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\ Story of a Valentine :
“I can't stand it!” said Major Midge
field. "I can't, indeed! Breakfast
irregular, dinner at no particular hour,
and everything at sixes and sevens!
I’m not used to it, and it upsets my
digestion. Besides — there's that
nephew of mine! I suppose boys must
exist, but they're a prodigious nuisance.
I told my sister I'd try six months with
him, and I've tried ’em. Now I'll go
back to old Mrs. Pry's boarding house,
and my second-story front room, with
the grate fire and the weather-strips
In every window. My six months are
up on the fourteenth of February, and
on the fourteenth of February I’ll go!”
The Major was a stout, short old
gentleman, with a shining bald head,
a bumpy forehead, light-blue eyes,
which always seemed as if they would
touch his spectacle glasses, and a frost
W’hite mustache. He was an inveter
ate old bachelor, with all the subtle
ways and habits of old bachelorhood,
and had money to leave—at least so
said tho tongue of popular rumor—
and he had also a furtive suspicion
that all the ladies were in league
against his single blessedness.
“I’ll write to Mrs. Pry,” said the
Major; and accordingly he sat down
and wrote, succinctly:
“My Dear Madam: I am heartily
sick of this sort of life. Will you
take me? If it isn't convenient don’t
mind saying so. I prefer the second
story front room. No piano practice,
no cold dinners, no neglect about my
shirt buttons—you understand my
idiosyncrasies, and will doubtless ac
cede to them. Please let me hear from
you at once.
“Yours very respectfully,
"Milo Midgefleld.”
“I think that expresses my ideas
pretty fairly,” said Major Midgefleld, as
he read the letter over, not without
complacency. “Yes, yes—pretty fair
ly. Now, what is that woman Pry’s
first name? I've got it signed to
some of my receipts upstairs, and I do
like things to be shipshape and pre
cise.”
And, leaving his letter neatly folded
on the table, in a shining,, smooth
TO MISS ADELA FORRESTER, No
envelope, the Major trotted upRtalrs
to find out whether old Mrs. Pry’s
name was Paulina, Patience or Par
thenia, all three of which names buz
zed, like familiar bees, in his brain.
"I know it’s one of the three,” he
said to himself. “But I suppose it
wouldn’t do to write ’em all down and
let the old woman take her choice!”
No sooner had the Major vacated the
study than in rushed Master Julius
Carey, only son and heir of the Rev.
Joseph Carey, and the aforesaid neph
ew whose boyish peculiarities were so
trying to the Major.
“Where is it?” bawled Master Julius,
a promising youth of fourteen. “Where
is my valentine? Mother wouldn’t let
us come in while Uncle Midgefield was
here, and now I’ll have to step .lively
to catch the post. Where is it, I say?
I do hope Uncle Midgefield hasn’t been
sending it off to any pretty girl on the
sly.”
“My dear Julius,” remonstrated Mrs.
Carey, a pretty, faded little woman,
with colorless eyes, hair in crimping
papers, and a shabby cashmere wrap
per, trimmed with imitation lace.
“It’s just like him,” said Master
Julius. “No fox so sly as an old fox.
Oh, here it is! I say mother, can you
lend me a postage stamp?"
And, anointing with his tongue the
gummy flap of Major Midgefield’s brief
letter to Mrs. Pry, he addressed it with
many flourishes to “Miss Adela For
rester, No. —-street.”
“Won’t she be pleased,” said Ju
lius. “I picked out the very prettiest
little valentine in the store—Cupid
hiding under a wreath of roses, and ‘I
love you,’ in golden letters, coming
out of his quiver. I chose it because
it was small enough to go into an or
dinary envelope, and she’ll never sus
pect until she opens it."
] "Julius,” said his mother, "what a
1 goose you are. Miss Forrester is old
| enough to be your mother.”
"Miss Forrester is just twenty.” said
; Julius, “and I’m nearly fifteen, and I’ve
; been dead in love with her these three
• years!”
He scampered off with his letter, and
the goodly, untidy matron heaved a
soft sigh and went back to the basket
of unmended stockings which was the
Nemesis of her life, and Major Midge
field came clown stairs to the once
more deserted study, quite unconscious
of the raid which had been made upon
it.
