286 
may 5 
can’t go home! but I’m happy with you! I 
love you.’’ 
The poor wife watched him with tears in 
her eyes,” 
“He knows me,” she murmured, “but he 
gets my name wrong. Jest, to think that, he 
hadn’t told me he loved me for 15 years be¬ 
fore. And now he’s so sick, I expect he’s 
been wantin’ me to come.” 
The physician was glad to find such a quiet, 
competent uurse, and in his hurried calls never 
thought of the devoted woman being the hon¬ 
ored Senator’s wife. One day she was sum¬ 
moned to the parlor, as the nurse of Hon. S. 
S. Martin. She went hastily to the room, ex¬ 
pecting to see some distinguished Senator, but 
only one person occupied the room. An ele¬ 
gant lady, clad in silks and laces, warm furs 
and velvets, lounged on the sofa. 
“ Are you Hon. S. S. Martin’s nurse?” she 
inquired, without rising. 
“ Yes, ma’am,” said the humble wife. 
“Is ho any better? Do you think he will 
get well?” she queried. 
“ The doctor says he’ll change, for better or 
worse, to-day.’’ 
“Ah!” said the beautiful lady, absently, 
“if for the better, will you please hand him 
this note, and tell him the writer will call in 
a few days?” 
Mrs. Martin fingered the dainty mis¬ 
sive as she retired from the room, vaguely 
wondering what it contained and what any 
woman in Washington was so anxious ubout 
her husband for. She sat down by the fire 
and read: 
Hon. S. S. Martin: 
“ My dear friend:—I am so sorry to hear of 
your protracted illness. I have missed you at 
every ball aud opera. Will call as soon as I 
think you are able to talk ■with me. I am very 
anxious about you. Mamma says I do not 
seem like myself at all. Yours, Flora.” 
So this was the Flora he had been talking 
about. He had not thought of her at ail. In 
a flash she understood it all, and as she caught 
the reflection of her face in a mirror opposite 
she thought bitterly: 
“No wonder he loves her, she is so young 
and fair.” 
She rocked back and forth in the low chair, 
tears falling softly on her wrinkled hands. 
She forgave her husband and decided that she 
would leave the note on the table, take anoth¬ 
er room before the crisis came, stay until sfie 
knew he was getting well, then go home and 
never let him know she had nursed him. She 
had formed the habit of doing everything for 
his pleasure so long that she could not rally 
herself to think of any other plan. She dimly 
pictured the future trial of Samuel getting a 
divorce aud marrying this girl; she had heard 
the girls talk of reading such things in the 
papers. 
As she still sat sadly musing, the sick man 
awoke to consciousness. The bottles on the 
table, the quiet, figure by the fire, the shaded 
windows all told him that he was a prisoner 
in the sick room. Then the, last night of con¬ 
sciousness came back to him. But how weak 
ho was! He felt as if he were goiug to die. 
Perhaps he was— people often rallied to con¬ 
sciousness just as the lamp of life flickered out. 
He would love to see his wife and children. 
Oh! he could not die without asking Rachel’s 
forgiveness for his neglect. He despised him¬ 
self for being so weak as to be tempted to love 
Flora Champton and forget the wife of his 
youth. Then he fastened his gaze upon his 
nurse. She turned slightly. Why, she.really 
resembles Rachel. Yes! he has seen her wear 
that plain brown calico dress on Sundays at 
home, and that jet brooch and comb were his 
Christmas gifts seventeen years ago! That 
was before be entered polities. Her gray hair 
was brushed back in rippling waves from the 
low forehead. The firelight had flushed her 
cheeks a bright crimson, and to him she was a 
lovely, graceful woman once more. 
“But it is my disordered imagination,” he 
thought, “that is some professional uurse. Yet 
it looks like her. I’ll call her ouce aud if it is 
some stranger she’ll only think I'm rambling 
in my talk. Ray!’’ 
How the voice startled the grief-stricken 
woman from her re very of the days when 
Samuel called her pet names, smoothed her 
brown hair aud kissed her lips. 
“It’s but the echo of my thoughts,” she 
mused; “but 1 must go. I’ll not destroy his 
pleasure. I’m gefctin’ old, and it wouldn’t be 
worth while to try to win him back after he’s 
forgot me. so long.” 
She rose wearily and stole softly toward the 
bed, hoping that he wax still sleeping. But his 
eyes were upon her, and he whispered: “Oh 
Ray! is it really you? Did you hoar me call?’ 
