f 
n 
thing, so very much confused Miat no one 
hut a coquette could have understood, Bhe 
replied that she neither would nor could. 
Whereupon Stephen turned and left her 
without another word, but with a look in his 
dark eyes that haunted her for days. But 
the night before Stephen left he drew Dilly 
out under the old chestnut trees and repeat¬ 
ed the question more steadily and without 
stammering. Her heart thrilled a little at 
his earnest tone, but she refused him, saying, 
sweelly, that she would miss him much as a 
dear friend; upon which, Mr. Stephen Whit¬ 
more started aside as if stung; then catch¬ 
ing her hand he pressed it to his breast, and 
with a broken “ Good-by, Dilly !” disap¬ 
peared from her sight. 
Aunt Pen was dozing in the parlor when 
poor Stephen roused her. To her amaze¬ 
ment she tonnd herself clasped in a pair of 
stout young arms and warmly pressed to a 
throbbing heart. In a second more she was 
most tenderly kissed, ami tell t wo teal's drop 
on her cheeks, and then, before the w#rds, 
“ Good-by, dear, dear Miss Pen !” had ceased 
to sound in hereapf.she was once more alone. 
Susan whs standing at the gate, medita¬ 
ting in the moonlight; Stephen Whitmore 
wrung her hand hard as he passed her. She 
watched him sadly as lie hurried up the hill. 
"Miss Dilly has given him :i sore heart 
this night," she thought. “ Ah, well 1 I fear 
her time will come yet.” And so it did. 
Stephen did not return in a year’s time; 
his parents never failed to receive letters 
from him each week, and many a token of 
fond remembrance was sent them, but he re¬ 
mained away till three years had passed, and 
then he came. As far as outward appear¬ 
ance went, he was a different Stephen from 
the blushing, awkward boy that left them; 
he was now a tall, well-developed man, with 
a lace that, had force and character in every 
line, and yet with a certain touch of tender¬ 
ness about the mouth and a kindly gleam in 
the eyes, that won the liking and good will 
of those lie looked on. But if his feelings 
for Hilly were the same, he concealed them 
so well that, although they were often to¬ 
gether, the litUe coquette could not discover 
whether he still loved her or not. I am sor¬ 
ry to say that the three years had not altered 
Hilly in respect to coquetting—in fact, she 
indulged in it more than ever, and of course 
was a greater proficient in the art; she was 
prettier, too, and that without losing her 
charming air of freshness. 
Alter Stephen had been home about a 
month, a new actor appeared upon the scene. 
This was a young Cuban, whose mother was 
an American. She had some cousins in the 
neighborhood, and had requested her son to 
make them a visit. Sebastian Torrcdos tv as 
at once an object of interest to all the young 
ladies —and gentlemen, too, though not for 
the same reason. To lie sure, the young la¬ 
dies would have liked it better had lie spok¬ 
en broken English ; but, unfortunately, hav¬ 
ing passed the greater part of Ills boyhood 
. in the Tniled States, he spoke the language 
like a native. Still, he looked very Spanish, 
aiui, as he could speak that language also like 
a native, matters were quite satisfactory. He 
and Dilly met on equal ground, for both 
were accomplished in the same game of skill, 
and neither were in any danger of being in¬ 
jured, 
Stephen still made no sign, and poor Dilly 
experienced a heart-felt anxiety because he 
did not, before she was in the least aware that 
she entertained such a feeling. To drive it 
away, she flirted with the Cuban, for that 
reason, and also with an unacknowledged de¬ 
sire to sting Stephen, if he cared enough for 
her to be slung. 
Each day she grew more anxious to find 
some mark of interest, and each day was as 
far from discovering it as ever. In the midst 
of it all, Stephen was obliged to be absent 
for several days on some matters of business, 
and in his absence Dilly found herself grow¬ 
ing fearfully tired of Don Sebastian Torre- 
doB. One afternoon she set out on a long 
walk, and staid till dusk, lest he might 
lounge in bis usual listless way, and spend 
hours with her. 
Before she returned, Jenny came trotting 
in from the village. "Here, Mrs. Susan,” 
said she, “ is a letter for Miss Amelia.” 