"Parthenia—-that was the name,”
said Major Midgefield—“what could
have induced me to think it was Pa
tience or Pauline? Now where the
very dickens is that letter? Surely I
didn’t—oh, here It is, poked away un
der the inkstand. That housemaid
has been in here dusting, as sure as I
live, and it's a mercy she hasn’t
thrown it into the grate. ‘Mrs. Par
thenia Pry, No. 16 Green court, Foxs
ley street’—that's it, and I’ll put my
initials in the corner, to insure a speedy
persual, M. M., with a flourish to the
tail of the last M. I suppose my sis
ter will be very plaintive and injured
about this decision of mine, but she
has only herself and her noisy lout
of a boy to thank for it.”
And Major Midgefield himself went
out to drop his letter into the nearest
post-box.
St. Valentine’s Day came, bright
and sunshiny, with hard-frozen snow
crusting all the streets, and a silver
fringe of icicles on all the eaves and
tree boughs, and old Mrs. Pry stareJ
hard at the letter which the morning
mail brought her.
"It's from Major Midgefield. I know
it is,” said she, fumbling in her dress
pocket for her spectacles. “I know
them little curly-tailed M's of his’n as
well as I know my catechism. I’ll bet
a cookey he wants to come back, and
a good thing for me, too, with my best
room standing empty for three weeks.
Eh! What? A gilt Cupid with no
clothes on to signify, and a lot of green
leaves, and ‘I love you!’ It ain't pos
sible, unless the Major has gone
crazy!”
a ieuer irom major jvnugeneiu,
said Miss Adela Forrester, who was a
tall, black-browed beauty, with cherry
lips and a good high spirit of her own.
“And he wants to know if I will take
him.”
“Nonsense!” said Mamma Forrester,
who was buttering a Vienna roll with
the serenest calm.
“Read it for yourself, then, and see,”
said Miss Forrester, with a toss of her
head. “He calls me ‘dear madam.’ the
horrid old bachelor, and dictates as to
his room, his dinner and his shirt but
tons. By goodness,” with a lifting of
the jetty brows, “does he think the
girls are ready to drop, like overripe
plums, into his mouth?”
“Of course, you'll say no," said Mam
ma Forrester.
“Of course,” said Adela.
“Then papa must see the Major at
once," said the elder lady. "Though
if he were only a few years younger,
the estate is—”
“I wouldn't marry that horrid old
creature if he were the only man in
the world!” cried Adela, with em
phasis, as she remembered the young
passed midshipman now pacing the
deck of the Silvestra in the Caribbean
sea, to whom her young affections
were pledged.
So it happened that Mr. Forrester
and old Mrs. Pry both met in Major
Midgefleld's room at the parsonage of
St. Adolphine, on the afternoon of that
radiant fourteenth of February.
“I am sorry. Major,” said the form
mer, “that my daughter declines to en
tertain your very complimentary pro
posal.”
“What proposal?” said the Major.
“I never proposed to any one in my
life, and it is not likely that 1 shall
commence now?”
“Do you deny your own handwrit
ing?” flashed out Mr. Forrester, who
was of a choleric disposition, and did
not relish his word being doubted.
“I deny everything!” shouted the
Major. “Stop a minute, Forrester;
here is the respectable female who has
Just called to see me on business. I'll
just see what she wants before we go
on with this discussion. Now, then,
Mrs, Pry.”
But Mrs. Pry was making amazon
ian efforts to get a letter out of her
pocket, and turned very red in the face
at thus being directly addressed,
"I'm sixty-odd, Major, if you please,"
said Mrs. Pry, "and a widow woman,
with a small pension, as never thought
of marrying again. And I never sup
posed as you could d°mean your dig
nity by making jokes at my expense!”
"Jokes, woman!” thundered the Ma
jor.
"What on earth do you mean? Is
all the world, gone mad?”
“I call valentines jokes!” said Mrs.
Pry. “And, please, sir, here it is, with
your own initials on the outside! Cu
pids and loves and wings, and not
<fr.ch of anything else, sir, saving
your presence!” with a contemptuous
sn i If.
"I never saw the thing before in all
my life,” said Major Midgefleld, eying
it through his spectacle glasses as oue
might survey some noxious Insect.
“Ain't this in your writing?” de
manded Mrs. Pry, holding up the
envelope.
"Of course it is,” answered the Ma
jor.
