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would have boon interesting to the supposed 
; T observer, to nee how the girl acknowledged 
^ Ibis gentle wakening. One sweeping glance 
showed her the position--she had been 
making herself conspicuous. A vain woman 
would have shown confusion ; it would have 
been admissible for a proud woman to have 
drawn her veil over her face; this one only 
changed her position so as to direct her gaze 
obliquely out of the. window, atul sat listless 
again. She. had thought of the veil, as a 
motion of her hand betrayed—hut that 
would have seemed like a rebuke. The eyes 
directed to her were full of kindness, not 
impertinence, so she sat. uncovered. 
She did not fall back into her entire ab¬ 
straction; she was not absolutely without 
motion, for she lifted her hand now and 
then, with a quick gesture, brushing her 
cheek, in which a color was deepening like 
a fever. 
When the train reached Syracuse, still 
early in the afternoon, so self-contained, so 
puLting aside all the questioning looks was 
her manner, that no one offered help, and 
she went out, carrying her heavy satchel 
herself At the steps she reached her un¬ 
occupied hand to the old Quaker, and said : 
“ It was kind of you to come to me; 1 
thank you.” 
The woman held her hand tightly a mo¬ 
ment, and looking up into her face, said: 
“I much fear thee is in trouble; hut if 
thee will turn to Him who was a man of 
sorrows and acquainted with grief, thee will 
never be forsaken.” 
The crowd—that selfish, thoughtless pow¬ 
er—-jostled them apart, and the girl, stand¬ 
ing in a clear space, looked about for the 
ticket-office. She lmd missed the rush that 
would have piloted her. As she stood tints 
iu relief’, a quick-motioned little man in the 
opposite crowd recognized her, and as she. 
started on he was within speaking distance. 
“ Why, Mahy, whore are you going?” 
“Oh, Deacon Gardiner! 1 am going 
West.” 
“ Going West ?” 
“ To Cleveland, where my brother is now, 
and on to Wisconsin with him.” 
“ Why, this must be a sudden start, I am ( 
sure.” Then quickly, as though t-> cover ] 
what he had said—“ You go on this next t 
express, then?” t 
“ Yes; would you mind going with me to i 
tin* ticket-office? If you have time.” i 
Like the rest, ke had not thought to offer l 
this woman aid, and now walked on before f 
her, letting her carry her own satchel. As < 
she stepped forward to buy her ticket, she c 
set her burden down on a long bench filled I 
with luggage, and the good Deacon, looking I 
over her shoulder to see that she received I 
her right, change, also lost sight of it ; and 
when she turned to lake it, it, was gone. ( 
They were both sure they had not lost sight, j, 
of it more than a minute. It was an im- j, 
possibility! But the fact remained; it was ,, 
neither on, nor under, nor behind the bench, 
nor in the room—ns the excited people were q 
ready to demonstrate, Several testified that ( . 
a man had just gone out, hut how he looked, () 
or whether he carried anything in Ills hand, j, 
was not clear. U 
The good deacon stirred about and started 
the police. He gave the description. A ^ 
common black leather satchel, with the 
name of Dk Forest painted in white on the HI 
bottom, and her own mime, Mary De For¬ 
est, on a little card attached to the. handle. w 
The policeman took note that, standing p 
next where this had been, was a black m 
satchel which nobody seemed to own, of ox- ] J( 
actly the same description,except the name. w 
Some one in a liurry had caught up the ] v( 
wrong one,—such things ofi.cn happened. jj 
There were two trains standing in the j? ( 
depot at the moment. The deacon went 
through the cars with her, and, coming back w , 
from the search with no clue just as “All ,,, 
aboard! ” was sounded for the Western ex¬ 
press, he said:—“ You had better wait, over p, 
till to-night; they will probably find it.” ge , 
“No, thank you, I will go on. They have a 
my name and address, and if it is found it can q, 
be sent home; 1 can do very well without ,,,, 
it. Will you please call and tell my sister 
you saw me well started on this truiu, and 
that I do not mind ? ” r0) 
No, she did not mind, nothing was worth 
minding any more. Yet. she thought with a ] 10 
Weary sigh she should miss the things, her j a 
best dress, and — no matter. She almost p,., 
hoped it never would he found. She had 11K 
only taken it in the first place not to be wr 
troubled with her trunk in Cleveland, where j ie] 
she would stay only a day or two. , 
The day grew oppressively hot. She had < 
not thought of it, earlier, but everybody « 
complained nowin the crowded car. Her j? B 
fever had been heightened by the little ex- < 
citement about the satchel; but it was com- < 
ing on any way. She was glad to observe we 
that there was no one in this car who had < 
been in the other; but if there had been, she « 
had availed herself of the experience, and « 
covered her face. The veil only made her aw 
warmer; it seemed as though her face were j 
on lire. Had the mythical observer lifted 
her screen at this moment, he would have ,i.-. r 
sod and lips were scarlet, and her eyes so resi¬ 
led less that he could scarcely have kept their 
ice gaze for an instant. If he had forgotten the 
•en earlier picture, he would have thought 
an “ What a brilliant young creature !” If he 
vo had remembered, he would have known both 
ve for disease. For the rest of that, lingering 
ily afternoon Mary De Forest’s sensations of 
ize pain and unfitness for her present position 
-Ss mercifully mixed and dissipated her thoughts. 
