2 S 4 
THE BUBAL fj£W-¥0B5C 
A FLEA FOR UNITING FAMILIES. 
Wnv Is It that no two women can live under the 
same roof, on equal terms, and live In peace? It 
Is difficult tor one woman to be cook, chamber¬ 
maid and lady or the house at the same time. 
Two, or even more, would succeed so much better, 
especially when visitors call. For lustancc, just 
as I am finishing my work In the. morning Mrs. A. 
arrives; I usher her Into the sitting-room, lake her 
wrappings and sit and entertain her for perhaps 
an hour, perhaps longer; then It Is time to prepare 
dinner, tor hungry men cannot wait; I apologize, 
and goto tue kitchen; Mrs. A. goes too; we scarce 
get there when Mr. B. enters: he Is a dull, com¬ 
mon-place sort or a young man, andean he enter¬ 
tained in the kttchen. 1 no more than get comfor¬ 
tably settled, when Mr. C. knocks ; now I am In a 
puzzle; he is a very dignified, self-important 
young gentleman, with whom I can really enjoy a 
visit It I can have him alone, but can do nothing 
If others are present. While he Is bowing and 
scraping, I take him to the parlor. Mrs. A and 
Mr 13. take their leave without ceremony. Now 
while I sit in the parlor and talk nows and non¬ 
sense to Mr. C., who is to get dinner lor the five 
hungry men that will he coming In soon V I am al¬ 
most ready to yield all of my privileges as the only 
woman m the house, to have some one to depend 
on In case of emergency. r. e. o. 
--- 
THE TOILET. 
I am economical. 1 had saved a hottle of sage- 
tea, alum and honey (prepared for weak eyes) 
till It became vinegar. Into this I had dropped 
waste borax and rinsings of bay-water (and let 
me here add bay-water Is an Inst ant clcauserof 
bottles to which anything adheres, Impossible to 
he got at with a cloth). My practice had been to 
clean them hy agitating sand and soap suds In 
them, till by accident I rinsed my camphor boLtlc 
with hay-water to add to my bottle of toilet water, 
for which I at length round use. My hair Is forty 
inches long, and through neglect t.o wear my 
dusting-cap was being pulled out hy the effort to 
comb it. I emptied my bottle of savings, after 
heating, Into a bowl, and with a nail brush put 
my head Into a lather of castlle soap, and washed 
the two long plats lust, as I would linen, rlused 
and re-rinsed, wrung it In a towel, and combed 
till dry by a hot Ore. It Is now soft as silk. 
For softening the hands nothing is so One as a 
drop each of glycerine and camphor rubbed on 
before going to bed. The alcohol and glycerine 
unite and maxe a white oil or Balve very healing 
and pleasant to use. I always rub It In well Im¬ 
mediately after washing. It Is good for the Ups 
and eyes also. Mas. M. L. S. 
-»■»■»—- 
VISITING CARDS. 
A recent writer on this subject says“ Tn 
visiting cards care should betaken to conform with 
present usage, and to avoid anything considered 
to be In questionable taste, for a card Is tbe repre¬ 
sentative of one's self. To the unrefined or under¬ 
bred person the visiting card la but a trifling and 
insignificant piece of paper; but to the cultured 
disciple of social law It conveys a subtle and unmis¬ 
takable Intelligence. Its texture, style of en¬ 
graving, and even the hour of leaving it, combine 
to place the stranger whose name It bears in a 
pleasant or disagreeable attitude, even before bis 
manners, or conversation and face have been able 
to explain Ills social position, The higher the 
civilization of a community, the more careful li is 
to preserve the elegance of Its social forms, it is 
quite as easy to express a perfect breeding in the 
fashionable formalities of cards as by any other 
method, and perhaps, indeed, it la the safest herald 
of an invitation for a stranger. Its texture should 
be fine, irfi engraving a plain script, Us size, 
neither too small, so that Its recipients shall say to 
themselves "a whimsical person,” nor loo large, 
to suggest ostentation. Refinement seldom touches 
extremes In anything.” 
--♦-*-♦- 
INFORMATION FOR EFFIE. 
In ans wer to Effie’s inquiry I send description of 
lambrequins which 1 made last summer. They 
were made of scarlet opera flannel, lined with very 
stiff black wiggln The cords and tassels were 
made of Germantown wool and zephyr. I had 
two yards of flannel, two skeins of scarlet yarn, 
one of black, and one ounce of gold colored zephyr. 