"And Is not this your writing?”
sternly joined in Mr. Forrester, hold
ing up the letter.
"Certainly It is," admitted the Ma
jor. "And that letter and that en
velope belong together, comprising a
note written by me to Mrs. Pry to
engage board at her house once more.
If you will observe Mr. Forrester, you
will perceive that the letter and the
envelope in your possession arc in dif
ferent handwriting."
"Then,” gasped the bewildered Mr.
Forrester, "how on earth came this
letter directed to my daughter?”
“All I know,” said the Major, stout
ly, ‘‘is that I never sent it.”
And to the day of their death no
body solved the mystery. The only
person who could have done so was
Master Julius Carey, who had listened
at the door during the whole colloquy,
and w ho took particularly good care
that no one should suspect his share
in the confusion of letters and en
velopes!
But Mrs. Pry got back her boarder,
"JOKES, WOMAN!” THUNDERED
THE MAJOR.
and, to the end of time, Miss Adela
Forrester always Insisted that she had
received an offer of marriage from Ma
jor Midgefleld.
S"t. Valentine’s Death.
February 14, known to all Americans
as St. Valentine’s day, is the anniver
sary of the death of the saint and
martyr. It is not clear why the pecu
liar character of the day observances
in the nineteenth century had origin
as a mark of respect to him. it is
more likely that some such observance
obtained long before the advent of the
saint and became known by his name
merely from the fact that he was put
to death on that day. He was first
cruelly beaten with clubs by order of
Claudius, emperor of Rome, and was
then beheaded. His real name was
Valentinus, and it was several hundred
years after his death that the College
of Cardinals at Rome canonized him
as saint. There are also two other
saints of the same name, Vulentinus
of Interamna, bishop and martyr; and
Valentinus, bishop of Passau. The lat
ter flourished in the fifth century.
Her Valentine.
By John Leighton Best.
Still winter stars are shining.
Still winter sunsets glow.
And still the brooks repining
In crystal confines flow.
But somewhere in the starlight
The vernal beams are met,
And somewhere in the far light
The hope of spring is set.
From winter gloom the glory /
Of springtime shall unfold, ,
The marvelous, sweet story, v
The ever new and old;
What time the heart of maid,
What time the heart of lover,
What time the heart of maid,
Turn lightly to each other.
And happy vows are paid.
And must I still be only
The beggar at your gate,
To lie forgotten, lonely,
And vainly for you wait?
Will you not send some token
This longing heart to cheer,
Now winter^} spell is broken.
Now springtime's grace is near?
So hear me now confessing
The love you long have known,
'1 nat with each day’s repressing
Hath only stronger grown.
And speed the message duly,
That one sweet word of thine.
That you will now be truly,
My own dear Valentine.
There are but two religions,—Chris
tianity and paganism, the worship of
God and idolatry. A third between
these is not possible. Where idolatry
ends, there Christianity begins; and
where Idolatry begins, there Christian
ity ends.—Jacobi.
LOVE IS BEST J*
3y Florence Hod# fan-ton
CHAPTER IX.
It was a very happy evening that
Beryl spent at Uplands. Mrs. Dyne
vor's heart went out to the pretty,
graceful girl, who seemed so strange
ly alone in the world; Kitty had taken
a fancy to her; and when Harold came
£n for tea the three were as much at
home as though they had known each
other for months.
“You must let me take you home,"
Harold said to the little governess,
when she came downstairs about eight
with her hat on.
“Oh, I could not trouble you, Mr.
Dynevor, it is so far! And I am not
at all afraid.”
“Harold loves an evening tramp, and
it Is much too far for you to go alone,”
■aid Kitty. “Mind you come again
soon. Mother wants you to, don’t you
mother?”
“Yes,” put In Mrs. Dynevor. “I shall
be very pleased to see Miss Lendon
whenver she has time to come.”
When they were walking down the
broad, shady lane which led from Up
lands to Easthill village Harold asked
simply. “Do you know you have made
a conquest of my mother, Mies Lon
don? I never saw her so much taken
with a stranger.”
“She was very, very kind to me. Oh,
Mr. Dynevor, when I saw her and
Kitty together I could not help wish
ing I had a mother.”
The voice' was so sad it touched his
heart.