51 It was quite after dark when they changed 
,at cars in Buffalo; they would be in Cleveland 
,:s about four in the morning—a long night 
°f before, her. She threw off her veil—it was 
night now—and hung up her hat; she must 
b- make herself comfortable. The fever had 
ut subsided, but. it had left her with an intolcr- 
id able thirst, and as the night, wore on no 
,T bodily pain she had ever suffered could com- 
ttJ pare with it. It seemed impossible to endure 
it. There was no water in the car; it was 
11 going to he. brought, on at the next station, 
50 but it never was. The conductor had looked 
• s at her once or twice in passing, and came 
d now, politely offering to arrange her seat- so 
-d that she could rest. It, was one of those 
i- high-hacked seats, sometimes used in night 
I: cars, and was adjustable. lie lowered it to 
I an angle that was as easy as a rocking-chair, 
but she could not sleep. 
Once, (it might have been near midnight,) 
she was frantic with thirst, and must have 
it water. They were stopping at some quite 
>•’ large station; she could see the lights far 
II ahead in groceries and hotels. Getting up 
dizzily, she went, out. Perhaps she had a 
’* vague idea of sending some hoy for the 
I- water; hut as she stepped down into the 
e clean, wide depot, there was only one man, 
t a workman, probably belonging to the train, 
s to be seen. She spoke to him. Gould he 
e tell her where she could get a drink of water V 
e lie looked at her wonderingly an instant 
and pointed down the street. She followed 
the direction, past darkened houses, past a 
1 church even, and stood at last before the 
door of a saloon filled with men drinking 
and talking loudly. 
, As we have mentioned, she had hung up 
her liat; she had also thrown off her cloak, 
i and exchanged her high gaiters, which hurt 
her feet, for a pair of slippers. In t his plight 
she had walked the street, ami now pre¬ 
sented herself at the door of the saloon. In 1 
an instant, the loud voices were silenced, 
and each man who stood in the. way shrank 1 
back, leaving her a clear path to the bar. f 
Rhe walked up quickly and asked for a drink 
of water, It was given her silently; she * 
drank it, thanked the man and went out, 1 
No one but herself bad spoken while this 1 
happened. Bhe did not think of it then, 
but recalling it afterwards, she shuddered. 
Coming into the blank, isolated depot at <r 
Cleveland several hours before her brother 1 
had expected her, there was no alternative 
hut to wait there. Wearily thi nkin g she 
might, better have stayed in Syracuse, and so * 
probably secured her satchel, she. bent her 11 
head down and began to think, She re- r 
called her recent terrible experience, and 11 
questioned if, in the future, life could ever c 
bring her anything sweeter ami more serene ® 
than the bitter and fevered present. a 
At last came Fred, cutting crosswise all ( 
the questions pro and con. with his tender 11 
greeting, 'll' she could have been glad of " 
anything, it would Have been to sec him. ll 
Going through Michigan two days after- ^ 
ward, she was ill all day, and frightened 
Fred with her fever and restlessness. It 11 
might have been that, she took cold on the " 
boat, as be thought, or it, was only a some- ^ 
what sudden relaxation of the tension of ai 
keeping tip. They were to cross the lake to el 
Milwaukee, and had taken the Northern 
Road, whose terminus is Grand Ilaven. Il lo 
was almost new then, and the little town f)| 
was scarcely a town at all; but Fred would AV 
not go on till she was better. 