“Yes, Samuel,” she answered, the tears 
springing to her eye as she bent over him and 
clasped him in her arm-.. 
lie kissed her brow, cheek and lips, murmur 
ing passionately: 
“My own true wile! 1 love you, Raj'. Bo 
you heaul 1 w as sick aud came to watch me? 
THE 
WEW-YORKfR. 
I’ll go home with you as soon as I’m well and 
I’ve something to confess to yon then.” 
She lmew r what that something was, but she 
did uot fear now, The next day a soft knock 
was heard at the door and then Flora Champ- 
ton entered. 
“Miss Champton—my wife,” said the Sena¬ 
tor proudly. 
“Mrs. Martin, I—I believe I’ve met you be¬ 
fore,” said the lady; with an embarrassed air; 
her artificial modesty could not be assumed 
suddenly before the gaze of the honest brown 
eyes of “an ignorant country wife.” 
“1 hope your husband is b—better to-day,” 
she stammered. 
Beiug answered in the affirmative she coolly 
bade them good-afternoon and retired, for 
something' on the faces of both husband and 
wife told her that her little game was ended. 
She swept haughtily down-stairs, saying to 
herself: 
“It’s lucky I found him out. He’s not very 
rich or his wife would uot dress like a servant- 
girl, I’ll waste no more time on him!” 
The faithful wife ouce agaiu filled the heart 
of her husband, who as soon as he could after 
reaching borne, made amends for the past,. 
Once more his children gathered around him: 
their interests were his and he humbly con¬ 
fessed agaiu aud again, to not having been 
worthy of such a wife, w'hile she in no way 
ever showed how near she came to being 
broken-hearted, but rejoicing in the love re¬ 
stored to her, lost a great deal of the careworn 
look. Her eyes were brighter, there was a 
happy smile on her face constantly, aud she 
grew into a lovely woman. Her husbaud 
watelling her was thankful be had been spared 
from wrecking the life of so grand a woman, 
and w as proud to introduce her into the best 
society. 
-» » » - — 
[On page 260, under “Senator Martin’s 
Wife,” by Emma Cosand Stout, was printed 
“Written for the Rural New-Yorker” in 
parenthesis. This was au oversight. AU 
articles not otherwise credited to other jour¬ 
nals are written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
—Eds.] 
CONDUCTED BY MISS RA V CLARK. 
“ INTO EACH LIFE SOME RAIN MUST 
FALL.” 
If this were all—oh, If this were all! 
That Into each life some ralu must fall, 
There were fainter sobs In the poet’s rhyme, 
There were fewer wrecks on the shores of time. 
But tempests of woe pass over our soul— 
Since winds of auguish we cannot control; 
And shock after shock we are called on to bear, 
Till the Ups are white with the heart’s despair. 
The shores of time with wrecks are strewn, 
Unto the ear comes ever a moau— 
Wrecks of hopes that set sail with glee, 
Wrecks of hopes, sinking silently. 
Many are hidden from the human eye, 
Only God knoweth how deep they lie; 
Only God heard when arose t.hu cry, 
“ Help me to hear -oh, help mo to bear! ” 
“Into eaeh life some rain must fall;” 
If this were all—oh. If this were all! 
Vet there’s a refuge front storm and blast; 
Gloria Patrl -wi.-’il reach It at last. 
Be strong, be strong, to my hear! I cry, 
The pearl in the wounded shell doth lie; 
Days of sunshine are given to ull, 
Tho’ “into each life some rain must fall." 
FRESH AIR. 
GIVE US FRESH AIR IN SLEEPING-ROOMS. 
“ Be sure'n leave a crack o’ your door open, 
’cause your room’s suugger’u the old log 
houses .you know.” 
This is w'lmt Mis. Smith said 30 years ago 
to her three nieces who were visiting her, ami 
who were all to sleep in the little bed-room off 
the square room. It was the last thing she 
said as she left them for the eight aud w ent 
back to her kitchen. Mrs. Smith had just 
moved into her new house, and it seemed so 
tight she made it a rule to caution all her own 
family, every uight, to “lie sure'n leave a 
crack of the door open,” for fear of suffo¬ 
cation. 
“You know,” explained Minerva, the best- 
read of the three nieces, “that there should 
be a little place somewhere for air to come in, 
because if you breathe the air all over you’ll 
die, just as the fish in a pail of water dies 
when he has breathed the water all over. You 
know' lmw those men died iu the Black Hole 
in Calcutta liecause they eouldu’t get air 
enough.” The}’ didn’t know; so Minerva told 
the story, and it was very appalling; but they 
comforted themselves thinking they were ull 
right, if the room was tight; for there was 
that crack in the door, full two inches wide, 
from top to bottom. What became of the 
exhalations of their bodies and of the matter 
they breathed out they never knew. Indeed, 
they never thought they breathed anything 
out. They never saw' anythiug only steam, 
ou a cold Winter morning, aud that all went 
to uothing. 
iu this, the three nieces were not singular. 
