1 , GUILTY?? 1 1 p inno srn | gl vr * By AMY BRAZIER. & « iff £- ♦ & $ 2- $ -<:- « x- x- ••:- - • -S -:•:- $ « * -£ -* -:|:- -:•:- & CHAPTER II.—(Continued » Poor IttUe Mrs Bouverle. having given up all idea of attending Ihe thryaaa’fce»um party at Lrdy Barry s la considerably surprised a ben. at •lexit S or lock, her son dvshes into the drawing rovm with speed aad ex ciatms: “The dogcart will be round in five minutes. Jump into your bonnet, mother mine, and we ll trot over to iisrryatown.'* Mrs Bouverie stands up. with a look of pleasure and grandest ion on her sweet uid fare. Any little attention i from George touches her heart * How good of you. my dear boy. to think of me* So swert of you. George!** i abe says, reach tug upon tiptoe to kiss hu brown cheek, pride and love in her : eyes. George had refeaed to gj to the party at Barrystown. He had made an ea- use. aad hia mother thinks, that. ; aenng her disappointment, be has re gretted hia decision and changed his mind “But are you sure. dear, you don't mind?*' »he asks her sweet eyes cn his fare. “It is good of you to give up your afternoon to take the old woman out.*' “Before you cared for me.” George whisper* softly. Th** lover* got to change, too." Tuenty minutes later a very spruce ; and well-groomed young mas. with a little tiny aid lady with a bonnet with violets in it sitting perched beside him. spins down the avenue and out of the gates of the Grange at a pace little abort of terrific. Mrs Bouverie is frightened, hut has every confidence in her son as a whip. "He is very fresh, dear. Isn't her- j she ventures to ask. as the chestnut performs various frantic evolutions. "Your aren't frightened, little moth- I er. are you?" George says. We must hurry along, you know, for we've a good hit to go; hot there's nothing to he afraid of." The chestnut is a rare good goer, and stead.** to his work presently; but It Is dark when they reach Barrys towa. "lSo good of you to come so far. dear Mrs Bouverie.** laid? Barry says, in s high-pitched, harsh voice; "and you have brought your eon How very de lightful! 1 know It is hard to get young men to do anything but hunt." The rooms are full. George Bou vene'a golden head rises out of the cr owd. How handsome he looks! Mrs. Seville, seated on a sofa amidst a bevy of friends, remarks withermgly tnat it Is a pity poor dear Mrs Bouverie has 1 a bad. unprincipled son "He i» breaking his mother’s heart." she adds, lowering her roice. "Poor thing* she told me herself that she has never known happteoas since he t>ok to gambling. His father, you know-** And here she lowered her voice still more, and shakes her head till the osprey in her headgear shakes like a field of barley warn the wind passe* over it. • My dear child, do you think your father will sanction such an engage ment for a moment? I have no power over you. Barbara—engage yourself as much ae you please; but I do not for one moment think your father will allow you to marry a young man tvho possesses nothing but debts. As for Mr. Bouverie. he may be very disin terested; but it is far more probable he imagines you have money. But I may as well tell you at once you will have no fortune if you marry contrary to your father's wishes.” "We could not help caring for each other." falters Barbara. "My dear, with that I have nothing to do. I am sorry for Sebastian. He has loved you for years, and it has been the dream of his life to make you his wife, but of course all that is at an end. Come. Barbara. I feel i sure dinner is ready, and Sebastian will not like to be kept waiting "— laying her hand on Barbara's arm. An 1 together ».h*y pass through count ies long, draughty corridors, Mr3. Saville sweeping along in her velvet gown. Inwardly furious at Barbara having dared to become engaged with | out her knowledge; for Barbara s for tuo - had b^en destined to build up the , Court and restore the Saville family to ' prosperity. Barbara, feeling as if she were in deep disgrace, walks beside the mas sive figure of her aunt, to confront Se , L’ustian with lowering brow and furi ous eyes. He and his mother exchange glances as they take their places an l tonight Barbara is strictly left out in ; the cold as far as conversation goes. .She do**s not car*—her thoughts ars 1 full of happiness. But in the evening Sabastian joins her as, sitting at the piano, she plays | dreamy music while Mrs. Saville slum bers peacefully. Sabastian's fingers closed on Bar bara's wrist with a clasp that is pain i ful ' Do you think I shall ever give you up to him?” he asks, fixing her with his strange, powerful gaze. “We Sa villes know how to keep our own!” I am a Saville, too!’ 