To make the cords J used two strands of red, one 
of the black, and ono of gold color, i made the 
tassels mostly of the red, mixing some of the 
black and a very little of the gold. 1 trimmed all 
the edges excepting the top, with the cord because 
it was cheaper mail anything else, r also made 
the fringe between the sections of yarn. I made 
the cornice of a piece of lath two inches and a naif 
wide. The leaves can be made of black satin and 
sewed on by overcasting the edges with gold col¬ 
ored saddler’s silk, or they can be omitted alto¬ 
gether, «nd oov.r It with gut paper. If Effie 
should choose this stylo of lambrequin from 
among the many kinds which I have no doubt will 
be sent m answer lo her request, she must he 
governed In quantity by the size or her windows. 
My windows are small and the lambrequins are 
only a little over a yard In length. I will add that 
they were not expensive, and canton flannel may 
be used If preferred. The pattern used was But- 
tertek’s 6628. Kentucky girl. 
- *-*-4 - 
ECONOMICAL NOTES. 
Where one has a large family for which to pro¬ 
vide handkerchlets It Is a good way to buy Lons¬ 
dale cambric for that purpose. A yard makes four, 
and alter they have been washed once or twice 
they are soft and nice for every day me. They 
only cost from three to lour cents apiece and are 
much cheaper than linen. 
A neat little work-box may be made by taking a 
cigar-box. Paste a piece of strong cloth on the 
two sides where the lid Is hung, secure It, with 
small picture frame tacks. That Is to make the 
cover fast. Then paste a narrow si rip of cloth 
around the edge of tbe box; when dry. cover all 
with ladles’ doth or other suitable material and 
sew fast to the strip. Cover tbe lid so that It can 
be stuffed for a pincushion. Paste pictures on the 
Inside of the lid to cover the clolh binding, and 
you have a neat little work-box and pincushion 
combined, which. If well done, is not only conve¬ 
nient, but ornamental. Aunt Rachel. 
fittrarji gliscdlaiuj. 
SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT. 
In our Issue of May 1st we shall begin the pub¬ 
lication of an original Farm Story, hy Charles 
Richards Bodge, the author of “ Louise and I,” a 
Sea-side Story, published by G. W. Carleton & Co., 
New York. It combines the bright, practical, 
scientific and romantic sides of the subject In ques¬ 
tion, and shows tbe value of a scientific education 
upon tbe farm; also that success may come 
through apparent failure, and that a woman is a 
help to a man In t he achievement of success. Our 
readers will be Instructed as well as entertained, 
as the agreeable and impressive manner which 
Is employed to convey the thought of the writer 
canuot fall to be appreciated. 
A SUMMER VACATION. 
(Continued from page 238.) 
“ I waited all the next morning, expecting the 
captain would call. But, doctor,,” she added, " 1 
cannot dwell upon this part of the story. Let me 
tell the dreadful truth at once. He did not come. 
So far from fulfilling his arrangement with mo, 
he ascertained by some means about how much 
money was then standing In my name at the 
bank. How he round this out no one knows; hut 
he must have done so. ror the check lie presented 
was within a small amount of the sum total stand¬ 
ing to my credit.” 
“ The infamous scoundrel! ” 1 ejaculated. 
“ I was Indeed bitterly punished for my foolish 
and romantic trust.” 
“ Aud the amount of which he despoiled you— 
how much was that ? ” I asked. 
“ Twenty-nine thousand five hundred pounds I ” 
she answered, slowly and steadily. 
" Good heavens! ” 1 cried, for the magnitude of 
the sum almost took my breath away. 
“ But surely,” I continued, “ he was notable to 
escape with so large a sum 7 ” 
•• Alas 1 he was, and principally through my own 
weakness, for when I discovered what had hap¬ 
pened 1 was for a time terrified and afraid to 
speak. But at length the confession of my folly 
was wrung from me. It was too late to overtake 
him then. He had left the country, leaving no 
trace behind him.” 
" And, of course, without paying his debts ? ” 
“ He never paid one of them.” 
