CUITHCR «r-VHn [Sflaca* *®h
‘CHAPTER II—CONTINUED.
To pause now, and to enter into an
explanation with a servant, would
have boon to reject an opportunity
which might never return. In such
an establishment he was sure of find
ing himself before long in the pres
ence of some more or lest intelligent
person of his own class, of whom he
could make suoh inquiries as might
enlighten him, and to whom he could
pr sent suoh excuses for bis intrusion
as might seem most fitting in so diffi
cult a oase. He let his sables fall
tn'o the bands of the servant and fol
lowed the latter along a short pas
sage
The man introduced him into a
spacious hall an& closed the door,
leaving him to his own reflections,
'i he place was very wide and high
and without windows, but the broad
daylight descended abundantly from
above through the glazed roof and il
luminated every corner. He would
have taken the room for a conserva
tory, for it contained a forest of trop
ical trees and plants and whole gar
dens of rare southern flowers. Tall
letonlas, date palms, mimosas and
rubber trees of many varieties
stretched their fantastic spikes and
heavy leaves half-way up to the
crystal ceiling, giant ferns swept the
polished marble floor with their
soft embroideries and dark
green laces, Indian creepers, full of
bright blossoms, made screens and
curtains of their interwining foliage;
orchids of every hue and of every ex
o ic species bloomed in thick banks
miong the walls. Flowers less rare,
violets and lilies of the valley, closely
set and luxuriant, grew in beds edged
with moss around the roots of the
larger plants and in many open spaces.
'I ne air was very soft and warm, moist
and full of heavy odors as the still at
mosphere of an island in southern
eeas, and the silence was broken only
by the light plash of softly falling
water.
Having advanced a lew steps from
the door, the Wanderer stood still and
waited, supposing that the owner of
the dwelling would be made aware of
a visitor's presence and would soon
appear. But no one came. Then a
g.mtle voice spoke front amid the ver
dure, apparently from no groat dis
tance.
‘•I am here,” it said.
He moved forward amid the ferns,
and tall plants until he found himself
on the farther side of a thick network
of creepers. Then he paused, for he
was in the presence of a woman, of
h«v wno dwell among the flowers. She
was altting before him. motionless
and upright in a high.' carved chair,
and so placed that the pointed leaves
of the palm which rose above her cast
sharp, star-shaped shadows over the
broad folds of her white dress. One
hand, as white, as cold, as heavily
perfect as the sculpture of a Praxit eles
or a Phidias, rested with drooping
fingers on the arm of the chair. The
other pressed the pages of a great
book which lay open on the lady’s
knee. Her face was turned toward
the visitor and her eyes exam
ined his face calmly anil with no sur
prise in them, but r.< . without a look
of interest. Their expression was at
once so unusual, so disquieting and
yet so inexplicably attractive as to
fascinate the Wanderer’s gaze. lie
did not remember that he had ever
seen a pair of eyes of distinctly differ
ent colors, the one of a clear, cold
gray, the other of a deep, warm brown,
60 dark as to seem almost black, and
he would not have believed that
nature could so far transgress the
canons of her own art and yet pre
serve the appearance of beauty. For
the lady was beautiful from the dia
dem of her red, gold hair to the proud
curve of her fresh, young lips: from
her broad, pale forehead, prominent
and boldly modelled at the angles
of the brows, to the stiong
mouldings of the well-balanced chin
which gave evidence of strength and
resolution wherewith to carry out the
promise of the high aquiline features
and of the wide, sensitive nostrils.”
•‘Madam, said be, bending his
head courteously and advancing an
other step, “I can neither frame ex
cuses for having entered your house
unbidden, nor hope to obtain indulgence
for my intrusion, unless you are willing
in the first place to hear my short
story. May I expect so much kind
ness?”
He paused, and the lady looked at
him fixedly and curiously. Without
taking her eyes from hit face and
without speaking, she closed the bouk
she had held on her knee and laid it
beside her on a low table. The Wan
derer did not avoid her gaze, for he
had nothing to conceal, nor any sen-e
of timidity. He was an intruder upon
the privacy of one whom he did not
know, but he was ready to explain
his presence and to make such
amends as courtesy required, if he
had given offence.