'retorts Bar bara. shaking off his hand, "and you have no right to speak to me like that, Sebastian!" "Have 1 not?” he whispers, "I have the right of every man to try and win the woman he loves, and I will make you love me yet, Barbara!” ‘ Never!’ 'the girl exclaims, passion ately. “And I think you are cruel and cowardly.” "Cruel and cowardly? You shall unsay those words!” he breathes out fiercely, his face close to her scarlet cheek. "Barbara, your beauty mad dens me! I have looked upon you as mine for so long, and your father wishes you to marry me. He wrote to me himself." It won't be Mrs SaviUes fault If George Bouvene's failing* are aot magnified Into crimes George is looking for Barbara. Per Lap* abe ia in the tearoom, and thither he wend* hia way; and then to the conservatory, which ia of! the drawing room, and lit with lamp* to display the beauty of blossom* there. Yes. Barbara ia there, and Sebastian Is at her aide. Barbara's cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are sparkling with anger. Sebastian looks moved, too. out of hia usual cynical calm. torWis i face as George appears is a revelation, and the man s heart throbs. * You have come, the girl says soft ly .turning her bnck on her cousin and U -*k!ng up from beneath the brim of a black velvet picture hat trimmed with ostrich Upn "I thought you weren't coming “ 'Sebastian's face is white, and hit eyes g«eam. How dare Barbara treat him like that* ‘Will yon come bnck to my mother now** he says pointedly to her. "You have eeca all the chrysanthemum*" ‘1 am goiag to show them to Mr. B •overt#." Barbara says, with a .-mile that after all ia forced. "If you are tired of them. Sebastian. Mr. Bou verve will take rare of me " Without n word Sebastian SavUle waiks «g. and then nil Barbara's care lees. easy manner vanish*-,, her lip* tremble, and if the lashes hide her eyes It ts bemuse she is Striving to conceal the tosrs. • Hr was crus! to me." she falters. "George. 1 am afraid of him " They are alone, and be takes both her hands in his in n close clasp. "let ns announce our engagement Barbara, and give me the right to * hampkm yon “ "Mot yet." she whisper* "We must waft. Georgs, till I ftflV from father.' Bet that will be weeks and weeks. Barbara." be urge* "How am I to wait and nee Sebastian Sarilie perae c sting you?" "A faint smile curve* her lips. "It ts foolish of me. George, but I feel afraid of him. he Is so cold, so cruel." "lh»s be make love to you. Bar bara *“ Two troubled eyas look up at hln for a second. "Tan.” she whispers, very low. • George Bouverle ts young and pas sionate. "It 1* my right ~ he exclaims, "to let Selmstian know that you are mine, that yon have given your love to And. woman-like, Barbara loves the masterful tones of his voice. "I will tell my aunt myself." she sayn. "bat she will be dreadfully an gry. George. 1 know quite well Aunt jails means me to marry Sebastian. *aid so over and over, long be Her qvick blush finishes her sea She lifts her dark head with pride, “And am I to have no voice in the matter? Sebastian, you need not say any more; 1 have made my choice." “And so have I!" he says, with a ' ring of suppressed passion in his voice as he rises to his feet “Don’t think for one moment. Barbara, that I will give you up"—moving away across the room. The days that follow are unhappy enough. Barbara finds her engage ment ignored, and she herself under goes a sort of domestic boycotting. George arrives at the Court one aft ernoon and holds a short interview with Mrs. Saville. That lady gives him to understand pretty plainly that, without the consent of Barbara’s fath er. the name even of engagement la do* to be mentioned. "Barbara is under my charge, Mr Bouverie, and her father would never forgive me if she made an undesirable marriage. I may as well tell you at once he has other views for hia daugh ter!” George is furious; but what is the use of being angry? He and Barbara are treated as a pair of children, al lowed to play at being engaged if they choose, with the distinct understand ing that it can never come to any thing. "Of course I cannot prevent my niece promising to marry you.” Mrs. Savllle says, with great frankness, turning her heavy, expressionless face on George. "She is quite at liberty to engage