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THE VICAR’S e GDVERNESS CHAPTER XXVII.â€"(Cont'd.) "Oh. Dorian. dearl What are you thinking of? Do remember how warm the weather i8." “\Vell. so it is‘.â€"grilling." says Mr. Branscombe. nobly confessing his fault. " Do you like me in that olive silk l" asks she, hopefully, gazing at him with earnest, intense eyes. ' “ Don't I just ?” returns he. fervent- ly, rising to enforce his words. " Now. don't be sillier than you can help," murmurs she, with a lovely smile. “Dont'l, I like that gown my- smile. "Don'tl I like that gown my- nice and old. and that.” “ If I were a little girl like you." says Mr. Bransccmbe, "I should rather banker after looking nice and young." " But not too much so: it is frivolous when one is once married." This pen- sively, and with all the air of one who has long studied the subject. " Is it? Of course you know best, your experience being greater than mine,” says Dprian, meekly. " but, just for choice, I prefer youth to anything else." " Do you? Then I suppose I had bet- ter wear white." “ Yes do. One evening, in Paris, you wore a. white gown of some sort, and I dreamt of you every night for a week afterward.” “ Very well. I shall give you achance of dreaming of me again." says Geor- gie. with acarefully suppressed sight that is surely meant for the beloved olive gown. The sigh is wasted. “'hen she does don the white gown so despised, she is so perfect a picture that ,one might well be excused for wasting seven long nights in airy visions filled all with her. Some wild artistic marguerites are in her bosom (she plucked them herself from out the meadow an hour agone); her lips are red and parted; her hair, that is loosely knotted, and hangs low down, betraying the perfect shape of her small head, is "yellow, like ripe corn." She smiles as she places her hand in Dorian's and asks him how she looks; while he, being all too glad of her excessive beauty, is very slow to answer her. In truth, she is “ like the snowdrop fair. and like the primrose sweet." ’ At the castle she creates rather a Sensation. Many, as yet, have not seen her; and these stare at her placidly, inâ€" different. to the fact that would have it. otherwise. “ What a peculiarly pretty young wo- man." says the duke, half an hour after her arrival, staring at her through his glasses. He had been absent when she came. and so is only just‘now awakâ€" ened to a sense of her charms. " Who fâ€"what ?" said the duchess, vaguely, she being the person he has rashly addressed. She is very fat. very unimpressionable. and very argument. “Ohl over there. I quite forget who she is. But I do see that Alfred is with her. ed devotion to Helen. he runs after every fresh face he sees." “ ' There’s nothing like a plenty,’ " quoth the duke, with a dry chuckle at his own wit; indeed. he prides himself upon havin been rather a "card" in his day, an anything but a “k'rect” one. either. . . "Yes, there is.--therc is propriety," responds the duchess. in anawful tone. " That wouldn't be a bit like it," says the duke, with a dry chuckle at his own humor; after whichâ€"thinking it, perhaps, safer to withdraw while there is yet timeâ€"be saunters off to the left, and, as he has a trick of looking over his shoulder while walking. nearly falls into Dorian's arms at the next turn. " llo. hahl" says his Gracel. pulling himself up very shortly. and glancmg at his stumbling-block to see i he can identify him. “Why. it is you' anscombe," he says. in his usual cheerful, if rather fussy fashion. "So glad to see you!â€" so gladl" He has made exactly this re- mark to Dorian every time he has come ‘ iusl’. ' in contact with him during the twvnty yeah; and more “ By the we, I dare say you can tell nieâ€"who is that muty child over there. with the white rock and the blue eyes .’" ” ’I‘hat pretty child in the frock is my wife." says Branscombe. laughing. " Indeed ! Dear mel dear me! our pardon. My dear boy. I congratu- nto you. Such a faceâ€"like n. Greuzc; or â€"â€"-h'mâ€"-â€"yos." Here he grows slightly mixed. "You must introduce me, you know. One likes to do homage to beau- ty. “'hy. where could you have met her in this exceedingly deficient county. But you were always a sly dog. 6 VI . The old gentleman gives him a playâ€". ful slap on his shoulder. and then. tak- ing