The heavy odors of the flowers
filled his nostrils with an unknown,
luxurious delight as he stood there
gazing into the lady’s eyes. He fan
eled that a gentle breath of pertutne t
air was blowing softly over his h»i'
and face out of the motionless pulms
Xr-TTA-STK^^tj:*
"OLblOffi&W o
QLMDId'S; H RQVM SWGER'ar.
and the faint gptashing of the hidden
fountain was like an exquisite melody
In his ears. It was good to be in
■uch a place, to look upon such a
woman, to breathe such odors and to
hear such tunoful music. A dream
like, half-mysterious satisfaction of
the senses dulled the keen self
knowledge of body and soul for one
short moment. In the stormy play
of his troubled life there was a brief
interlude of peace. He tasted the
fruit of the Lotus, his lips were moist
ened In the sweet waters of forget
fulness.
The lady spoke at Inst, and tb •
■pell left him, not broken, as by a
sudden shock, but losing its power by
quick degrees, until it was wholly
gone.
••1 will answer your question by an
other.” said the lady. "Let your re
ply be the plain truth. It will be
better so.”
"Ask what you will. I have noth
ing to conceal.”
"Uo you know who and what I
Do you come here out of curiosity u
the vain hope of knowing me, having
heard of me from others?”
"Assuredly not.” A pale flush roso
in the man’s pale and noble face.
"You have my word,” he said, in the
tone of one who is sure of being be
lieved, -that I have never, to my
knowledge, heard of your existence;
that l am ignorant even of your name
— forgive my ignorance — and that I
entered this house not knowing whose
it might be. seeking and following
after one for whom I have searched
the world, one dearly loved, long lost,
long sought.”
••It is enough. Be seated. I am
Unorna.”
•■Unorna?” repeated the Wanderer,
with an unconscious question in his
voice, although the name recalled
some half forgotten association.
••Unorna—yes. T have another
name,” she added, with a shade of
bitterness, "but it is hardly mino.
Tell me your stor y. You loved—y^u
lost—you seek—so much I know.
What else?"
The Wanderer sighed.
•‘Yon have told in those few words
the story of nay life—the unfinished
story. A wanderer I was born, a
wanderer I must ever be. until at last
I find her whom I seek. I knew her
in a strange land.-far from my birth
place, in a city where I was kuown
but to a few. anti i loved her. t?he
loved me too, act! that against her
father’s will. He would not have
his daughter wed with one not
of her race; for he him
self had taken a wife among strangers,
and while she was yet ali"e he had re
pented of what he had done tint. I
would have overcome his reasons and
his arguments—she and l could have
overcome them together, for he did
not hate mo. he bore me no ill-will.
\V e were almost friends when I last
took his hand. Then the hour of des
tiny came upon me. The air of that
city was treacherous and deadly. I
iiad left her with her father, and my
heart was full of many things, and of
words both spoken and unuttered. I
lingered upon an ancient bridge that
spanned the river, and the sun went
down. Then the evil fever of the
south laid hold upon me and poisoned
the blood in my veins, and stole the
consciousness from my understanding.
Weeks passed away, and memory re
turned, with the strength to speak. I
learned that she I loved, and her
father, were gone, and none knew
whither. I rose and left the accursed
city, being at that time scarcely able
to stand upright on my feot. Find
ing no trace of those I sought, I jour
neyed to their own country, for 1
kn ;w where her father held his lands.
1 had been ill many weeks and much
time had passed, from the day on
which I had left her. until I was able
to move from my bed. When [ reached
the gates of her home, I was told that
all had been lateiy sold, and that
others now dwelt within the walls.
I inquired of these new owners of the
land, hut neither they, nor any ol all
those whom I questioned, could tell
me whither I should direct my search.
The father was a 9trange man, loving
travel to find change and movement,
restless and unsatisfied with the world,
rich and fiee to make his own caprice
his guide through life; reticent he
was. moreover, and thoughtful, not
given to speaking out his intentions.