herself to any one sho chooses; but I feel sure, Mr. Bouverie. you will have the good sense and taste to agree with me that, under the circumstances, it would be better for you not to visit at the Court until Barbara can hear from her father. You have written to him. I presume?" Yes. George has written, and colors up as he thinks of his letter, which he had found so hard to write, for he had so little to offer Barbara but his love. A kind of smile passes over Mrs. Saville’s face. “I suppose you have explained to Mr. Saville how you intend to sup port a wife?” she asks, with a degree of sarcasm. ”1 have two hundred a year.” says poor George, “and in course of time the Grange comes to me.” "Ah. yes. but I fear Mr. Saville may not take quite such a hopeful view as you do.” Which is undeniable, and Gorge feels that he can say nothing in re ply. Mrs. Saville writes herself to Tas mania by the next mail. Barbara watches her aunt as she sits at her writing table, her pen racing over the foreign notepaper. covering page after page abusing George, thinks Barbara indignantly. The letter is posted, and. greatest trial of all, Barbara’s love af fair is quietly ignored. George does not come any more to the Court. In honor he feels bound not to do so. And Mrs Buverie, coached by Mrs. Saville. also thinks it better not to ask Barbara to the Grange; so the lovers are forced to meet each other how and where they can. These stolen interviews are truly de lightful. and the young people build lovely castles in the air. and count the days till the letter can come from Tas mania. never doubting that the answer will be anything but favorable. (To be continued.) HORSES IN WARFARE. Eqalne Quadruped* Necewarf at the Front. The horse is not to become obso lete after all—that is. so long as there are wars. Automobiles and electric ears may drive him from town and country, but the army is still left for him. One thing that the present war in South Africa has emphasized is the value of mobility in troops. And mo bility can only come through mounted infantry, and mounted infantry needs horses. Here, incidentally, lies a new market for Canadian horses, and one that may not be unworthy of attention. The last official report of Edwin M. Stanton, secretary of war in President Lincoln's cabinet, gives some faint conception of the enormous consump tion of horses and mules entailed by active hostilities on a large scale dur ing such a Titanic war as that between the Northern and Southern states of the American Union, which lasted from April, 1861, to May, 1865. The report in question is dated Washing ton. March 1, 1865, and contains the following striking passage: “The sup ply of horses and mules to our armies has long been at the rate of 500 per day, which is also the average rate of their destruction. The cavalry of the army of the Potomac was twice re mounted during the first eight months of 1864. The resources of supply in this country were able to bear the im mense drains upon its horses and mules, and, judging from current pri ces, the stock shows no symptoms of exhaustion or diminution. An army in the field, well equipped with artillery, cavalry and trains, requires one horse or mule to every two men. The num ber of horses and mules in our armies is nearly equal.” If the calculation of Mr. Stanton, the American secretary of war in 1865, be correct, 100,000 British troops now en gaged in fighting the Boers would need 50,000 horses and mules to keep them going.—Philadelphia Times. Stationery of the Kaiser. Those persons who have been hon ored highly enough to get many let ters from the Emperor of Germany must be in a state of perpetual won der as to what kind of paper will be the next. The Kaiser is as particu lar and original in his choice of letter paper and envelopes as he is about battleships and trousers, drama and morals. The very latest things in the way of paper are beauties. They show the Reichsadler (the imperial eagle) in the corner with the imperial crown on his head. He roosts on a crowned Hohenzollern castle, from which there extends toward both corners of a paper a flowing ribbon with the German col ors. In one claw the eagle shows the yellow imperial standard, and in the other the purple flag of the Kings of Prussia. For use on board of the im perial yacht Hohenzollern the letter paper has the imperial eagle resting on the cross of the Order of the Red Eagle with the gold chain. Over and on both sides of the cross are the words “H. M. S. Hohenzollern” (His Majesty’s ship Hohenzollern).