It does seem to me that even now', in spite of 
statistics showing how many little bed-rooms 
full of air one person will consume in a given 
time, there are people and people, who take no 
thought about it. 1 wonder so many are well 
when l consider w hat filth-laden breath they 
must use uight after night, to renew and puri¬ 
fy their blood withal. Instead of life-giving 
oxygen there is—what ? 1 don’t like to think, 
because I have had a sniff at some of these 
shut-up bed-rooms, and 1 do not wonder that 
foul diseases gather aud grow iu bodies that 
are vitalized by such air. 1 wopld rather dirty 
food or dirty water should be sot before 
me, than be compelled to remain in dirty 
air, because I could refrain from eating or 
drinking at pleasure; but if I would live, I 
must breathe. No matter what foulness fills 
the air, I must breathe it while I remain in it. 
Again, it would be w ell if some people would 
remember that uot only figuratively but lit¬ 
erally, they carry an atmosphere about them, 
more or less perceptible. Some keep them¬ 
selves so clean that when they stir the air, in 
moving about the room, you can leel a sense 
of freshness, while others, and good-meaning 
people too, are very careless about their dress 
and all such things. Really, it is unkind aud 
ill-bred needlessly to vitiate the air which oth¬ 
ers must breathe. 
Oh, for plenty of fresh, life-giviug air when 
I sleep! In the country, iu warm weather, 
there is, or should be, no trouble about this. 
There ought not. and need uot. to be anything 
outside the house to taiut aud pollute tho air; 
so that if a window is raised at twilight or at 
midnight uo bad odor will come in. 
There need be nothing but the balsamic 
breuth of pines, hemlocks and arbor-vita*, 
mingled with the perfume of flowers iu their 
season; aud huw r much of health and strength 
this pure, sweet air will bring to the family 
that breathes it. I dwell with emphasis on the 
air of sleeping-rooms, for even if uo particu¬ 
lar care is taken during the day, the air is 
changed in a thousand ways: but at night, 
when you lie down to sleep, you have to take 
just what air comes to your lungs. If two or 
three persons sleep in one room, it is abso¬ 
lutely necessary to have a current of air pass¬ 
ing through, or else the sleepers must breathe 
each other’s breath over aud over, all uight. 
If people would consider this fairly, they 
would be more careful. 
How' many little bed-rooms are there all over 
the country, opening off the kitchen, where 
the father aud mother of the family sleep! 
and many of these rooms are uot opened to 
the outside air for weeks, or until there comes 
a thaw; while into them is poured the steam 
from the cooking, day after day, until the 
walls glisten on frosty nights, and they re¬ 
tain, undisturbed, the acciunulated effluvia. 
Many children sleep iu rooms that are kept 
constantly shut, to keep the cold out; not 
aired thoroughly, even on suuny days. If 
eyesight were a little keeuer, one would not 
look in vain under beds aud behind closet 
doors in these rooms, for tierce forms are real¬ 
ly lurking there—terrible discuses, ready to 
spring upon the children whenever they arc 
weakened by over-exeri ion or a little cold. 
This is the way to do in bitter cold weather. 
Throw the windows wide opeu in the morning. 
Shake the sheets aud night clothes outside. If 
the sun shines let them stay in it. Blessed suu- 
shine! If the wind blows, let them take the 
wind. Leave the windows open for an hour 
or two unless the snow is flying. Dou’t make 
the beds, anyway, until several hours have 
passed, and never, never roll up night-dresses 
and put them under the pillows or stick them 
into cracks aud corners to get them out of 
sight. Haug them up, by all means, where 
they can have air. All this is trouble, anti it 
makes the rooms cold aud necessitates more 
fuel to keep the house warm; but it is uot. half 
the trouble, expense aud anxiety that it is to 
be sick one’s self, or to attend upon the sick. 
Really, all the clothes so treated are dryer than 
those which are folded und put aw ay. 
Winter is the trying time, iu this climate. 
In Winter tho worst diseases usually prevail; 
the w eak and the infirm die. It is not tho cold 
directly that shortens their lives, but tho lack 
of pure air, of oxygen aud the breathing of 
impure air, that weakens the vital action. 