“I ought not to have come, 1 think, but. ni 
Lizzie was determined to go with me to the 
sea shore or somewhere, and you know what v( 
a sacrifice that would have been; so I 
thought I could go to you and it would be 
just, as well. I could not stay there, you se 
know.'* tri 
“ I know, Mary.” Tiiis was in the little 
room at, the hotel. te; 
They did not speak again, and he sat 
holding her burning hand till long after t0 
dark. Sometimes she tossed with quick J 1 ® 
breath, as though the air stifled her; but ll:i 
mostly she lay still, hoping, perhaps, that lie tu 
“ You never saw him, Fred. I had his 
picture in the satchel, rueaniug to show it lo 
you and have it help me tell the story.” 
But when the morning broke, and found 
her pale and weak, she did not refer to it, 
nor ever did again. 
CHAPTER II. 
)n The man who had taken Mary De Fok- 
est’s satchel could not have secreted it more 
, effectually, nor covered his own steps more 
adroitly, if he had been a real thief. He was 
an energetic man, with the gait, of the typi¬ 
cal American mail of business, which takes 
^ the individual over the ground in about half 
’l the ordinary time. As lie had stepped from 
r the door of the office, fie had been met and 
mixed with the crowd setting that way from 
j a long train just, arrived, lie ran up the 
steps and passed through between two cars, 
and thus shielded liorn view, had gone round 
the corner of the. depot into a sort of alley 
( j where baggage wagons passed for conveni- 
( enec of loading, and readied a private car- 
() riage which was standing at the end of it, a 
( minute, probably, before the police had been 
|t signaled. Tossing the unlucky sat,did to a 
' man who caught, anil safely deposited it 
under the seat, he said, “1 will be around 
’ before night and thank you for relieving me 
of that troublesome thing. I hate traveling 
’ with baggage.” 
It chanced that the street was empty, and 
probably no one beside the two men could 
1 have, given any account of the seemingly un- 
1 important circumstance. 
Meantime the vigilant police, with no 
’ doubt Of flagging the game easily, had been 
somewhat chagrined to find that their ut¬ 
most endeavors failed to afford them n.single 
’ clue. The remaining satchel being examined 
\ proved to hold a good dress suit, and linen 
of unexceptionable quality. It, together 
I with a pocket, handkerchief, bore the charac¬ 
ters J. G., in good India ink. Everybody 
ought to have known that they stood for 
John Gray, the inventor of Gray’s Patent 
Reaper, and sundry things of less celebrity; 
but they didn’t , and so the mystery remained. 
Finally, as uolliing could be done to advan¬ 
tage, it was decided to suspend investigation 
till the satchel was inquired for. It, was 
scarcely likely that,a gentleman wearing thr>t 
quality of cloth would prefer a lady’s ward¬ 
robe of not half the value; so it was confi¬ 
dently expected that the mystery would he 
solved in a few days. 
John Gray, being a Yankee, and there¬ 
fore always in a finny, was in the habit, of 
making his business trips unencumbered 
Avilb baggage, as the remark to his friend 
may have suggested, lie had departed from 
his rule on this occasion, because lie was i 
going to Boston for the first tune, and it , 
might he necessary to lie in condition lo up- i 
pear in society, if business required, lie . 
had been "ashamed of the weakness all the ( 
time, anil inly resolved never to corapro- ( 
miso liis independence by another such sac- l 
rifice. lie was on the return trip now, hav- | 
iug had no occasion to wear the reserve 
clothes, and becoming more and more dis- i 
gustecl with himself. Bo it happened that, c 
arriving late the next night at his rooms in 8 
Chicago, lie threw the unlucky satchel into ; 
his wardrobe without opening it. It fell over ( 
with the bottom toward the door. Two 
days afterward, on the very night that poor s 
Mary told her story to her brother in the 
dreary little room at Grand Ilaven, coming |, 
in from a prosperous business transaction, li e p 
went to the wardrobe for something he had p 
foiled to find elsewhere and stumbled over t l 
an obstacle lying directly in his path. Low- tl 
ei'iug the lamp to see what il was, he began ,, 
to say, “ confound t he”-when lie stooped 
lower, brought the light to hear directly up- j, 
on the j tainted name, and, with a quiet, v 
whistle, lifted it carefully for examination. 