—New York Press. Detecting the Laugh. ■When the curtain had fallen on the last act the multitude mobbed the manager of the show. “Where,” they hoarsely clamored, “is the one continu ous laugh which you advertised?” “Search me!” protested the manager. “Ah, possibly It is on us!” exclaimed the multitude starting violently, and regarding each other suspiciously, while sickening doubts gnawed at their hearts.—Detroit Journal. Shut not thy purse strings always against painted distress.—Lamb. THE YELLOW TOMATOES. When Dominicus Van Brunt first went to the public school in his adopt ed country he had the felicity of sit ting opposite a little girl with freckles and blue eyes. Her name was Bertha Manderson. which w’as a difficult name for Dominicus to remember. But it was not at all hard for him to remem ber the dear little girl with freckles. She wore tiny black tassels at the top of her shoes, and white aprons, ruf fled and tied upon the shoulders with large, airy-looking bows, and the ends of her smooth braids were tied with ribbons now the color of the violet and now the color of the rose. Dominicus said to himself that in Amsterdam he had never known any little girl so freckled and so dear. ‘‘I wish she would look at me,” thought little Dominicus Van Brunt. But he thought it in Dutch, although when he spoke aloud he managed to make himself understood in English. It must be confessed that little Ameri can children are too egotistical to be polite. Thinking as they do that they are molded on the right pattern, they are inclined to regard all children dif fering from them as curiosities. They considered the round-faced Dutch boy, with his shy ways and deferential manner to the teacher, a strange little fish indeed. And no one in all the school was more amused than the dainty Bertha, who looked at him co vertly out of her gray-blue eyes. How ever. she did not laugh at him. So Dominicus, who did not know that she was amused, and who perceived only her aspect of gravity, thought her kinder than the rest, and was grateful. If only she would have spoken to him, or looked at him as if she were his friend, he would have nothing more to ask—he could even have been patient with that terrible English language which every one around him was Jab bering. He determined to do something to call the attention of his freckled hearts-own to himself, and one day he hurried into the schoolroom the first minute the doors were opened and laid three pear-shaped yellow tomatoes on her desk. The scholars came, saw the pretty vegetables and had little trou ble in deciding from what source the tribute came. For w ho else in a fash ionable suburb would have yellow to matoes, except the son of the Dutch gardener? The school indulged in unrestrained giggling, but Bertha, in stead of participating, shot defiance from her gray-blue eyes, and, turning with an adorable smile toward Do minicus, carefully fitted one of the yellow tomatoes into her red mouth, and devoured it in the same spirit in which a loyal subject drinks to his king. It was evident that Dominicus had been right Bertha was different from the others. His happiness stained the amiable boy’s face scarlet, and while the other boys jeered at him a number of them felt a distinct pang of Jealousy. They were quite alive to the extraordinary favor which had been shown him. From that day on Bertha, the daugh ter of a prosperous lawyer and a little maid distinctly conscious of her social opportunities, and Dominicus, the son of the man who rased garden truck, were friends. There came a day when Bertha, having reached the proud age of 10, gave a birthday $arty on her father’s lawn, and insisted on having Dominicus among her guests—a fa mous day for Dominicus, in which he saw his princess in all the glory of her best white frock, with her hair crimped down her back, and had the rapture of eating cream tarts in her company! But there was yet a prouder day in which Dominicus was permitted to re turn this social attention, and was al lowed to Invite Bertha and three other friends to the snowy kitchen of his home, where the mother of Dominicus sang beautiful songs to them in a lan guage they could not understand, and fed them with crullers and grape juice. Bertha thought she had never seen any room so charming as this kitchen, with its racks and blue plates, its shining pans and its Illuminated mottoes upon the wall. Bertha