Those who administered his affairs in
his ab ence were honorable men, bound
by his especial injunction not to reveal
his ever-v irying plans. Many times
in my ceaseless search I met persons
who had lately seen him and his
daughter snd spoken with them. I was
ever on their track, from hemisphere
to her^sphere, from continent to
continent, from country to country,
from ciiy to city, of en believing my
66it close upon them, c.f;en learning
suddenly t.hst an ocean 1 y between
them nod me. . ns pe "hiding me,
purpt seh. - u y, o. wa he un
conscious o m , pursuit,
being s-r'. by . and by
his o. n - I do not
know. .-c That
•he wa- “«“dy,
nnt k - -•■■■' ■’ tie
who
from another, wno had rere.vou li ou
hearsay from a third. None knew in
what place her spirit had parted;
none knew by what manner of sick
ness she had died. Since then I hare
heard others say that ahe ia not dead,
that they have heard in their turn
(rom othera that ahe yet livee.
An hour ago I knew not
what to think. To-day I saw
her in a crowded church.
I heard her volco. though 1 could not
reach her In the throng, struggle how
l would. 1 followed her In haste, I
lost her at one turning. I saw her be
fore me at tlie next. At last a figure,
clothed as she had been clothed, en
tered your house. Whether it was
abe 1 know not certainly, but I do
know that in the church I saw her.
She cannot he within vour dwelling
without your knowledge; If she be
here—then 1 have found her. my
journey is ended, my wanderings have
led me home at last If ahe bo not
here, if 1 have been mistaken, I en
treat you to let me set eyes on that
other whom 1 mistook for her, to for
give then my mannerless intrusion
and to let me go.”
Unorna bad listened with half-closed
eyes, but with unfaltering attention,
watching the speaker's face from be
neath her drooping lids, making no
effort to read his thoughts, but weigh
ing his words and impressing every
detail of his story upon her mind.
When he had dune there was silenco
for a time, broken only by the plash
and ripple of the falling water.
“She is not here." said Unorna at
last. “You shall see for yourself.
There is, indeed, in this house a young
girl to whom I am deeply attached,
who has grown up at iny side, and has
always lived under my roof. She is
very pale and dark, aud is dressed al
ways in black "
“Like her I saw.’’
“You shall see her again, i will
send for her." Unorna pressed un
ivory key in the silver ball which lay
beside her. attached to a thick cord
of white silk. “Ask Sletchna Axneia
to come to me," she said to the ser
vant who opened the door in the dis
tance, out of sight behind the forest
of plants.
Amid less unusual surroundings the
Wanderer would have rejected with
contempt the last remnants of his be
lief In the identity of Unoma's com
panion with Beatrice. But. being
where was, he felt
unable to decide between the
possible and the impossible, be
tween what he might reasonably ex
pect and what lay beyond the bounds
of reason itself. The air he breathed
was so loaded with rich exotic per
fumes, the woman before him was so
little like other women, her strangely
mismatched eyes had for his own such
a disquieting attraction, all that he
saw and felt and heard was so far re
moved from the commonplaces of
daily life as to make him feel that he
himself was becoming a part of some
other person’s, existence, that he was
being gradually drawn away from his
identity, and was losing the power of
thinking his own thoughts He rea
soned as the shadows reason in dream
land, tho boundaries of common prob
ability receded to an immeasurable
distance, and he almost ceased to
know where reality ended and where
imagination took up the sequence of
events.
Who was this woman who called
herself Unorna? He tried to consider
the question and to bring his intelli
gence to bear upon it. Was she a
great lady of Prague, rich.capricious,
creating a mysterious existence for
herself,merely for her own good pleas
ure? Her language, her voice, her
evident refinement gave color to the
idea, which was in itself attractive to
a man who had long ceased to expect
novelty in this working-day world
He glanced at her face, musing and
wondering, inhaling the sweet, intox
icating odors of the flowers and listen
ing to the tinkling of the hidden foun
tain. Her eyes were gazing into his,
and again, as if by magic, the curtain
of life’s stage was drawn together in
misty folds, shutting out the past, the
present and the future—in fact, the
doubt and the hope—in an interval of
perfect peace.