“I wish you would confide your trou
bles to my mother, Miss Lendon,” he
said gently, “she would know how to
comfort you. The advertisement of
fering the reward has not been re
peated for Borne weeks now, and 1 had
hoped you would feel happier,”
To his surprise and alarm, he heard
her sob. They w'ere quite alone in a
little frequented lane. He longed to
comfort her, only he could think of no
words.
“Miss London," he said, very gent
ly, “like you, 1 have known troubles—
one presses on me now whose weight
seems to crush me to the earth. Hu
man friends can do very little to
soothe an aching heart; but there is
One above who knows all His chil
dren’s griefs, and sorrows for them,
lie will comfort you better than any
earthly friend.”
“I know,” she said, simply yet re
verently. “Mr. Dynevor, I had better
tell you the truth. I can trust you not
to betray me to my father, and I can
not bear to come to Uplands and take
kindness from you all when, if you
knew my story, you would shrink from
me in loathing.”
An awful fear crossed Harold’s heart.
What could she mean? Only a little
while ago, at the fete, she had assured
him she was not fleeing from juslice,
nnd he had retorted no one could take
her for a criminal. What did her
present words mean?
“Whatever you tell me I will keep
as a sacred trust,” lie answered. “But,
Indeed, Miss I>?ndon, you are mis
taken; nothing you can say will make
me shrink from you.”
“But I am the child of the two who
wronged you cruelly. 1 am your
enemy’s daughter- Beryl Linden.”
He started involuntarily. Really
the movement was simply surprise, but
she thought it was due to aversion.
“I never meant to deceive you or
any one,” she went on, her voice grow
ing a little firmer as she proceeded. “1
ran away from home because my fa
ther wrote that he had married again,
and his new’ wife was to have full au
thority over me. Mr. Dynevor, that
woman had lived in the house for nine
months, openly as my maid, really as
my tyrant. Last January, while my
father was away, she—she struck me.
I appealed to the housekeeper, who
dismissed her. Do you think I could
have stayed to see that woman in my
mothers' place?”
"No one could have wished it,” he
answered quickly—"no one who loved
you.’’
“I took Mrs. Tanner’s situation be
cause it was the only one I could get
and the time was all too short. I had
only three weeks from getting my fa
ther’s letter to the day he brought his
wife home.
“When I came to Easthill I had
never heard of Dynevor Manor. I had
not the least idea my father possessed
property here, or I should have been
afraid to come.
"Mrs. Tanner told me the first night
I came to her that the WilrnotB, who
were her chief supporters here, ob
jected to my name. She said they
urged it was a slight to their employ
er, Mr. Lindon, that a poor little gov
erness should be called by his name.
When I found that this Mr. Lindon
lived in Elchester square, and his
name was Eustace, 1 knew it was my
father, and I was only too thankful
to agree to the proposal that I should
change one letter of my name, and be
known here as Miss Lendon.
“When later I heard my father’s
story from Mrs. Grey, and the cruel
wrong he had wrought you and yours,
I felt overwhelmed with shame.
Though your sister had urged me to go
and see her, I felt I dared not accept
her invitation. I should never have
come to the Uplands only she fetched
me, and all through my visit I felt as
though I were deceiving you all, that
if you knew the truth your doors woulu
be closed against me.”
Harold took the girl s hand in his
and held it close under cover of the
darkness.
"Do you know what first made my
mother take an Interest in you? Your
likeness to her sister-in-law, Nina Lin
don. You must remember she and
your mother were close friends for
over three years. My father on his
death bed told me he believed flrmiy
that my Aunt Nina had never meant
to wrong us. He thought either the
will had been extorted from her by
undue influence, or-”
“Or what?” asked Beryl eagerly.
“Oh that she was too ill to under
stand its real purport. I suppose you
do not remember her? No, you could
not; she died before you were four
years old.”
"I do remember her,” said Beryl,
in a very low voice. “You see, she
was the only creature who loved me,
so I was not likely to forget. She was
very ill, and very unhappy; but, Mr,
Dynevor, I can't believe she did what
people think. She was too gentle.”
“It was not a happy marriage,” said
Harold Dynevor, in a low tone; “from
the little we know we always gathered
that. My father wondered sometimes
if she lost heart after your sister’s
death.”
“I don't know.” Beryl felt bewil
dered. "You see, 1 only remember her
after.”