was not more than 12 when she was sent to a private school, and as the years went by she saw people of quite a different sort from Dominicu3 and his father and mother, and ought, probably, to have forgotten all about them. But it is an undeniable fact— though it may have shown some evi dences of vulgarity in her nature— that all the years that she was occu pied with other matters, such as board ing-school and summer resorts, and "coming out,” and the gayeties of a winter in the city, she remembered that curious kitchen, and the people who lived in It, and wondered where they had gone. For it had happened that one autumn, after returning from the seashore, Bertha had discovered that the house back of the garden was empty. It had been a sad moment for her. She had felt the tears come to her eyes as she looked at the untidy piece of ground where the exquisitely kept garden of Jacob Van Brunt had been; and the windows, from which the round face of her friend had often smiled at her, repulsed her now with their bareness. It happened that In course of time Bertha had a notion to go abroad, and, having the consciousness of her cer tificate of graduation in her trunk, she was in no haste to return to her home. So she lingered where she pleased, ar rogantly directing the movements of her party, which consisted of a maid en aunt and an elderly second cousin. With this double cnaperonage she was allowed to do almost anything she pleased. At length they reached Amsterdam, making headquarters for themselves there, and planning to go upon many excursions through the country. It was natural enough that, having a lo cal habitation, they should make some friends in the city, and so it came about that before they had been there long they were invited to dinner by an American lady, Mrs. Truax, whose husband was engaged in some mercan tile enterprise there. The Truax house was a cosmopolitan one, and at it the habitue expected to meet all manner of celebrities and hu man curios. Bertha, much elated at the prospect, whirled off, accompanied by her decorous relatives, arrayed for the occasion in the most becoming of their best silks. “What dear old frnmp3 they are,” Bertha commented to herself. “I think the Amsterdam ladies will like them They just suit this background.” They seemed to, indeed, and got on better than Bertha, whose youth con demned her to a subordinate place. This was not as it was in America, Bertha reflected, and permitted herself to indulge in a moment of homesick ness, as she sat apart, her glowing beauty unnoticed by the middle-aged people who were paying their respects to her aunt and her second cousin. “I have delayed for a moment for another guest,” Mrs. Truax said. “I wished to present to your niece, Miss Manderson,” she said, addressing Ber tha’s aunt, “a young man who is half an American. Ah, there is the bell now! ” The man at the door announced a moment later: “Herr Van Brunt.” Bertha turned with an anticipation which she endeavored to subdue. It was not likely that the son of a gar dener would be at the home of Mrs. Truax. But in the young man who entered Bertha saw with unmistakable recognition the amiable, soft eyes, the round face and high brow, and the quiet, kindly manners of her old friend, borne with the assurance and ease that come with self-confidence. The hostess managed to whisper to Bertha's aunt, and of course Bertha overheard: “This young man has distinguished himself in landscape gardening. He has just laid out a park for Prince Zagenwell, and is much thought of both in Holland and Germany. I hear that the Duke of York is likely to send for him for his new place in Scotland.” Dominicus Van Brunt saluted his hostess with a profound bow—how well Bertha remembered that quaint reverence of manner! He was pre sented to the guests and at last was led up to Bertha, who suddenly felt as if she were in short frocks, with frec kles on her face and braids down her back. He started and flushed, and then held out his hand in the good American way, regardless of cere mony. “What, you are acquainted!” cried the hostess. They explained. The hostess turned in some perplexity to the spinster aunt. She wondered if she had unintentionally committed an indesoretion. But there was no an noyance in the face of the elder Miss Manderson, and the hostess felt at lib erty to permit the two young people to go down to dinner together. The conversation at dinner would not be particularly interesting to re