" The arrant knave 1 ” 
“ Worse still remains behind, for I might have 
lost myself os well as my fortune, I tremble when 
I think what would have become of me bad he 
made me his wife ! When I think of that 1 feel 
indeed that 1 have escaped cheaply—” 
“ No—no, Miss Llnwood, pardon me,” I Inter¬ 
rupted—“ notcheaply! ” 
“Yes,” she said, slowly, "and when you have 
heard all you will agree with me- That letter 
which distresses me so much, contained the in¬ 
telligence that It had been ascertained that at the 
very time Captain Cheaney was urging his suit to 
me he was already a married man?” 
• It seems Impossible.” I said, "that any one 
could contemplate doing you such a fiendish wrong! 
Such vlllany—such heartlessness—seems almost 
beyond belief I” 
" 1 have forgiven him.” she said, with great 
earnestness. 
" Forgiven him?” 
“ Yes. And now let his name never pass our lips 
again. Where he Is I know not. I have told you 
that there Is some portion of my large fortune left 
—not much, but still sufficient for my wants. I 
feel that I shall never be able to trust any one 
again—never—never. You understand now why 
It Is that under an assumed name I have come to 
hide myself at Melcombe Cottage. It was not that 
I was unable to bear my loss of fortune, 1 was re¬ 
signed to that; but what tried me beyond endur¬ 
ance was tbe condolence of my friends. Their 
pity or their blame were alike maddening to me I” 
•‘And so,” I gasped, for I was so much touched 
by what I had heard that 1 had hardly any com¬ 
mand over my voice. “and so, my poor girl, you 
have, like some stricken deer, sought out a place 
where you can bear your sorrow In secret and un¬ 
known.” 
A sob broke from her Ups; she leaned more 
heavily upon me, her head rested against my 
shoulder. Scarcely less agitated than herself, I 
supported Ler trembling figure. 
The Impulse was strong upon me to throw my 
arms around her—to gather her to my breast—to 
pour out my love and consolation. But with an 
almost superhuman effort I controlled this Im¬ 
pulse; luckily I remembered In time who and 
what she was, and that I was only a struggling 
medical man. 
Two days later I was hack lu my dlDgy lodging 
near Victoria Park, feeling sad and weary, but 
looking forward with some eagerness to the mor¬ 
row, for I was not without the hope that, by de¬ 
voting my energies wholly to mv profession, I 
should be able hy degrees to efface tbe impression 
which Miss Llnwood badmado upon my heart.* 
When I left her she was calm and perfectly self- 
possessed. Having confided to me her reasons tor 
adopting her present life seemed to have had the 
effect of soothing her spirits wonderfully. 
Before leaving, however. I had given Mrs. 
Chamberlain some very special instructions about 
her guest. I knew I should be quite satisfied to 
confide her to the good woman’s motherly care. 
She would watch her closely, and In case of any 
necessity arising was to write to me at once. 
A month passed—a long, dreary time It seemed, 
although I scarcely allowed myself an unoccupied 
moment, and had Induced my friend Holroyd to 
remain with me. At the end of this period a letter 
came from Melcombe Cottage. 
It ran thus: — 
“ My dear Boy, 
" This comes to say T am no ways 
pleased along of Ml83 Llnwood condition. The 
Whether Is very whet which keeps her indoors 
most of the time and she do nothing hut sit Mope- 
lng all day My dear Boy 1 think you better come 
and see her She Is that tlitn it make my heart ake 
to look att her and she wont, Eat nor Brink next 
to nothing and I fear she getting In a very bad 
way So I think you ought come at Wunst So no 
more at present from your Old nurse. 
“ Martha.” 
Poor old nurse! the production of this epistle 
had doubtless been a serious business with her. 
But it effected Its object. I stopped only to give a 
few directions, and commenced my journey with¬ 
out delay. 
It was getting late in the afternoon when I 
alighted at the station. The rain was falling in 
a steady downpour, and the town had a truly dis¬ 
mal look. 
How my heart throbbed when, a few minutes 
afterwards, 1 opened the little Iron gate In front of 
Melcombe Cottage, and walked quickly up the 
garden path I 
The door opened before I could reach the thresh¬ 
old. Nurse had evidently been expecting my 
arrival. 
She answered my eager Inquires with a shake of 
tbe head, and then led me into the little sitting- 
room. 
Mbs Llnwood was halt sitting, half lying on the 
sofa near the Are; for though It was summer still, 
the afternoon was chilly. 