“D'e Forest! humph! what does it. p 
mean ?” ^ 
He took it out lo the table and began in- o 
vestigating. The little card at the top came u 
first. Looking at it lie soliloquized furthur, ,, 
“ It means, my boy, that you have got your- 0I 
self into a pretty box along of this bit of j] 
truckling to society.” ^ 
He had come in for a quiet evening, let- q 
tors and books; so there was nothing to 
binder him probing this mystery to the hot- C1 
tom at once. No difficulty cither, lbr the y 
key was hanging by a bit of ribbon to the p, 
handle. He put it in the lock, but did not tli 
turn it immediately, whirling the card over p, 
t \\ va j “ I’ll save her!” George cried; and run- 
4r0t IjDtmy jJCOplf, “fog to the other end of the shanty, he 
Tr m 5 ~ * knocked in the window and sprang through. 
- He groped about iu the smoke and hot, fiery 
DAME DIMPLE. air un1 'l be found the cradle. Then lie lifted 
' - little Mary, made his way hack to the win- 
* nd ‘'i™ 1 * 11 j« •* flames 
what are you piottiuK this mineiitiiy day, niatle a grand chargr, and broke out through 
Under the apple trees over the wuj- ? his new outlet for their fury in a great mass 
All the hlnla know you, you queer little elf. igbtiiegs and black smoke. 
Sometime* l think you’re a birdie yourself; The shanty was completely destroved bo- 
Chutuna the boney.bees home ms they pass, fum unv sf u>nn>«. r , 
Watching the crickets that chirp in the grass. a " V ,C niCn camc u l» ^'*>111 the woods 
„„ , where they had been cutting lo«s Mrs Ross 
Where is your sun-bonnet, dainty und neat? ivna RaAl.r 1 ..... i .1 . , f? , , Jto ' b 
Where urc the shops for y mr ham little feet? WHS BO ljUlnctl that she died t hat aftcr- 
Eittle brown fingers that hide them so well, noon. 
What win you do if your secret i tell ? George deserves the name of a hero, I 
fine rhuhby hand holds the frock at your knee. think, and therefore 1 have called him one 
Filled full of treasures most woudrous to see ■, _ _ 
Beetles that crnwled In I he dust at your feet, n * a ■, 
firasshoppers, pehlilps, and clover-heads sweet. LAST A LINE FOR YOURSELF. 
. A TO ™° mm. watching 
Dear little Dimple, we eider folks, too, some anglers on a bridge. He was poor and 
Drop our old treasures to reach for the new. dejected. At last approaching a basket filled 
__ [Pruiv - with wholesome-looking Rdi, he sighed: 
A hiTTT P nunn 1,1 now » 1 bad these, 1 would he happy. 
A G I I TLE HERO. ! could sell them at a fair price and buy niy 
BY EBEN rexford. food and lodgings.” 
- ' 1 will give you just as many and just as 
Tnrs story is true in every particular. &°°d fish,” said the owner, who chanced to 
The sad event it narrates occurred not very <m ' r, 'ear his words, “ if you will do me a 
far from t he author’s place of residence, con- triflin S fo vor >” 
scquenlly he had plenty of chances to make And what is that?’ asked the other 
inquiries regarding the affair, and learned the * 0 £ or, y- 
following facts: “ Only to tend Ibis line till I come back ; I 
In the fall of ISfiR, Mr. Ross and family, wish 10 £° on a short errand.” 
consisting of his wife and four children, left The proposal was gladly accepted The old 
their home near the village of A-, and Gherman was gone so long that the young 
moved into the lumber regions north of them mau h, ‘S an to be impatient.. Meanwhile’the 
for the winter. Very often a man takes a hungry fish snapped greedily at the baited 
job of cutting pine logs and drawing them ll0ol< > a * ut the young man lost all his depres¬ 
to the river, and in order to save expense lie bi the excitement of pulling them in ; 
takes his family with him, his wife doing when the owner of the line returned) he 
the cooking for the “hands" he may (110 bad caught a large number, Cmihtiug out 
ploy. This was the case with Mr. Ross. h’ om them as many tM Were in the basket, 
He desired to save all he could, and his wife, and pwwatfag them to the young man, the 
being of the same mind, was perfectly will’ ol(1 ILbetman said: 
ing to undergo the privations of a winter in ' ^ fulfill my promise from tlie fish you 
the lumber regions. have caught to teach you whenever you sec 
The oldest child, George, was ten; ot bors earning what you need, to waste no 
Grari.ev, the next, eight ; .Janev six, and *‘ m<! ‘ n fruitless wishing, hut lo cast sv liiie 
Mary, the baby, was hut two years old. The ^ or y° urst ‘b- ’—Home Monthly 
DAME DIMPLE. 