“ Bui on the mantle in the dining-room,” 
replied Susan.” 
Now there was a peculiarity about that 
mantle-piece; a mirror stretched along it, 
leaving a small space unoccupied at each 
end, on which it was well enough to place 
letters; but behind this mirror lurked a crack, 
into which, if an article slipped, it disap¬ 
peared as completely as though it had gone 
into a crevasse in Mont Blanc. Jenny knew 
of the crock, of course, and placed the letter 
by the side of the mirror; but when Dilly 
came in, knowing notliing of it, she laid some 
wild flowers she had gathered in the same 
place, and in doing so, pushed the letter a 
little too far, and down it. went. She heard 
it, and began to inquire into the matter, but 
when Susan told her, said, indifferently: 
“It is no matter; the letter must be from 
Mary Wilcox, who is in New York; she al¬ 
ways writes a lot ot rubbish. I know it is 
from her, for she said she would send me an I 
account of a party that was to come off this 
week.” 
The next day Stephen returned from his 
journey, and the same evening met Dilly at 
a little gathering. She was rather puzzled 
by a questioning look in his dark eyes—a 
look in which, in spite of himself, there was 
occasionally mingled a glance of tenderness. 
This only aroused Dilly to more active flirta¬ 
tion with the Cuban. She knew Stephen 
disliked him, and when she saw his troubled 
gaze, she assumed a confidential air which 
her companion instantly caught up. 
Toward the close of the evening, Dilly 
was seated by an open window, the Cuban 
by her, and Mr. Stephen Whitmore standing 
opposite. The conversation turned upon 
letters. 
“I received one yesterday,” said Miss 
Dilly, laughing, “ written upon a most im¬ 
portant subject — at least to the writer; but 
I shall not answer it, for a very good reason.” 
“And what is that, pray?” asked the 
Cuban. 
Perhaps I will tell you to-morrow, when 
you bring that sea view you spoke of slav¬ 
ing me,” returned she, with the confidential 
air that was intended to distract Stephen ; 
but on giving him a side glance she shivered 
at the change in his countenance. So cold, 
so dark and stern was his expression, that 
her heart sank within her, an^l as she turned 
her head to more fully see him he leaned for¬ 
ward, and fixing on her a look of contempt, 
said slowly: 
“ You speak of pictures—do you remem¬ 
ber the one we were looking at last, week, 
and the words underneath it, ‘ Love dese¬ 
crated dies ?’ ” 
Then lie turned from her and addressed a 
gay remark to a young lady near him. 
Dilly saw him no more until the following 
week ; but she heard in the meantime that, 
much to the regret of his parents, he had de¬ 
cided not to remain at home, but again togo 
West. When slie did see him it was but fbr 
a moment, and with others around them; 
the clasp of bis hand was loose and careless, 
the look lie gave tier as he bade her good-by 
one of quiet indifference 
Stephen went, and Dilly, spite of her best 
efforts, drooped. Some persons attribute! 
• Ids to the departure of the Cuban, who made 
hisadieux at. this time. He favored Dilly 
with a complimentary speech and a very 
tender pressure of her hand; he would have 
kissed it in French fashion, hut she, fast los¬ 
ing her coquettish ways, restrained him by 
a look. 
1 lie month, passed on, and Dilly grew 
quiet, and thoughtful. Much she pondered 
on the expression of Stephen’s countenance, 
but tin: only cause sbe could find was her 
flirting with the Cuban. One night she sat 
musing, just before going lo bed. On the 
temporary, she repeated her promise in a 
quivering voice, and asked Dilly to share her 
bed—an offer that was accepted. Miss Pe¬ 
nelope was fully resolved to keep a diligent 
watch all night; hut before she bad the least 
idea of doing such a thing, dropped sound 
asleep, and when she woke iu the morning, 
fouud that she alone occupied the bed. Be¬ 
fore she had time to rise, Dilly entered the 
room, calm and serene, though a certain 
anxiety lurked lu her eyes. Aunt Pen wise¬ 
ly thought she would not allude to the sub¬ 
ject of t he mantle-piece, trusting that. Dilly 
had been dreaming; but she was at once re¬ 
minded of her promise, and saw she was to 
be strictly held to it. In vain did she ques¬ 
tion Dilly as to her reason. At last Miss 
Pen said: 
vinced that Dilly was going into a train 
fever, and that the pulling down Of the 
chimney-piece was the first symptom of it. 