“Do you mean you were aw’ay when
Lillian died?”
“I think I must have been,” she said,
in a puzzled tone. “I can remember
a little cottage, and a Frenchwoman
who took care of me. One day a let
ter came, and she dressed me up in
my best, and took me a long railway
journey, and then I saw my mother.
She was in black, and she cried when
she kissed me, and said she would
never part with me again while she
lived. My bonne went home, and af
ter that I had an English nurse.”
“And you are Beryl Llndon?”
"Yes. Will you tell your mother
and Kitty? 1 um sure they won't be
tray me.”
i am sure or that, too; hut 1 do
not mean to tell them. I do not see
that what you have confided to me
need go any further. If you are the
child of our enemy, at least ho has
treated you no better than he has
treated us. I am positive if my mother
knew the truth she would only feel
more kindly towards you. Come to us
when you can; you will always be wel
come.”
They were at Woodlands, and, with
a close pressure of the hand, he re
leased her.
He found his mother alone when he
got homo again. She had been search
ing among old treasures, and had un
earthed an album containing photos
of bygone days. It was open at the
picture of Mrs. Frank Dynevor as she
was when she came home a bride.
"I wanted to show it to you, Har
old,” said his mother, "just to prove
the resemblance is not all my fancy.”
He looked at it thoughtfully.
“It is a very strong likeness,” he
said gravely; “but I hope it won’t
prejudice you and Kitty against that
poor little girl. I think if ever a hu
man creature stood in sore need of
friends it is Mrs. Tanner's governess.”
CHAPTER X.
Five thousand pounds.
The sum seemed to burn itself into
Harold Dynevor’s brain as the sum
mer ripened. He did not actually
know that Mr. Lindon meant to fore
close. but he could not doubt Mr.
Proctor's warning. He felt that if five
thousand pounds were not forthcom
ing before the 25th of December his
mother must leave her lifelong home,
and he himself go forth into the world
a ruined man.
He had more than one long confer
ence with the lawyer about raising the
money. Mr. Proctor thought a private
lender would be the only source
whence he could obtain it. He said
that at a forced sale the Uplands
would fetch very little In excess of
the actual sum needed; but he thought
any one who knew the property might
be inclined to offer six thousand for
it, on the understanding it was to be
redeemed. The one thousand could be
paid back at once, the other five re
main at interest.
“Only so very few people have cap
ital to dispose of,’’ he concluded, “and
those few seem to fight clear of land.
I am making inquiries among all like
ly investors. Don't you think General
Craven would consider the specula
tion?’’
"He can't. Hla daughter is to be
married In the autumn, and he’ll want
all the ready money he can find.”
The general, indeed, when sounded
on the subject, took what seemed to
Mr. Proctor a very hard view.
“You know, Proctor,” the old sol
dier declared, "I’ve no liking for Eus
tace Lindon, and I'd not mind thwart
ing him; but I think for any one to
enable the Dynevors to remain at Up
lands would be to do them a cruel
kindness. It Is openly reported Lin
don ia coming into residence when
we leave. It will be far and away bet
ter for Mrs. Dynevor and her children
not to live, so to say, at his gates. I
think it is a blessing in disguise that
they will have to go.”
“And I don’t!” said the lawyer
stoutly. “Think of the years the place
has been in Mrs. Dynevor’s family!
Think how hard her son has worked
to keep it up! If he leaves Uplands,
Harold goes out into the world penni
less.”
“He'd be sure to get a good berth
as land-agent to a nobleman.”
“Such posts are not so easily picked
up. I think you take a very unsym
pathetic view of the matter, General.1*
"Bother It all,” said the old soldier
irritably, "I suppose I had better tell
you the truth! I like the Dynevors,
they’re the pleasantest neighbors I
ever had, I think Harold's a son to
be proud of; but, Proctor, I’ve got
only one boy, and I haven't much
money to leave him. Alick will havo
to make his way with very little ex
cept his pay. Can't you see I don’t
want him to marry Kitty Dynevor, a
nice girl and a good one, but without
a penny to her fortune?”
Ileryl saw a good deal of the Dyn
evors in August. Woodlands broke up
for the holidays, Mrs. Tanner and tho
twins went to spend a fortnight near
their old home, and Kitty came over
to Easthill-on-Sea, with her mother’s
orders to bring back Beryl for the
time of their absence.