count. But Bertha remembered every word of it. Perhaps Dominicus Van Brunt did too—but it has been im possible to secure his confidence. It is a certain thing, however, that the next day a basket came for the young American lady, containing a dozen yellow tomatoes, dropped like eggs in a nest of white daisies. Which was, surely, a curious gift! Now it is undeniable that Bertha Manderson found Amsterdam interest ing. yet for some reason best under stood by her sex she remained in it but a short time, hastening away to other points of interest. It is also cer tain that about the time of her depart ure a young landscape gardener ran to yews and weeping willows in his de signs, and accepted with alacrity the opportunity of designing a cemetery for some new American town. But he recovered from his gloom when there reached hsn from the shores of the Baltic a trinket fashioned of lucent amber, shaped like a yellow tomato. It occurred to him that he ought also to visit the storied beaches of the Bal tic, and he did so without an hour’s unnecessary delay. And the consequence was, as the children say when they play the old game, that when Miss Bertha Mander son returned to America, she wore for an engagement ring a tomato shaped topaz on her third finger. To Give a Cent Party. A cent party is the latest idea for whiling away an evening when a few friends are met together. Here is the recipe for one: Each guest was given a card. Fastened to the card with rib bons was a cent with a hole in it, and a pencil. At the top of the cards, in fancy letters, was painted, “A penny for your thoughts.” Underneath this were the names of fifteen objects which can be found on a cent. The guest who properly filled his card received a prize of a cent dipped in gold for a watch charm. The ladies’ prize was a hatpin on the same order. The fol lowing are the articles to be searched for on the cent: 1. An animal, hare. 2. Serpent, copper head. 3. Southern fruit, date. 4. Emblem of royalty, crown. 5. A spring flower, tulip. 6. Part of an ancient armor, shield. 7. Another term for matrimony. 8. Part of a hill, brow. 9. Plenty of assurance, cheek. 10. Found in a school, pupil. 11. Ancient place of worship, temple. 12. Early American settler, Indian. 13. Emblem of victory, wreath. 14. Part of a river, mouth. 15. A messenger, one cent.— What to Eat. Flaw In an Old Saying. Ascum—I suppose you’re one of those who consider marriage a lot tery? Henpeck—No. indeed. If you draw a blank in a lottery you can tear up your ticket and forget all about it. —Philadelphia Press. Winning a Sweetheart. “How did Bluffer so easily win with Miss Goldbag’s heart?” “He sent her 22 roses on her 30th birthday.”—Week ly Telegraph. SCARED BY HIS LUCK. HOW A SENATOR'S $5 CREW INTO $30,000. It Was His First and Only Experience at the tismblksc Table and He Was Frightened—Gave It All Away to Aid Struggling looag Fellows. An entertaining tale of the gamb ling room was related recently by Col. Cole Martin, according to one of the Washington papers. It has to do with the phenomenal luck of Henry N Rice, who was the first senator from Minne sota, after the territory was admitted as a state. Martin’3 story is as fol lows: “Being a resident of St. Paul when Rice was elected by the legisla ture and having taken a hand in the fight, I concluded to come on with Rice to Washington, as in those days, 1858, Washington was a wide-open town, and faro was as free then as a beer lunch is now. Of course, I had an acquaintance among the sports, and shortly after I erected my tepee in the capital the senator Invited me to visit him. While making the rounds one afternoon we got hungry and I in vited him into Pringle’s. Pringle’s at that time was the finest gambling house in Washington. The proprietor served three elegant meals a day to his guests and patrons without charge. It was a rendezvous for all manner and kinds of men with money. You could meet there in groups a foreign ambassador, a United States senator, judges, generals, and. of course, men like myself, who followed the green cloth as a profession. I was then in or about my 30th year, and thought no more of ‘win or lose’ $5,000 than L would now of a single $5 bill. There were no 10 or 25 cent chips in those days. The ’whites’ cost $1, the very lowest price for them. Nobody thought of buying a stack, of chips under $50, and play was high. I was as high a roller as the best of them, for just previous to my arrival in Washington