He was roused by the sound of a
tight footfall upon the marble pave
ment. Unorna’s eyes were turned
from his. and with something like a
movement of surprise he himself
looked toward the new comer. A
young girl was standing under the
shadow of a great letonia at a short
distance from him. She was very
pale indeed, but not with that death
like waxen palor which had chilled
him when he had looked upon that
other face. There was a faint resem
blance in the delicate aquiline
features, the dress was black, and the
figure of tU' girl before him wa-> as
suredly neither much taller nor much
shorter than that of the woman he
loved and sought. But the likeneRS
went no further, and he knew that he
had been utterly mistaken.
Unorna exchanged a few Indifferent
words with Axneia and dismissed her.
••Youhave seen her,” she said, when
the young girl was gone. “Wag it
she who entered the house just now?”
“Yes, I was misled by a mere re
semblance. Forgive me for my im
portunity—let me thank you most sin
cerely for your great kindness.” He
rose as he spoke.
“Do not go,” said Unorna, looking
at him earnestly.
He stood still, silent as
though his attitude should ex
plain itself, and yet expecting that
| she would say something further. He
' felt that her eyes were upon him, and
he raised his own to meet the look
| frankly, os was his wont. For the
first time he had entered her presence
he felt that there was more than a
mere disquieting attraction in her
steady gaze; there was a strong, re
sistless fascination, from which he
had no power t.n withdraw himself.
• h li*i< -v UU»« Un U-» j UC i )» •• ><tk»
teat ttlll looking at her. while telling
himself with a severe effort, that lie
would look but one las;mat longer,
end then turn away. Ten seconds
pa-ted. ‘JO. half a minute, in totnl si
lence. Ho was confused, disturbed,
and yet wholly unab.e to shut out her
penetrating glance. His fast ebbing
consciousness barely allowed him to
wonder whether be was weakened by
the strong emot'ona ho had felt in the
church, or by the first beginning of
some unknown and unexpected
malady. He was utterly weak
and unstrung. lie could
neither rise from bis seat nor lift his
hand nor close the lids of bis eyes. It
was as though an irresistible force
were drawing h'm into the depths of
a fathomless whirl-pool, down, down,
by its endless giddy spirals, robbing
him of a portion of bis consciousness
at every gyration, so that he left be
hind him at every Instant eoinelhiug
of bis individuality, something of the
central facu ty of self-recognition.
He felt no pain, but be did uot feel
that inexpressible delight of peace
which already twice had descended
upon h.m. He experienced a rapid
diminution of all perception, of all
feeling, of all intelligence Thought,
and the memory of thought, ebbed
> from his brain and left It vacant, at
the waters of a lock subside when tho
gates are opened, leaving omplineis in
its place.
Unorna'seyes turned from him. and
she raised her hand a moment. Inttlng
it fall again upon her knee. Instantly
the strong man was restored to him
self; his weakness vanished, his sight
was clear, his Intelligence was awaxo.
Instantly tho certainty flashed upon
him that Unorna possessed the power
of imposing hypnotic sleep and had
exerc.sed that gift upon him. unex
pectedly and against his will. He
would have more willinrly supposed
i that he hud been the victim of a mo
mentary physical faintness, for the
idea of having been thus subjected to
tho influence of a woman, and of a
womun whom he hardly knew was re
pugnant to him. and had in it some
thing humiliating to his pride, or at
least to bis vanity. But he could not
escape the conviction forced upon him
by the circumstances.
! "Do not go, for I may yet help
you," said Unorna, quietly. "Let us
talk of this matter and consult wbat
is best to be done. Will you accept a
i woman’s help?"
I "Readily. But 1 ean net accept her
will as mine, nor resign my conscious
ness into her keeping ”
i "Not for the sake of seeing her
whom you say you love?"
The Wanderer was silent, being yet
1 undetermined how to act and still un
steadied by what he had experienced.