Of course, she sent with all sj*ed for the 
doctor, who indignantly infop-iicd the anx¬ 
ious aunt that he considered »'t rather an at¬ 
tack of irritability than a«* thing else, Dilly 
having received him vervungraciously, flatly 
telling him thut she w^ild not swallow one 
atom of his nasty, vseless, poisonous doses. 
Being of a positiw nature, she did not, and 
in a few days emerged from her room, look¬ 
ing much as vsual, though a shade paler. 
Suspense is hard to bear, and so Dilly 
found it; hut she also made another discov¬ 
ery, an*-: that was that she loved Stephen 
more and more each day, and that this love 
. . , had struck its roots so deeply in her heart, 
tbity, my dear, it is out of the question j j&at poor coquetry had withered and died 
to pub d«wn the wall in that manner withvf for want of room and moisture. 
Stephen had asked for silence in ease Hilly 
rt arrtr Brtrsfs. 
NATIONAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN. 
table by which she sat lay a little book, in 
which Stephen, when he first, returned, had 
written her name at her request. lie wrote 
a peculiar hand, one that would at, once at¬ 
tract, attention. While thus sitting, Jenny 
came in lo consult her on the color of a 
dress she had purchased that day. Standing 
by the table, her eyes fell on the writing in 
the book. 
“ Land’s sakes! ” she exclaimed ; “ that is 
lor all the world the same writing that was 
on your letter, Miss Dilly, that slid down the 
crack.” 
Miss Hilly turned pale. “ Are you sure, 
Jenny?” she asked, quietly, hut with great 
effort. 
“ Ye8 »” replied Jenny, taking up the book. 
“ I was looking at the way the A and T were 
made as I brought the letter along, and these 
are made just the same.” 
“ Perhaps they are,” said Hilly, and then, 
turning to the dress, drew Jenny’s attention 
to it. But when the girl leR the room, she 
started up, and with hands pressed lightly 
on her breast, walked rapidly up and down. 
She saw it all now. Stephen had sent, her 
that letter, the letter she had written to all 
lu«r correspondents about, without, finding 
the writer; and now she understood why ho 
looked at her as he did that night. He 
thought she had read the letter and was mak¬ 
ing a jest of it. Oh, how her heart throbbed 
and pained ;is she thought, of it all. 
Aunt Pen was sleeping the sleep of the. 
just, when she was roused by the voice of 
weeping. Sitting up, she saw Dilly in the 
pale moonlight standing by her bed. 
“ Oh, Aunt Pen ! dear Aunt Pen ! you do 
love me, don’t you ? ” 
Aunt Pen instantly embracing her sobbing 
darling, and drawing her beside her, en¬ 
deavored to find out the cause of her tears. 
She was alarmed, as Dilly was not given to 
such outbursts. 
“ I know you love me very much, dear 
Aunt Pen, and you will do something for me 
that. 1 wish so very much; won’t you, dear 
Aunt Pen ?” 
And then followed such a flow of tears 
that poor Miss Penelope promised. “ What 
is it, my darling?” she asked. 
"Have the dining-room man tie-piece pulled 
down,” sobbed Hilly. 
Aunt Pen shook with terror. She took it 
for granted that her niece was losing her 
senses; hut hoping the derangement was 
out saying why, What do you suppose tlurt 
Susan and everybody else would think?” 
Miss Hilly surveyed her aunt thoughtfully, 
“ That ‘s very true," she replied, and /eft the 
room. 
While Miss Penelope was still congratu¬ 
lating herself upon her success, Hilly re¬ 
turned. 
“ It is all right now, Aunt Pen,” she said; 
“ 1 have slipped your great-grandfather’s sil¬ 
ver watch down the crack, and that is rea¬ 
son enough.” 
For once in her life Aunt Pen was in¬ 
dignant,. 
“ Amelia!" she cried; “how dare you do 
sucli a thing as that?” 