L had lost as ‘banker’ in two nights- over $30,000. “Well, Senator Rice and myself en joyed Pringle’s fine spread. L intro duced the senator, and as he had never played a card, like old Matt Carpenter, he knew all the ‘boys,’ and w5s gracious and democratic ia. his associations with them; he felt em barrassed over eating such an elegant meal and not having to pay for it. Passing a faro •lay-out’ in the next room, he threw down a $5 gold piece on a card, expecting to lose it. To his surprise and chagrin, however, he won. This made the matter worse than ever, as he did not want to win, but to lose the $5 aa an indirect pay ment for the meal he had eaten. While he fl-as in a quandary I bougnt a stack of chips and soon became ab sorbed in the game. The senator was trying to lose what he had won. but, in spite of himself, his winnings in creased. His bets were placed hap hazard. he not knowing whether they were placed right or not. and not car ing, except that he wanted to lose, and get out of the place. But lose he couldn’t, and I soon dropped out, be ing broke, to watch his play and mar vel at his ever-increasing pile. He soon had a crowd around him, which added to his embarrassment, and he appealed to me to help him get broke, as he wanted to get out. and did not want to take any of the bank's money with him. Well, this was the fun niest snap I have ever experienced in my life of over "0 years. There sat the senator and myself playing for all we were worth to reduce his winnings, and play any way we chose the piles of chips increased. I, who had been so tmlnoky, caught the fever of the sen ator’s good luck, and I won in a streak. “The senator’s face was as white as his shirt, and he was as scared a man as ever I saw in my life. But the play went on, and owing to the fact that at that time there was no limit at Pringle’s, the bets were so high, that the modern 25-cent chip layer wonll get the grip if I should mention the size of betSw “Finally, Mr. Pringle called me to one side, and told me that his partners objected to the game without a limit. He was willing himself to play the bank without it, but te was compelled to defer to the wishes of his partners, and would place the limit at $250 a bet. “He said It was all right to have me play on, as he liked me and all that, but I was the first man who ever forced him to put a limit on the game. When I returned to the table I quietly in formed the senator and he looked dis tressed, as he saw no chance, from his point of view, in getting rid’ of his winnings at a $250 limit. We played until midnight, and the senator at last yielded to fatigue, and ordered me to cash in. When he counted the roll in his room, our joint winnings were just $31,300, of which sum he staked me, as my share to $10,000. Said he, when he gave me the money: “ ‘Martin, I never played a card in my life before this afternoon, and I will never play another one as long as I live. This money I will do some thing with which shall not immediate ly benefit myself or my family.’ “I visited St. Paul 20 years after thi3 occurrence and met the senator. True to his word, he had never touched a card, and I learned from others who got wind of the play In Washington that the senator’s winnings were ex pended in helping struggling young fellows to get a start in life, accom panied in every case by the condition that they should never play in a gam ing house. "I venture to say tnat tnis is the most remarkable case on record of a man’s unexpected and undesired large winnings turning him against gamb ling and card playing and scaring him almost to death. I was then so reck less with money that it made no sort of difference to me whether I won or lost $20,000, so you can imagine how I regarded the senator’s squeamishness. But you see he was right after all. and he took the proper view of the matter, for money which comes easy in a winning at faro, goes easy the same way; in a week I had lost the $10,000 an thought no more of it than I do now of losing a $10 bill." The average man is apt to believo what the world doesn't say about him. MADE THE USUAL KICK. Til'■ Time the Aahed for Redaction W»» Not Granted. "They are telling a story at the ex pense of a commission merchant of a sister city who is well known in New Orleans.” said a Poydras street busi ness man the other day. "I won't vouch for the accuracy of the yarn, but anyhow it is worth repeating. The commission man in point is an extreme ly close