But he was able to reason, and he
asked of his judgment what he should
do, wondering what manner of woman
Unorna might prove to be, and
whether she were anything more than
one of thoso who live ana even enrich
themselves by tho exercise of the
unusual faculties or powers nature
has given them. He had seen many
of that class, and he considered most
of them to be but half fanatics, half
charlatans, worshipping in themselves
ns something almost divine that which
was but a physical ^ower, or weak
ness, beyond their own limited com
prehension. Though a whole shock
of wise and thoughtful men had al
ready produced remarkable results
and elicited astonnding facts by sift
ing the truth through a fine web of
closely logical experiment, it did
not follow that either Unorna,
or any other self-convinced,
self-taught operator could do more
than grope blindly toward the light,
guided by intuition alone, among the
Varied and misleading phenomena of
hypnotism. The thought of accepting
the help of one who was probably,
like most of her kind, a deceiver of
herself, and therefore and thereby of
others, was an affront to the dignity
of his distress, a desecration of his
love’s suncity, a frivulous invasion of
love’s holiest ground. But on the
Other hand he was stimulated to catch
Rt the veriest shadows of possibility
by the certainty that he was at last
within the same city with her he
loved, and he knew that hypnotic sub
jects are sometimes able to determine
the abode of persons whom do one else
can find. To-morrow it might be too
late. Even before to-day’s sun had
set Beatrice might be once more taken
from him, snatched away to the ends
of the earth by her father’s ever
changing caprice. To lose a moment
now might be to lose all.
He was tempted to yield, to resign
I ms will Into Unorna’s hands, and hla
sight to her leading, to let her bid
him sleep and see the truth. But
then, with a sudden reaction of his
individuality, he realized that he had
another course, surer, simpler, more
dignified. Beatrice was in Prague.
It was ’.ittle probable that she was
permanently established in the city,
and in all likelihood she and her
father were lodged in one of the two
or three great hotels. To be driven
from one to the other of these would
be but an affair of minutes. Failing
information from this source, there
yet remained the registers of the Aus
trian police, whose vigilance Uke9
note of every stranger’s name and
dwelling-place.
■*I thank you,” hd said. “If all my
Inquiries fail, and you will let me visit
you once more to-day, I will then ask
your help.”
“You are right,” Unorna answered.
Lor* and Charity.
Dashaway—“I sent a lot of old
oiothes to a girl the other day. She
is very charitable, and is going to
■end them to the heathen.”
Calvertos—“You must be in love
with the heathes.’’
Dashaway—No; 1 am in love with
the girl.”—Ssturd-'v Night.
CHAPTER III.
T.V h Imd been d«»
ceived in sunpos
■ • [1 ing illut be roust
inevitably find the
\ names of those he
^ sought upon tue ,
ordinary registers
which chronicle
the arrival and
departure of trav
elers. He lust no
time, he spared
no effort, driving
from place to place as fast as two
pturdy Hungarian horses could take
him, hurrying from on# office to an
other, and again and again searching
endless pages and columns which
peemed full of all the names of earth,
bat in which ho never found the one
of all others which he longed to rend.
The Wanderer stood in deep thought
under the shadow of the ancient
'’owder Tower. Haste had no further |
object now, since be had made every
inquiry within his power, and it was
a relief to feel the pavement beneath 1
his feet, and to breathe the misty,
frozen air after having been so long
in the closeness of his carriage. He
hesitated as to what he should do, un
willing to return to Unorna and ac
knowledge himself vanquished, yet
Boding it hard to resist his desire t>o
try every means, no matter how little
reasonable, how evidently useless,
how puerile and revolting to his
sounder sense. The street behind
led toward Unorna’s house. Had he
found himself in a more remote quar
ter he might have come to another
and wiser conclusion. Being so near
to the house of which he was thinking
he yielded to the temptation. He left
the street almost immediately, passing
; under a low, arched way that opened
on the rigkt-hand side, and a moment
later he was within tho walls of the
Teyn Kirche.