At my entrance she sprung up, and held out her 
hand. What a poor, wasted hand It was, I 
thought, as my own lingers closed over It. 
A flush of color dyed her cheeks for a moment, 
then faded away, leaving her pale as marble. It 
was then 1 noticed how large and wistful her eyes 
looked, and saw the dark shadow under them. 
“ ThlB must be quite a sudden surprise,” I said 
speaking with assumed cheerfulness, for I was 
fearful of betraying my anxiety; "hut I had a 
chance to get away for a couple of days, and so 
determined to run down and see you. I am afraid 
I let you out of the doctor’s care a little sooner than 
I ought.” 
** indeed,” she answered, flushing again, “ there 
is really nothing the matter with me. I am 
very foolish and low-spirited -nothing more. I 
must try to shake off this depression,” 
" Quite true,” I said, very gravely, " you must. 
But do you know I fear you will not sucoeed while 
living here In such seclusion. It Is a mistake to 
shut yourself out from life In this manner, depend 
upon It. 
She smiled wearily. 
" I am content,” she said. “ and have no desire 
to mingle In the world again, I am wretched, 
merely because 1 seem no longer to have anything 
to live for.” 
"Then pardon me, Miss Lockwood,” 1 said, 
you cannot be content Nor Is It right that 
you should think there Is nothing to live for. 
You have had a heavy blow. It is true; but still 
you must not sacrifice your life because a villain 
robbed you of your wealth. You think, no doubt, 
that your sorrow Is a bard one to bear; but you 
should see some of the scenes which 1 tun forced 
to look on from day to day. Your tender heart 
would be touched then, and you would esteem 
yourself fortunate that you were able to alleviate 
some of their distress. Your reeling Is that you 
can never again be happy; but tell me, do you 
think you would experience much joy If you found 
you had the power to make others happy ?” 
"I should indeed,” she said, with more anima¬ 
tion than she had yet displayed. 
"Then, Miss Llnwood, listen to me. Let me 
prescribe something that wLU not only benefit 
yourself but many others. Make up your mind to 
leave. You tell me that some portion of your for¬ 
tune remains. I will show you bow you can make 
a noble use of it—how you can do good to others. 
And believe me, In these attempts to mitigate the 
misery of the thousands around you, you will find 
the speediest aud most effectual remedy for your 
own distress. For a sympathetic, generous-hearted 
woman, there is a glorious occupation—a noble 
work to do ” 
" Boctor " she said, " I am grateful to you for 
showing me my duty. I have been wrong to sit 
here nursing my own grief. Show me the best 
way to begin this new life—let me commence with¬ 
out delay." 
j had read her character truly—I had touched 
the right chord. 
« ♦ ♦ m « « 
The result Justified my expectation—tlm experi¬ 
ment succeeded perfectly. Miss Llnwood —ac¬ 
companied by the old nurse, who firmly refused 
to be left belli ad—as soon as the necessary ar¬ 
rangements could be completed, took up her resi¬ 
dence In a pleasant house In the vicinity of my 
home. 
1 have mentioned that my practice was exten¬ 
sive but not lucrative. I had a very large number 
of patients Indeed, but they were with few excep¬ 
tions persons in a very humble station. I was 
parish doctor also, and in this capacity was 
brought face to face with poverty In Its most ter¬ 
rible aspects. 
It was a new experience for Miss Llnwood. 
Brought up in affluence from her very birth, and 
for the most part having but to express a wish lu 
O'der to ensure its gratification, she had never 
been able I o realize what It was for people to be 
destitute of such necessaries of existence as fire, 
rood, and clothes. 
Few had better opportunities than myself, of 
knowing where monetary help was most needed- 
and I bad but to mention the matter, for Miss Lln¬ 
wood to he ready with relief. At first, Indeed, her 
excess of liberality was even productive of Injury 
instead of benefit This, however, was soon rec¬ 
tified, and she began, for probably the first time 
in her life, to havo a clear Idea of the value of 
money. 
Her health Improved rapidly and wonderfully. 
Tier eyes grew brighter, her cheeks rounder, and 
her wasted flgur n by degrees assumed Its proper 
contour. And at. the same time all traces of re¬ 
gret. and melancholy vanished from her face. She 
at last was happy. 