The wealthy can poor fresh, warm air into 
their sleeping rooms, if they choose to take the 
]>aius, but those who cannot afford that luxury 
should not allow themselves to miss the advan¬ 
tages of pure, tvesh air while thole are such 
oceans of it free. Warm the beds at night and 
cover up thick, so as to sleep as w arm as toast, 
but let the fresh air pass through your room 
in some way; get the habit of breathing fresh 
air and you will soon hunger and thirst for it 
as you never did before. Persi Verb. 
P omcstic Cl' c o n o m \) 
CONDUCTED BY EMILY MAPLE. 
HOUSEKEEPING NOTES. 
Canned Fruits — Jellies—Chickens Old—Bed 
Linen—Beef Fat—Baked Fish—How to 
Catch a Mouse , etc. 
MARY WAGER-FISHEU. 
In keeping over canned l'ruite there is room 
for discretion in choice. Pears that have 
been skinned aud divided become sol t after a 
year’s keeping, while those that have been 
canned whole aud uuskinned keep nicely for 
two or three years. Plums keep better than 
cherries, and peaches better than raspber¬ 
ries, as a ride. Grape jelly should be used 
tho first year, as, after a few months, crystal¬ 
lization begins. This also frequently occurs 
iu raspberry jelly. Quince, wild plum, 
rhubarb and currant jellies may be kept in¬ 
definitely. But jollies of any kind that con - 
tain crystals, or have become hard from age, 
may be utilized in minoa fries and fruit pud¬ 
dings. 
Chickens that are old, tough, or lacking in 
juiciness, should be cut up aud boiled until 
nearly tender, aud then stewed down until 
but a small portion of the water remains at 
the bottom. Then take out the pieces care¬ 
fully and arrange them on a warn platter 
and place where they will keep warm. Pour 
a pint of hot water in the remaining juice, let 
it boil and then stir in salt, a bit of butter, 
and pepper to taste, and some of tho gravy 
t. iickened smoothly with flour—no milk or 
cream—boil and stir well for a minute and 
turn into a lovely bowl; send with chicken 
and vegetables to the table aud serve at once. 
Absolutely delicious—especial!} the gravy. 
To keep sheets aud table-cloths from 
“switching out” at the ends, when on the 
drying line, hang them up once folded, by 
the corners—two opposite corners together. 
They will not dry quite so quickly , but much 
wifi bo gained in the preservation of the 
fabric. If there is a white bed-spread to be 
“done up” starch it slightly and iron the 
long way, on the wrong side, keeping it 
straight and even like a table-cloth. It will 
look enough nicer and keep clean enough 
longer to pay for the trouble. 
Beef Fat rendered in water will not har¬ 
den like tallow, but will remain soft aud even 
oily if kept in a uot too cold place, and is very 
uice for most' purposes where lard is thought 
requisite. Jews, who eschew all hog fat, 
render beef fat iu this most excellent way- 
cooking it thoroughly in water aud dipping it 
off the top as it rises, like oil. 
Very uice Quaker housekeepers clean 
painted wood-work with bran-water—using 
no soups or alkalies. 
Fresh fish that has been boiled may be 
warmed over by putting it in a baking dish, 
adding pepper, salt, and a bit of butter, and 
baking it. Coarae-grained fish, as haddock, 
codfish and halibut, after boiliug, is delicious 
when served in this way. 
When the mouse-trap fails to catch the 
mouse burn it up; no amount of scalding or 
smoking w ill make it a “ catching” trap again. 
A very simple and effective trap ran be con¬ 
trived with an ordinary kitchen bowl and a 
piece of whalebone. Bend the ends of the lat¬ 
ter together aud tie firmly: slip iu uear tho 
“tie,” so it will hold, apiece of meat or cheese. 
Take a board, a foot square or more, aud place 
it in the mouse’s neighborhood; on it put the 
bowl upside down with the loop of whalebone 
under it, but so placed that the edge of the 
bowl rests ou the loop in such a way that when 
the mouse crawls under and catches at the bait 
the bowl will slide down over the loop (tho tied 
ends being inside) and imprison the mouse. I 
have caught mice in this way until the house 
was entirely free from them. Sometimes the 
whalebone is gnawed into bits. Anythiug 
that has spring in it. like whalebone, and cuu 
be similarly bent., will serve; the widest spring 
in au old-fashioned hoop-skirt might do—it 
must be wide enough to allow the edge of the 
bowl to poise ou it. Try it. 
Here is an unfailing recipe for a good rice 
pudding: One quart of milk, two tablespoons 
of rice, two tablespoons of granulated sugar; 
mix and stir often during the baking. These 
proportions can lie increased fora pudding of 
auy size, but the exact ratio should be pro 
served. Add a little salt if you like. 