his arm, goes with him across the lawn to whom Georgie is standing talk- in' 3:1ny to Lord Alfred. The introduction is gone through. and Georgie makes her very best bow, and blushes her very choicest blush; but the duke. will insist upon shakingl hands wit hher ,whcrcupon, being pleas- ed. she smiles her most enchanting smile. Missed you on your arrival." says the duke. genially. " Was toiling through the conservatories. I think. with Lady oft-as. Know licri Stout old l:idy.with caihcrs over her nose. She always will go to hot places on hot days." "I wish she would go to a-final hol place. as she affects them so much." says Lord Alfred, 'loomily. _“l can't hear her: she is ways coming here bothering me about that abominable boy of bars in the Guards. and I never know what to say to her." " Why don't you learn it up at night and say it to her in the morning ?" us Mrs. Bransrombe. brightly. "l ould know what to say to her at om... “Oh! I can: say." says Lord Alfred. fui heart. breeding 3 fond of I With all his affect- , ’l bch ifirst time ioâ€"dny. “ Only that doesn't help me. you him“ because I don't.” “ Didn't know who you were at first, Mrs. Branscombe‘.” breaks in the [duke " Thought you were a. little irl â€"eh iâ€"eh 2" chuckling again. "A ed pour husband who you were. and so on. everything, eh i good this year." " Lord Alfred has just shown_them to me.‘ They are quite too exquisite," says Georgie. ” And the lake. and my new swans i" " Nol not the swans." " Dear mel why didn't he show {flu those? Finest birds I ever saw. y dear Mrs. Branscombe. you really must see them. you know.” . _ "I should like to, if you Will show them to me." says the little hypocrite, with the very faintest, but the most successful, emphasis on the- pronoun, lwhich is wine to the heart of the old Ibeau; and, offering her his armi he g takes her across the lawn and through i the shrubberies to the sheet of water beyond, that gleams sweet and cool lthrough the foliage. As they go. the icounty turns to regard them; and men lwonder who the pretty woman is the iold fellow has picked up; and women ‘ wonder what on earth the duke can see in that silly little Mrs. Branscom-be. Sir James. who has been watching the hope you are en‘ ying yourself. Seen The houses are pretty duke's evident admiration for his pret- ty guest, is openly amused. " our training!" he says to Claris- sa, over whose chair he is leaning. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself and your pupil. Such a. disgraceful little co- quette 1 never saw. I really pity that poor duchesspsee theie. how miserably unhappg she is looking, and howâ€"â€"er â€"â€"pin ." “.Uon't _be unkind; your hesitation was positively cruel. The word ‘red’ is unmistakably the word for the poor duchcss toâ€"day." "\Vell, yes, and yesterday, and the day before, and probably to-morrow," says Sir James, mildly. "But I really wonder at the duke,â€"â€"at this time of life, too! If I were Branscombe I should feel it my duty to interfere." He is talking gayly, unccasingly, but always With his grave eyes fixed upon Clarissa, as she leans back languidly 9n the comfortable garden-chair, smil- ing indeed every now and then, but fitâ€" fully. and .w1thout the gladness that generally lights up her charming face. Horace had promised to be here to- day.--had faithfully promised to come With her and her father to this garden- party; and where is he now? A little chill of disappomtment has fallen upon her, and made dull her day. No small- est doubt of this truth finds harbor in her gentle bosom, yet grief, sits heavy on her, " as the mildews hang upon the bells of flowers to blight their bloom!" _Sir James, half divining the cause of discontent, seeks carefully, tenderly to draw her from her sad thoughts in every way that occurs to him; and his efforts, though not altogether crowned with success. are at least so far happy in_ that he induces her to forget her grievance for the time being, and keeps her from dwelling too closely upon the vexed question of her recreant lover. Tobe With Sir James is, too; in itself . a relief to her. \Vith him she need not {converse unless it so pleases her; her iSl‘ienCB Will neither surprise or trouble lhim; but With all the others it would be so different; they would claim her attention whether she willed it or' not, and to make ordinary spirited conver- [sation . 