buyer, and when he receives a consignment he never fails to make claim for anything that may have spoiled or deteriorated en route. This little habit of demanding rebates Is well known to the trade, and has led to many a vociferous kick from ship pers, but the merchant always man ages to come out on top. During Christ mas week as the story goes, he re ceived several barrels of fat dressed turkeys from a poultry man in the northwest. Heretofore he has dealt exclusively in live fowls, and I suppose the correspondence clerk must have got things mixed. At any rate the shipper was astonished to receive a letter by return mail running about as follows: ‘Dear Sir—We regret to advise you that four of the turkeys in. your consignment of December — reached here dead. Please make de duction for same and return correct amount.’ The poultry man communed with himself and replied thusly: ‘Dear Sir—I am sorry to say I And it im possible to make concession requested. I have established a rule requiring all customers who desire live dressed tur keys to notify us in advance, so we can send them in heated cars. Turkeys without their feathers and insides are liable to catch cold if shipped in the ordinary manner. The mortality among dressed turkeys was very large this year. Yours mournfully.’ That ended the correspondence.”—New Or leans Times-Democrat. LESSONS IN ENGLISH. Things a- Frenchman Learned Studying the Language. A Frenchman thirsting for lin guistic superiority, recently began a course of English lessons with a teacher of languages, After toiling conscientiously through a good many exercises, the following dialogue be tween the pupil and his master was overheard: “I find the English very difficult,” complained the Frenchman. “How do you pronounce t-o-u-g-h?” “It is pronounced ‘tuff.’ ” “Eh. bein, ‘tuff;’ ‘snuff,’ then, 13 spelt s-n-o-u-g-h. is it not?” “Oh, no; ‘snuff’ is spelt s-n-u-f-f. As a matter of fact, words ending in o-u-g-h are somewhat irregu lar.” “Oh, I see; a superb language! T-o-u-g-h is ‘tuff,’ and c-o-u-g-h is ‘cuff.’ I have a very bad cuff.” “No, it is ‘coff,’ not ‘cuff.’ ” “Very well, coff, tuff, and coff. And d-o-u-g-h is ‘duff,’eh?” “No. not ‘duff.’ ” “‘Doff.’ then?” “No, ‘doh.’” “Well, then, what is h-o-u-g-h?” “That is pro nounced hock.” “ ‘Hohck?’ Then T sup pose the thing the farmer uses, the p-l-o-u-g-h, is ‘pluff,’ or it is ‘plohek,’ or ‘plo.’ Fine language—‘plo.’ ’’ “No, no; it is pronounced ‘plow.’ ” “I shall soon master English, I am sure. Here we go. ‘plow,’ ‘coff,’ ‘toff,’ ‘hohck,’ and now, here’s another—r-o-u-g-h; now that is ‘row,’ I suppose?” “Oh, no, my friend; that’s ‘ruff,’ again.” “And b-o-u-g-h is ‘buff?’ ” “No, that hap pens to be ‘bow.’ ” “Yes, wonderful language. And I have just e-n-o-u-g-h of it. that’s ‘enou,’ is it not,” “No, ‘enuff.’ ”—Sheffield Weekly News. FACTS ABOUT THE DEAD SEA. Theory That Nothing Can Sink In It Is Wrong. Some Long current illusions concern ing the Dead sea are dispelled by Hen ry Dexter, who went to see its reputed wonders with his own eyes, says Col lier’s Weekly. In his opinion the bed of the sea is of volcanic formation. “I took a plunge in the water to test its qualities. The water is, I should say. a bituminous salt brime. I was care ful not to get the water in my eyes or on my hair. I had been told that noth ing could sink in the Dead sea. but found that was untrue, for the reason that If I did not make an effort to keep on top I would go down. The water is of a character that if any one had a cutaneous disease it would make the flesh smart fiercely. It was excep tionally refreshing, however, on ac count of the heat. The water was won derfully clear, and you could see down a depth of twenty feet. The water was perhaps a little more buowint than ordinary salt water, but it would not hold me up. It was not sticky, but washed off as freely as any salt water. One thing I noticed, and of which I have never been able to get an ex planation, was a small lslar.1 about 500 feet from the shore. This had on it large square blocks of stone. I have never been able to ascertain where these blocks came from. The theory that birds cannot fly over the water is untrue, as I saw lots of birds flying over it.”—Chicago News. This Is the Age of Cement. Gen. J. S. Clarkson, formerly of Iowa, but now president of the New York and New Jersey Bridge com pany, and also of the Monolith Im provement company, who was at the Auditorium in Chicago, recently said: “The st