I, too, was happy—that is, as happy as I could 
expect to be. Despite Its utter hopelessness, my 
love for Miss Llnwood continued undirulnlshed. I 
saw her frequently—wa3 often near to her, and so 
found content. 
More than once my heart beat wildly, and my 
pulses throbbed as I fancied I perceived some sign 
that she had begun to regard me with a warmer 
regard. But my Joy was alwaya dashed hy the re¬ 
membrance of her own words, spoken so earnestly 
and firmly: 
" i cau never trust another—never—never!” 
»•«««•< 
Winter came and went; the sweet, soft spring- 
tide followed; but still the good work went on. 
Every day were blessings Invoked for the “ Good 
Angel,” for so Miss Linwood wn3 known among 
the poor, and fervent wishes for her happiness 
went up from many a heart. 
One eveulng In May I was walking beside her In 
the direction of her residence. The subject of our 
conversation was—as was frequently the case— 
the past. 
“ now mucb I am Indebted to you, doctor,” she 
said, with grateful tenderness. "Think what I 
owe you-" 
"Pray do not,” I said; "I do not deserve your 
thanks. If you knew-” 
" Br. Broughton,” she said, “ do you remember 
all I told you about that unhappy episode In my 
life?” 
" Every word.” 
" Something I said then I wish to retract—the 
words were uttered tboughtiessly and iu haste. 
You had not taught me better then. 1 told you 1 
could never trust another person. I am conscious 
now how wrong I was, for need 1 say, dear friend 
—I could trust you—absolutely—perfectly!” 
There was something In her voice and manner 
which affected mo strongly. Without stopping 
to think—rorgeitlug all my stern resolutions— 
scarcely knowing, indeed, what I said, I made a 
declaration of my love! 
Never once did she attempt to Interrupt me hy 
voice or gesture. Encouraged hy her silence, 1 
asked the question upon which my happiness de¬ 
pended. 
For one Instant her eyes met my own—only for 
an instant. But It was enough. I read my an¬ 
swer in that one glance 1 
"Arthur,” sne said, very softlv, "you have 
brought me from sorrow to content, and now you 
have made me the happiest woman tn all the 
world!” 
We were married on the anniversary of our first 
meeting. How happy I was-how happy we both 
were— and yet before the honeymoon was over I 
told my wife that she was a tyrant and a deceiver 
This was the cause: 
In the first place I had always made up my mind 
to a life of absolute independence. 
My wife ruled otherwise; she insisted that I 
should make my friend a free gift or my practice 
aud all the money then due to me by my patients, 
as shown by my ledger and day-book, and that 
lustead of occupying myself any more with drugs 
and surgery, that l should accompany her upon an 
extensive continental tour, as she had set her heart 
upon visiting all places of Interest In Europe. 
It was lu vain l argued, and pleaded, aud rea¬ 
soned. Like many auotner husband before me, I 
had to submit, aud allow my better half to have 
her own way. 
That was the tyranny. 
Then she had told me that her false lover had 
drawn out nearly all the money In the bank—as I 
understood her, nearly all her fortune; but this I 
found was not so. Her lawyer had not sold the 
whole of the various shares, and I discovered that, 
Instead of the modest competence I expected, my 
wlte possessed a fortune of nearly jCSO.OOO. 
But this deception 1 have consented to overlook, 
and as soon as w e are weary of sight-seeing and 
wandering, we shall settle down in a quiet country 
home. 
So far we have never heard a word of Captain 
Chesney and what he did with his 111 gotten gains 
promises to remain a mystery. Edward. 
A Love Letter.— A fair damsel of the West, ac¬ 
cording to the Litchfield (111.) Democrat, recently 
sent tuts note to her faithful knight: 
Beer Will— Doant kutu to see me eny more for 
a whlal eny way. Fuutber ha.s got awfully skeered 
about burglars, and he sits up every nite till late 
with a double-barrelled shot-gun watching the 
back yard. He put morea a pound of lead Into 
Brown’s Newfoundland dog which was cummin 
over the fens after a bone last nlte. 
The rose is rod, the voilot blew, 
1 wouldn't bum now if I was you. 
-♦- 
A young lady sent a poem entitled, “ 1 Cannot 
Make Him Smile ” to a British newspaper. The ed- 
liorventures to express theoplnlon that she would 
have succeeded had she shown him the poem. 