Hilly threw her arms around her aunt’s 
neck, and pressed her soft cheek to hers. 
“ Dear Aunt Pen,” she murmured, in cares¬ 
sing tones, "you know you said you must 
have a reason, ami you promised* me the 
mantle-piece shook! he taken down; you 
wouldn’t wish to break your promise to your 
own little Miss Hilly who loves you so?” 
Mias Penelope endeavored to be firm and 
remain indignant, for the Insult to the treas¬ 
ured heir-loom was not to he patiently sub¬ 
mitted to; but it was ofno use, and she final¬ 
ly yielded, us she always did. 
Miss Amelia coolly informed Susan that 
she had dropped the watch down the crack; 
and although Susan listened with upraised 
hands and eyes, she declared she was not the 
least astonished; Miss Dilly would do mis¬ 
chief, she supposed, to the end of her days. 
Miss Dilly had taken the precaution to 
drop in n few advertisements; so when the 
chimney-piece was taken down, and while 
Miss Ponclopo and-Susan were anxiously 
examining the watch, she secured the pre¬ 
cious letter among the advertisements, and 
no one noticed it. When alone in her room 
she carefully fastened the door, and then sat 
breathlessly gazing at the important docu¬ 
ment. for several moments before daring to 
open it. But when she did, and read in it, 
how deeply Stephen loved her, how she was 
the only woman in the world to him, her 
heart stood still for very rapture; she was 
conscious of but one thought, and that filled 
her to the exclusion of all others— Stephen 
loved her. 
After a time she read the letter more at¬ 
tentively, for at first the words swam in a 
golden light, very beautiful but very bewild¬ 
ering; and then she. found that ho requested 
her, if her answer was unfavorable, not to 
speak or write to him upon the subject; 
words would, he said.be unendurable; if she 
could not accept his love, let him know it by 
utter silence, and in silence be would en¬ 
deavor to bear it. Then she saw how he 
must have misunderstood tier jesting words 
t hat night, and her heart sank down from its 
height of joy when she reflected with what 
contempt he must have looked iipou her 
when lie imagined that she made a mockery 
of his love, and intended telling the Cuban 
ol it as a matter of amusement. 
This thought was more than she could 
bear; bis love, perhaps, had passed from her 
forever, but his respect slio would not lose. 
He should know that she was no dishonor¬ 
able flirt; he should give her a riace in his es¬ 
teem, if not in his affections, She snatched 
up pen and paper, and dashed off a few 
hasty lines, telling him how the letter was 
lost, and that it had just then been discov¬ 
ered by the taking-down of the chimney* 
piece; that when it fell in the crack she 
supposed it was from a friend in New York 
on the subject of a party, and that her idle 
words applied to that. She never mention¬ 
ed love, but told him she could not bear to 
forfeit the esteem of so dear a friend. Then, 
trembling with excitement, she hurried to 
the village and mailed her letter; after that 
she sought a secret nook deep in the woods 
to which she sometimes resorted, and lying 
on the soft, crisp leaves, wept as though her 
heart would break. Doubts seized Iter; 
had she done something bold and unwoman¬ 
ly i She could not tell—all was in a maze; 
and finally, sick at heart, and in body too' 
from lengthened weeping, she dragged her¬ 
self home and was in bed two days, during 
which time Miss Penelope, Susan and Jeuny 
stole up and down stairs and about the house 
like frightened mice, and in a great state of 
anxiety. Miss Penelope was firmly con- 
lmd no love to give him; but when, in aii 
swer to Iter letter he arrived, determined to 
make one more effort, he was not only satis¬ 
fied with his Hilly’s silence, but .thought it 
more speaking than a thousand words; for 
when he stood before her, and she started 
up, shy, trembling, pale, he saw in her swifl- 
ly-falling glance, the look his heart thirsted 
for, and when he opened his longing arms, 
Dilly answered him by simply nestling in 
them, and holding her face upon his faithful 
breast. 
'rirntific anb Jtscful. 
USEFUL AND SCIENTIFIC ITEMS. 
To Restore Color. 