Eittle Dame Dimple, so merry anU wise, 
Rhaking your tangled looks ftvor your eyes; 
What are you plotting this sunshiny clay. 
Under the apple trees over the wa v ? 
All the blnlB know you. you queer little elf. 
Sometime* 1 think you’re a birdie yourself; 
( basing the honey-bees home it-- they pass. 
Watching the crickets that chirp in the grass. 
Where is your sun-bonnet, dainty and neat ? 
Where arc the shops fur your hare little feet? 
Eittle brown fingers that hide them so well. 
What will you do if your secret f tell V 
fine chubby hand holds the frock at your knee, 
k illed full of treasures most wondrous to see; 
Beetles that crawled In the dust at your feet. 
Grasshoppers, pebbles, .mil clover-heads sweet. 
See; there’s a but terfly glenming like gold. 
Down goes the frock with its riche# untold 
Dear little Dimple, we elder folks, too, 
Droji our old treasures to reach for tlie new. 
[Prutly. 
—-*-*-■♦- 
A LITTLE HERO. 
BY EBEN REXFORD. 
Tnrs story is true in every particular. 
boys were greatly delighted at the prospect 
of spending the winter in the woods, and 
promised themselves much enjoyment among 
the pines. 
Any one. at all acquainted with the pine 
woods of the West, knows that when a pine 
is cut down, a thick, sticky substance called 
pitch exudes. This, when boiled, with the 
addition of a little butter, makes quite 
good gum. 
Boys generally like to chew gum, and 
George and Charley were like all, or most, 
other boys in this respect. Bo t hey gathered 
the pitch from day to day, from the stumps 
anti logs, and put it away in an old iron pot, 
until such time as they should have enough 
collected to make it pay for the trouble of 
boiling and cleaning. Their mother had 
promised to boil it for them then. 
One warm day they succeeded in gather¬ 
ing quite a quantity. This, added to that 
already in tlie pot, made a considerable 
TO MAKE SOAP BUBBLES. 
Wk find in an exchange a paragraph 
which teaches the art of blowing soap-bub¬ 
bles that will show the changing colors of 
t he rainbow. Tlie directions are as follows: 
Take three-quarters of a pint, of water that 
has been boiled and become cold, and put 
into it a quarter of an ounce of Castile soap, 
cut up fine. Pul, this into a pint bottle, and 
set it in hot water in a saucepan, on the fire; 
there let it remain an hour or so, now and 
then giving it a good shaking, till the soap is 
dissolved. Ut the fluid stand quiet for a 
few hours for the impurities and coloring 
matter of the soap to settle ; then pour off 
the fluid and add to it four ounces of glycer- 
Ifte, and your soap-bubble solution is ready. 
In an ordinary way you may blow the bub¬ 
bles easily with a clean tobacco-pipe, but if 
yon wish to attain scientific perihelion, you 
bad better emply a glass pipe. By adding a 
amount and their mother promised to boil larger quantity of glycerine, you may make 
i for them that afternoon, when the dinner those bubbles so strong that vou can play 
dishes were washed and out of the way. battledore with them. You nmy, of course, 
i.o, aftei dinner, she placed the pot on the make soap-bubbles in an easier wav but 
stove. George put several sticks of licrht, it,™ «.in ».„ „„ .. .. . , 
would forget her. AI last—it was in one of am * ovcr ' n bis fingers, wondering when 
her restless spells— ho said; 
“ 1 wish I could do something, Mary.” 
She was silent a moment; then she said ; 
“ Would you like to ask. me something, 
Fred V” 
“ Yes, if you could tell.” 