The vast building was less gloomy
than it bad been in the morning. It
was not yet the hour of vespers. The
funeral torches had been extinguished,
as well as most of the lights upon the
high altar; there were not a dozen
persons in the church. The Wan
derer went to the monument of Brahe
and sat down in the corner of the
blackened pew. His hands trembled
a little as he clasped them upon bis
knees and his head sank slowly
toward his breast.
He thought of all that might have
been if he had risked everything that
morning. He could have used his
strength to force a way for himself
through the pres«, he could have
thrust the multitude to the right and
left, and he could have reached her
side. Perhaps he had been weak, in
dolent, timid, and he accused himself
of his own failure. But then, again,
he seemed to see about him the closely
packed crowd, the sea of faces, the
thick, black mass of humanity, and
he knew the tremendous power that
lay in the inert, passive resistance of
a vast gathering such as had been
present. Had it been anywhere else,
in a street, in a theatre, anywhere ex
cept in a church, all would have been
well.
He was aware that some one was
standing very near to him. He looked
up and saw a very short, gray-headed
man engaged in a minute examination
of the dark red marble face on tho
astronomer’s tomb. The man’s bald
head, encircled at the base by a fringe
of short, gray hair, was half buried
between his high, broad shoulders, in
an immense collar of fur, but the
shape of the skull was so singular as
to distinguish its possessor, when hat
less, from all other men. No one who
knew the man could mistake his head,
when even the least portion of it
could be seen. The wanderer recog
nized him at once.
As though he were conscious of be
ing watched, the little man turned
6harply.
The wanderer rose to his feet.
••Keyork Arabian !” he exclaimed,
extending his band.
••Still wandering?” asked the little
man, with a slightly sarcastic intona
tion. He spoke in a deep, caressii.g
bass, not loud, but rich in quality.
•‘You must have wandered, too,
since we last met, ” replied the taller
man.”
••I never wander,” said Keyork.
“When a man knows what he wants,
knows where it is to be found, and
goes thither to take it, he is not wan
dering. Moreover, I have no thought
of removing myself or my goods from
Prague. I live here. It is a city for
old men. It is saturnine.”
“Is that an advantage?” inquired
the Wanderer.
"To my mind. wouia say to my
son, if I had one—my thanks to a
blind but intelligent destiny for pre
serving me from such a calamity!—I
would bay to him: -Spend thy youth
among the flowers in the land where
they aie brightest and sweetest: pass
thy manhood in all lands where man
strives with man. thought for thought,
blow for blow; choo-e for thine old
age that spot in which, all things be
ing old, thou mayest for the longest
time consider thyself young in com
parison with thy surroundings.
Moreover, the imperishable can pre
serve the perishable.”
“It was not your habit to talk of
death when we were together.”
“I have found it interesting of late
years. The subject is connected with
one of my inventions. Did you ever
embalm a body? No? I could tell
you something singular about the
newest process.”
••What is the connection?”
“I am embalming myself, body and
mind. It is but an experiment, and
unless it succeeds it must be the last.
Embalming, as it is now understood,
means substituting one thing for an
other. Very good. 1 am trying to
purge from my mind its old circulat
ing medium; the new thoughts must
all be selected from a class which ad
mits of no deoay. Nothing could be
simpler.”
"It S':t*in' to mo that nothing could
be more vague.”
"You wit j not formerly so slow to
understand me,” said the strange lit
tle man with some impatience.
"Do you know a lady of Prague
who calls herself Unorna?" the V\ an
derer asked, paying no attention to
his friend’s last r< mark.
"I do.. What <>f her?’’ Keyork
Arabian glanced keenly at his com
panion.
"What is she? she has an odd
name.”
"As for her name, it is easily ac
counted for. She wus born on the 29th
day of February, tho year of her birth
being bisextile. Unor means Febru
ary; Unorna, derivative adjective,-be
longing to February.’ Some one guv*
her the name to commemorate the
circumstance.”
"Her parents, I suppose.”
"Most probably—whoever they may
have been.”
“And what is she?” the W’anderei
asked.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
Th« Kslrsat on Rollvar.