A scientific journal says:—“ It is well- 
known that when the color on a fabric has 
been destroyed by acid, ammonia is applied 
to neutralize the same. But it, is not so well 
known that after the application of ammo¬ 
nia, chloroform will, in almost nil cases, re¬ 
store the original color. Chloroform will 
also remove paint from a garment when al 
most everything else fails.” 
Refining Neulhfoot oil. 
The American Artisan says “ Put (say) 
a quart of the oil with one-half pound of 
bright lead shavings, and one-half pound of 
quicklime pounded, into a glass bottle, let it 
stand in the sun and light, for two or three 
weeks, then put the oil and lime intoasaucc- 
pan with one-half pound of washing soda, 
boil gently fifteen minutes, then set in the 
coldest place possible till the next day, when 
it will be found congealed ; then put into a 
filter of white blotting paper, place a clean 
glass bottle under t be filter, and you will get 
some of the finest oil, suitable for the most 
delicate machinery. Any one requiring a 
little nice oil would do well to try this in 
preference to buying it. ready done. * It must 
be kept perfectly cold while filtering, or the 
soda will go through.” 
To Whiten Wool. 
The Mechanics Magazine says“ The 
following is published in a German indus¬ 
trial journal as a process for giving white¬ 
ness and weight to wool. We give it for 
what it is worth, without promising thut the 
result will be satisfactory, or that the game 
will be worth the candle. The quantities of 
ingredients here given are for fifty pounds of 
wool. Make a bath by dissolving in water 
two pounds of alum, eighteen pounds of 
cream of tartar, eleven pounds of sulphuric 
aeul, eighteen pounds of stureli, six pounds 
of sulphate of indigo and three pounds of 
orchil. Immerse the wool in this bath, at 
Iwenty-tovo degrees Fahrenheit, for three- 
quarters of an hour. In this way it will get 
a whitish tone, with which many are con¬ 
tent ; but the white may be made deeper by 
rinsing and then transi'erring it to another 
bath, consisting of a solution of one pound 
ot chloride of barium. This, we are told, 
will give a very solid and satiny whiteness 
to the wool, which it is quite possible may 
be increased in weight by the treatment ” 
The forty-fifth annual exhibition numbers 
41 1 subjects, including those in the sculpture 
room. The number of artists represented, 
244, of whom nearly forty arc women. 
“ Portrait— Alice Caky," by Francis B. 
Carpenter, possesses an interest beyond all 
the other portraits, or pictures even, tor that 
mutter, One would hardly think from tins 
portrait that the subject is an invalid, unless 
suggested by a certain expression about the 
mouth, which, after all, might not be the 
result of weariness or suffering. This well- 
known poet is a brunet te, with large, dark, 
splendid eyes, and the hair, into which 
threads of gray are creeping, is worn short, 
and clusters “ poetically ” all about the head. 
About, the neck is a wide frill of lace, fasten¬ 
ed at the throat with loops and ends of deep 
rose ribbon. About the shoulders is grace¬ 
fully thrown a mantle of *lnrk green, with a 
border of fur. This is partially held in place 
by one hand, which is thereby brought, into 
view. The pose of the figure and arrange¬ 
ment of the drapery arc most satisfactory. 
Nothing detract* from the face, or the ex- 
pi ess ion of the hand, while all is harmony- 
and grace. Happy the artist with such a 
subject to portray, and beautiful the poet so 
far above the reach <>f artificial decorations. 
“ Portrait of a Young Lady,” (Miss 
Blanche Butlku,) by Joseph Ames, is an¬ 
other charming subject, portrayed with spirit 
and action, but without sufficient refinement 
and delicacy in the face and hair; these 
have a coarse, unfinished look. Blanche 
is a beautiful girl, ami Mr. Ames a capital 
artist in some respects, but he seems incapa¬ 
ble of painting a woman’s face as it ought 
to he painted. It is nearly a full-length por¬ 
trait, and the young lady is arrayed in full 
evening dress; but there is a simplicity and 
grace and perfectly-at-home feeling through 
all, that is entirely in keeping with case aud 
naturalness. 