“There is nothing much to tell. We 
were to have been married, you know.” 
“ Yes, dear.” 
“ His wife, came that night.” 
“Dear Mary!” Blie drew her hand 
away and shrank back. 
and where and how he had done it. Was it 
at a hotel, or in a depot, or on the cars? 
Hopeless to conjecture; it might as well 
have been in one place ns another, for he 
had never opened it after lie left, Boston and 
he had conic by Way of New York, had 
stopped at Albany, and indeed in half the 
other cities on his route, a train or two, to 
see what could be done in the way of busi¬ 
ness.—[To be continued. 
-♦»»■ - - 
Faith and love are like a pair of com- 
•been confounded at the change. Her checks | speaking the moment before, 
Late in the night lie thought she slept, but passes: faith, like one point, fastens on Christ 
when lie threw her shawl over her shoul- as the center; and love, like the other, goes 
ders, she said, as though slic had stopped roun d in all the works of holiness and right¬ 
eousness. 
stove. George put several sticks of light, 
pine wood under it, and soon a hot fire was 
burning. The pitch melted, as tlie fire 
burned up, and became thin as water. Then 
it began to boil, and as it boiled up it ran out 
through a crack in the pot, and down into 
the fire. It will burn almost as quickly as 
powder. The flames caught the stream that 
was trickling down and followed it, and 
iu a moment the whole mass in the pot 
was on fire. 
Mrs. Ross, fearing that the flumes which 
leaped up so fiercely might communicate 
with the straw which formed the “ bunks,” 
or beds, where the men slept at night, and 
thus destroy the shanty, attempted to re¬ 
move the pot from the stove and carry it 
out, doors. In the attempt, her dress caught 
fire, and in a moment she was wrapped in 
flames from head to loot. She ran through 
tlie door with the intention, probably, of 
plunging into the snow; hut the snow was 
crusted over, and afforded her no relief. 
Tlie two boys and Janev followed her from 
the shanty, too frightened at the danger of 
tlieir mother to know what to do. The 
baby, all this time, was asleep in her cradle 
in the end ol the shanty opposite the door, 
the stove being in tlie center. 
The flames caught, in the straw, and leaped 
up against the roof. The whole building 
was of pine, and burned like tinder. The 
wind blew strongly, and despite the efforts 
of the poor woman to extinguish the fire in 
her garments, she was burned so terribly as 
to be for the time almost crazed with the 
awful pain. Suddenly she thought of her 
baby, asleep in the burning building, and as 
the mother-love overcame tlie agony of 
physical suffering, she cried out, while the 
flames leaped and writhed about her hotly 
in the wind,— 
“ Oh, Mary ! she is in the shanty! What 
will become of her ?” 
they will not be so brilliant as by the above 
process. 
-- 
BROWN BREAD FIRST. 
It is a plain but faithful saying, “ Eat your 
brown bread first;” nor is there a belter rule 
for a young man’s outset iu the world. 
While you continue single, you may live 
within as narrow limits as you please; and 
it is then youmust begin to save, in order to 
make provision for the enlarged expenses of 
your future family. Besides, a plain, frugal 
life is then supported most cheerfully; it is 
your own choice, and it is to be justified on 
the best and most honest principles in the 
world, and you have nobody’s pride to strug¬ 
gle with or appetites to master but your 
own. Ah you advance in life and success, it 
will be expected you should give yourself 
greater indulgence; and you may then he 
allowed to do it both reasonably and safely. 
-- — - 
MRS. FRY’S ADVICE TO HER SONS. 
Be not double-minded in any degree, but 
faithfully maintain, not only the upright 
principle on religious grounds, but also the 
brightest honor, according even to t he max¬ 
ims of the world. I mourn to say 1 have seen 
the want of this bright honor; and my belief 
is, that it cannot he too strictly maintained, or 
too early begun; 1 like to see it in small things 
and in great; for it marks the upright man. 
I may say that I abhor anything like being 
underhanded or double-dealing; hut let us 
goon the right and noble principle of doing 
unto others as we would have others do to 
us; therefore, in all transactions, small or 
great, maintain strictly tlie correct, upright, 
and most honorable practice. 
- ♦♦♦ - 
Genius has its individuality; it cannot 
exist without it. As each flower lias its own 
fragrance, so is genius, expressive, distinct. 