"You are to ue sure to come unless
you have a better engagement.”
“I have no engagement, and I
couldn’t have a better one; only shall
1 not be in your way?”
“We want you, and we mean to
have you!” retorted Kitty. "I to’d
Harold about it, and he said it was
a famous idea. I think you fascinated
him that night when he saw you
looking so forlorn at the railway sta
tion, for you are the first visitor we
have had to stay in tho house for
years.”
Mrs. Dynevor's welcome was almost
motherly in its goodness, but It was
Harold's greeting which went straight
to Beryl's heart. She happened to be
nlonc in the oak parlor when he came
in, and as he took her hand he said
gravely;
"Hemember, no one here knows your
secret—no one ever will know it from
me; but if they learn it from another
source they will be content, as I do,
to remember you are Aunt Nina’s
child, and forget you a,-e Mr. Lindon's
daughter”
Beryl had been at Uplands Just three
days when Easthill was thrown Into
a commotion. Mr. Lindon, the great
man of the neighborhood, had arrived
and was putting up at his agent’s
house while he transacted some busi
ness connected with his property.
“Will he have the effrontery to call
here?’’ Mrs. Dynevor asked her son.
“I should say not. If he does, send
Kitty in to interview him. She Is cap
able of freezing him if she tries.”
“I wonder if he has brought his wife
and daughter?” hazarded Mrs. Dyne
vor.
“No,” retorted Kitty, who always
knew everything. “His wife is not
well, and his daughter is at school.
Perhaps she prefers it to her step
mother’s society, but she is the same
age as I am, and 1 should certainly
resent being kept at letters.”
“Poor little thing!" said Mrs. Dyn
evor gently. “I wonder if she is like
her mother? What is her name? Did
we ever hear?”
“It was never mentioned in Aunt
Nina's letters,” returned Harold. “She
always spoke of the children as ‘Pet’
and ‘Baby;’ not that she wrote often,
poor thing!”
Beryl was in the room, and natur
ally heard these remarks. She almost
forgot herself, and contradicted hia
last words, for she knew that Lillian
had never been called “Pet.” It was
her own name in babyhood, and had
not been given up till she went to
the Burgesses, when, by her father’s
wish, she was always called Beryl.
No, Lillian could not have been
“Pet.” Try as she would, the girl
could not recall any fond abbreviation
of her sister’s name. When she was
brought home after Lillian’s death no
one ever spoke of the dead child ex
cept her mother, and she always said
"your little sister.” Mr. Lindon took
no notice of Beryl at all. Her moth
er's maid had returned to England,
as she had lately heard, to take serv
ice with the family at Uplands. Lil
lian's nurse had also left the Lin
dons, but of her movements Beryl
knew nothing.
(To be continued.)
NEW BREAD AT PARIS.
From Fraah Flour and Greatly In
crement Nutrition.
Among all the exhibits of bread and
bread-making at the Paris exhibition
the one which interested me most was
a system of milling and baking com
bined. It is well known that all food
substances when ground to a fine pow
der have a tendency to become oxi
dized. As is the case with coffee, which
is the best when freshly roasted and
freshly ground, so it is with cereal
flour, which is never so aromatic or
so nutritious as at the moment when
it is first made. The Schweitzer sys
tem, In regard to the milling opera
tions, is a return to the old system of
millstones, with the exception that cor
rugated steel ganders take the place
of the millstoiiws of the olden days,
says the Paris Messenger. These
grinders are so accurately adjusted as
to admit of the making of the finest
flour, while avoiding actual contact of
the two grinding surfaces. The sim
plicity of the apparatus, the cheapness
and the ease with which it can be in
stalled commend this system particu
larly for domestic use and for the sup
ply of villages and small communities.
Nevertheless, it is capable of being op
erated on an extensive scale, as is
demonstrated by the large establish
ment at La Vlllette, Paris, where more
than 100,000 pounds of bread are made
per day from flour not more than 24
hours old. Chemical analysis shows
that the flour made according to the
Schweitzer system has more than
twice as much phosphate material as
that made by the ordinary roller proc
ess. The importance of this fact in
respect to nutrition should not be lost
sight of, and we must admit that nu
trition, not whiteness of color, is the
principal object of bread-making.