“ Tlie Little Stranger,” by S. J. Grey, 
merits a vast deal of honest praise. The 
scene is an elegantly furnished chamber, 
and the central attraction a little girl, silling 
on the fool of the bed holding, evidently, for 
the first time, the little, new baby. Th e 
young mother in bed looks smilingly on, 
while the matronly nurse holds out her 
hands, as if expecting the little girl’s to let 
the baby fall every moment. The mother’s 
face has too much color for an invalid’s, and 
the little gu - l s vftll, which she has (lung on 
the carpet, face downward, as large as the 
live one she In i.s, would please better, if 
not so large, lint the excellent drawing, 
the careful finish in every detail, aud the 
entire sentiment of the picture are most 
admirable. 
“Nothing but Leaves,” by Julie H. 
Beers, is a white stone cross, about which 
is wreathed dead and withered leaves — 
mourn till and suggestive. 
“ Baby’s Vase,” by Mrs. James M. Hart, 
is a baby's shoe filled with Mild flowers. 
Baby’s Opening,” by the same artist, is a 
baby’s bonnet filled with flowers, with other 
baby things about. 
"Muud Muller" appears again, this time 
painted by Mary S. Wyman, and is a very 
good “ Maud.” She has large, longing brown 
eyes, a torn lnit and dress, leans on her rake, 
near the “ bubbling spring,” and looks off 
somewhere, probably to the “ far off town,” 
She is a very healthy, stout-looking lass, 
Good Rlnck Ink. 
The Druggist’s Circular says:—“There 
has been a great deal published on inks in 
all scientific and popular journals, so that 
we leel a kind of hesitation in augmenting 
the number of recipes already exfetim-- by 
one more. As we have, Low ever, tried it 
ourselves, and found it to answer well, we 
shu I give it below. The great difficulty 
with al iron inks is the precipitation which 
\vill take phiafter a longer or shorter 
tune,and which manufacturers have tried to 
obviate by substituting other materials. All 
inks, however, the basis of which is not tau- 
nute and gal late of iron, are not Mack im- 
, - .— Due, and are 
not better adapted to withstand chemical 
agents than iron inks are. Here is still a 
held open to the inventive chemist. Take 
copperas lour ounces, nutgalls twelve 
ounces, logwood eight ounces, vinegar eight 
ounces, gum arabie one ounce, glycerine 
one-hall ounce, water forty -eight ounces • 
all the substances are to t>e pulverized and 
boiled for an hour together; they are risen 
set to cool, strained through a flannel ban- 
and after t hat filtered through a folded filter.’ 
A dtop ol oil of cloves is added, the whole 
well shaken and filled into bottles.” 
with arms considerably larger than those of 
the average American girl. 
Thomas W. Wool contributes “Return 
of the Flag," a conscientious and realistic 
rendering of an oft-repeated war occurrence. 
A Ship is moored at the pier, and the sol¬ 
diers gather about, looking with earnest and 
somewhat saddened faces at the flag, faded 
and torn, which, on a staff, is upheld by one 
of the number. 
Julian Scott is represented by a large 
battle piece—“ The Rear Guard at White 
Oak Swamp.” Spirited and full of action 
as this picture is, like most battle pieces, it 
has those saddening, terrible features un¬ 
pleasant to look upon, and which resurrect 
tearful and painful memories. Young Scott 
was a farmer boy up in Vermont, and enlist¬ 
ed iu the army early in the war. During 
camp life lie amused hiiuBelf making sketches 
of wlmt he saw, and his talent so excited the 
admiration ot a gentleman, that he was 
urged to devote himself to art when the war 
was over. Julian replied that lie had not 
the means to support himself while study¬ 
ing. The gentleman told him to “go ahead ” 
and not bother ills head about bread and 
butter,—as lie would look after that hituself. 
The result is that Scott is a rising artist, 
and has an open, frank face, that is singu¬ 
larly winning, and is a protege that, anybody 
might be proud of. 
Albert Bierstadt has “ Sierra Nevada 
Mountains, Californiawhich, like most of 
his landscapes, is strong and free, and im¬ 
presses at first, glance. The fog and mist of 
morning is rising from amid the mountain 
tops. At their feet is nestled a lake. A 
pair of deer stand iu the foreground. 
