the next, we may find our Father ready to greet us to our new home with him forever! That will be a mar riage banquet. Father’s welcome! Father’s bosom! Father’s kiss! Heaven! Heaven! 8TOR YETTES. Canon MacColl tells an amusing story. "A friend of mine,” says ths canon, “once shared the box seat with the driver of the stage coach In York shire, and, being a lover of horses, he talked with the coachman about his team, admiring one horse In particular. 'Ah,' said the coachman, ‘but that ’oss ain’t as good ns he looks; he’s a sci entific ’oss.’ ‘A scientific horse!’ ex claimed my friend. ‘Wbat on earth do you mean by that ?’ ‘I means,’ replied Jehu, ‘a ’oss as thinks be knows a deal more nor he does.’ ” A soldier who served in Cuba re lates that one night, after a march, a few of the boys pitched their tents close to the tent of an officer of an other company. The boys were talk ing quite loudly, as taps had not been sounded. ‘‘Hush up out there!" shout ed the officer, angrily. ‘‘Who are you?” asked one of the boys. "I’ll show yon who I am If I come out there!” was the answer. The talking continued, and out came the officer. His anger was great, and he threatened to report the me:, to their colonel, winding up with, ’’Don’t you know enough to obey an officer?” “Yes,” replied one of the boys, “and wo should have obeyed you if you had had shoulder-straps on your voice.” When the lord mayor of Dublin pre sented to Charles Stuart Parnell from the Irish people the Parnell tribute, not less than $185,000, his lordship nat urally expected to make a speech. The lord mayor having been announced, says Barry O’Brien in hla biography of the Irish leader, he bowed and began: “Mr. Parnell-” “I believe,” said Mr. Parnell, “you have got a check for me.” The lord mayor, somewhat sur prised at this interruption, said, “Yes,” and was about to recommence his speech, when Parnell broke in: "Is it made payable to order and crossed?” The lord mayor again answered In the affirmative and was resuming the dis course, when Parnell took the check, folded It neatly and put it in his waist coat pocket. This ended the inter view. buried cities. Many of u«, no doubt, often wonder bow it ia possible for the sites of great cities to be covered many feet deep with heaps of debris and earth, so that after two or three thousand years tha levels of the original streets caa be reached only by excavation. The explanations vary with the lo calities. The lower portions of Homo have been filled up by the Inundations of the Tiber; the higher by the decay, destruction or burning of large build ings. The ancient builders rarely took pains to excavate deeply, even for a large structure. When Nero rebuilt Home be simply leveled the debris and erected new houses ou the ruins of the old. Karthquaks* are responsible for much of the destruction wrought round th« shores of the Mediterranean, for there was a current superstition that an earthquake came as a special cures on a place, and after one of these visitations ths locality was often totally deserted. In places of rich soils earthworms bring to the surfnen aa Inch or two of ground every year, while the winds, hearing clouds of dust, contribute tkelr share to the work of burying ths ruins of de serted title*. A pawnbroker may be dissipated, bud See always willing to tabs the pledge.