In the National Tribune, Comrade
Barron, of Co. A. 32d 111., writing of
the expedition from Bolivar, Tenn., to
Grand Junction, Sept. 20 to 22, 1862.
by the First Brigade of Gen. Hurlbut’s
Division, under command of Lauman,
is mistuked in saying the expedition
took placo in 1863. He is, however,
correct in stating that some ot the 2d
111. Cav. furnished Gen. Lauman with
tho information that the enemy were
in force near (L and Junction, where
upon the brigade hurriedly counter
marched back to Bolivar, and it
was none too quick about it either.
If the expedition was intended to pre
vent Von Dorn joining forces wi h
Gen . Price, it was a stupid maneuver,
as Van Dorn and Price were very
nearly together at that time, and
within a few days afterward fought
together at the battle of the Hatchio,
where they were beaten and compelled
to retreat in an unseemly hurry, more
precipitate than the counter-march of
tho First Brigade. Comrade Palmer,
of tho 53d 111., is correct as to the
narrow escape from capture of the
First Brigade on the occ&Bion referred
4o. But for tho timely informatioB
furnished by cavalry it certainly would
have been completely "gobbled up.”
—David H. Porter. Co. E, 2d 111. Cav.
Fiddled Through the War.
Nearly everybody in Cambria and
Indiana counties. Pennsylvania, is ac
quainted with Thompson Carney, tha
veteran violinist, who for the past
forty years has furnished music for
country dances in Western Pennsyl
vania. At the breaking out of the
late civil war Thompson Carney en
listed with the old Cambria Guards.
Before leaving Ebensburg with his
company, C. T. Roberts presented
him with a violin and box,
knowing that Mr. Carney would
not feel at home even in the army
without a violin. lie received it with
thanks, and promised to bring tlie
violin home with him at the close of
the war. Thirty years have expired
since then, but on a recent evening,
Thompson, with the identical violin
under his arm, stepped into Mr. Rob
erts’ store and said: "How d’ye do,
Mr. Roberts?” Duringthe war Thump
son lost his violin several times, hut
always managed to find it. At the
close of the war the violin was missing
and ho failed to find it until recently,
when the old sutler sent it to him,
having found it in the south. - Penn
sylvania Grit.
Making a Husband Remember.
A young wife in Brooklyn recently
gave her husband a sealed letter, beg
ging him not to open it until he got
to bis place of business. When ha
did so he read:
"I am forced to tell you something
that 1 know will -uble you, but it is
my duty to do so. I am determined
you shall know, let the result be what
it may. I have known for a week
that it was coming, but kept it to my
self until to-day. when it has reached
a crisis, and I cannot keep it any
longer. You must not censure me
too harshly, for you must reap the re
sults as well as myself. I do hope it
won't crush you.”
By this time the cold perspiration
stood on his forehead with the fear
of some terrible, unknown calamity.
He turned the page, his hair slowly
rising, and read:
"The coal is all used up! Please
call and ask for some to be sent this
afternoon. I thought by this method
you would not forget it”
He didn't.—N. Y. Weekly.
The Gla"* f tb« G' .iiun Array.
Until .e lately Capt. Pluskow, ol
the F: Regiment of the Guards, had
been msidered the biggest man in
the German Army. lie measured <>\ er
80 inches in height. But a short
time since a young Rinelander joined
the First Regiment of Foot Guards as
a "one-year-volun etr” who attains
the colossa height of over seven fe -t
four and a half inches. Sinco 18.‘<Q
the First Regiment of Guard- has not
had so tall a man. At that time they
had a man who was so tall that every
thing, even bis bedstead, had to be
made specially for him. His accou
terments are preserved still among 11#
curios of the regiment.—Loudon T.d
bits.
JnVrnaiixtlc Royalty.
Lucy (indignantly)—“To think of
our names appearing in the paper_.
your paper—as beiag engaged: And
there's not (sob) a word of truth in
It!”
Van Faber (calmly)—■ Then, as a
royal scribe, let us make it true. Will
you be my wife?”
Lucv (faint'v)—••Well, for tha
dreodfu! paper’s sake—yes. Pitta
vurg Bulletin