'ust at this moment would be lllIlpOSSl 1e to her. The smile dies off lher face. A sigh replaces it. "How well _you are looking toâ€"day!" says Scrope, lightly. thinking this will please her. She is extremely pale, but a little hectic spot, born of weariness and fruitless hoping against hope. be- : trays itself on either cheek. His tone i if not the words, does please hen, it is :so full of loving kindness. l “ Am I i” she says. “ I don't feel like ' looking well; and I am tired, too. They say.â€" ‘A merr heart goes all the day, Your sa tires in a mile-a;' I doubt mine is a sad one, I feel so gwornput. Though," hastily, and with 1:1. v1_Vid flush that changes all her palâ€" i lor into warmth,â€"" if I were put to iti, Z I couldn’t tell you why." i . ” No? Do you know I have often felt :like that." says Scrope. carelessly. “ It ,is both strange and natural. One has fits of depression that come and go at iwdl, and that one cannot account for; .at least, I have, frequently. But you, , Clarissa. you should not know what de- ‘pressmn means." I “I know toâ€"day." For the moment ; her courage fails her. She feels weak; %a craving for sympathy overcomes her; ; and. turning she lifts .ber large sorrow- jful eyes to his. She would, perhaps, have spoken; but .‘= now a. sense of shame and a. sharp pang I that means pride comes to her, and, j by a supreme effort, she conquers emo- ; Lion, and lcls her heavilyâ€"lashed lids fall . over her suffused eyes, as though to con- ,ccal tho icll~iale drops within from his ‘scurcliing gaze. , "So you sce."â€"-she says, with a rath- . or artificial laugh,â€"â€"" your flattery falls I, through; with all this weight of imag- linury woe u )0“ my shoulders. I can ; hardly be loo 'ing in best." : “Neveytheless, I am“ not allow you ate call my true sentiments flattery," lsaid Scrope: “I really meant what I l lsaid, whether you choose to believe me l i for not. Yours is a "Beauty _iruly blcnl. whose red and ‘white ENature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on.’ " " What a courlicr you become l" she ‘says. laughing honestly for almost the la. is so simngc to hear James Scrape say anything high- flown or sentimental. She is a liitlc bit afmid that he. knows why she. is sorry. syct ,nftcr all, she hardly frets over the " So glad to make your acquaintaan fact of his knowing. UNIT Jim! he is always kind. and swi-ei. and thoughtful! Even if he .‘oes understand hn is quite safe to look as if he didn't. And that is always such a comfort! And Sir Janics. wan-hing her. an“ -m:1rking the grief upon her face. feels a. tightening at his limirt. and .1. longing 10 soccer her. and to go forth-4f noel» lieâ€"and fight for her as did the knighiu of old for those. they loved. until " just and mightie death. whom none can a-iâ€" vise," infolded him in his arms. For a long time he has loved her.-â€"~ has lived With only her image in bi; heart. Yet what has his devol ion gain- ed him? Her liking. her regard. no doubt. but nothing that can satisfv the longing that leaves desolate his faith Regard. however deep. i: ‘ I but small comfort to him whose every thought, waking and sleeping, belongs alone to her. " Full little knowest thou. that hast not tride. “'hat hell it is. in swing long to hide; To loose good dayes that might be bet- ter spent, To wa‘tset tlong nights in pensive disconâ€" n i To speed toâ€"day. to be put back to- mot-row; To feed on hope, to pine with feare and - sorrow; To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares; To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dispaires." . He is quite assured he lives in utter ignorance of his love. No word has es- caped him, no smallest hint, that might declare to her the passion that daily. hourly, grows stronger, and, of which she is the sole object. ” The noblest mind the best contentment has." and he contents himself as best he may on a_smile here. a. gentle word there) a kindly pressure of the hand to-day. a look of welcome to-morrow. These are liberally giVen, but nothing more. Ever Since her engagement to Horace Brunsâ€" combe. he has. of course. relinquished hope; but the surrender of all expecta- tion has not killed his love. He is sil- cut because he must be so, but his heart wakes, and “Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne’er so witty." "See, there they are again" he says now, alluding to Georgie and her ducal companion. as they emerge from behind some thick shrubs. .Another man is With them, too,â€"a tall gaunt young man, with long halo. and a. cadaverous face, who is staring at Georgie las though he would willingly devour herâ€"â€" but only in the interest of art. He is lecturing on the " Consummate Daffoâ€" dil" and is comparing it unfavorany With the "Unutterable Tulip." and is plainly boring the two, with whom he is walking, to extinction. He is Sir John _Lincoln, that old-new friend of Georgie's and will not be shaken off. " Long ago." says Georgie, tearfully, to herself, "he was not an aesthete. ristine freshness l" But he won't: be maunders on un- ceasingly about the impossible flowers, that are all very well in their. way, but whose exaltedness lives only in his own imagination, until the Duke,grow- ing weary (as well he might, poor soul). urns aside. and greets With unexpected cordiality a group upon his right, that, under any other less oppressive circum- stances, would be abhorrent to him. But to spend a long hour talking about one lily is not to be borne. . Georgie follows his example, and tries to escape Lincoln and the tulips by div- ing among the aforesaid group. .She Is very successful groups do not suit aes- gaunt yourig o thetics,â€"-and soon the . man takes himself and long hair. some remote region. ' "How d'ye do, Mrs. Branscombe 2” says a voice at her elbow. a moment later, and, turning, she finds herself face to face with Mr. Kennedy. “ Ah! you 9" she says, with very flatâ€" tering haste, being unmistakably pleasâ€" ed to see him. " I had no idea. you. were staying in the country." “I am staying with .the Luttrells. llfolly asked me *down last month.” "She. is a great friend of yours, I know," says Mrs. Branscombe; “ yet I hadn't the faintest notion I should meet you here to-day." " And you didn't care either I dare say,” says Mr. Kennedy in a tone that is positively sepulchral, and. consider- ing all things, very well done indeed. “I should have cared, if I had even once thought about it." says Mrs. Bransâ€" combe, cheerfully. \threupon he says,â€" “ Thank you l" in a voice that is all re roach. * Georgie colors. "I didn’t mean what you think," she says, anxiously. “I didn't indeed.” “Well, it sounded exactly like inf] says Mr. Kennedy, with careful gloom. “ Of course it is not to be expected that you ever would think of me, buâ€" I haven't seen you since that last night at Gowran. have I?" ll No.1! "I think you might «have told me then you were going to be married. " I wasn't going to be married then," says Georgie, indignantly; " I hadn’t a single idea of it. Never thought of it, until the next; day." "I quite thought. you were going to marry me,” says Mr. Kennedy. sadly,- " I had quite made up my mind to it. I never"â€"-forlornlyâ€"-" imagined you as belonging to any other fellow. It isn’t pleasant to find that one's pet doll is stuffed with sawdust. and yetâ€"" “ I can't. think what you are talking about," says Mrs. Branscombe, coldly, and with some fine disgust; she canâ€" not help thinking that she must be the doll in question. and to be filled with sawdust sounds anything but dignified. Kennedy, reading her like a. book. nobly suppresses a wild desire for laughter. and goes on in atono. if pos- sible, more depressed than the former one. “My insane hope was the doll." he says: "it proved only dust. I haven't got over tie shock yet that I felt on hearing of your marriage. I don’t supâ€" pose I evcr shall now." " Nonsense 1" says Georgie. contempt- iiously. " I never saw you look so well in all my life. You are positively fat." “That’s how it. always shows with me," says Kennedy. unblushingiy. “Whenever g‘rcnn and yellow melan- (‘holy marks the for its own, I sit on a monument (they always keep one for me. at home) and smile incessantly at. grief, and get as fat as possible. It is refinement of cruelty, you know. us superfluous flesh is not a. thing to be hnnkcred after." " How you must have fretted." says Eli‘s. Branscombe, dcmurely. glancing from under her long lashes at his fig- ure, which has certainly pained both in size and in weight since their last meet- ing. At this they both laugh. " is your husband here toâ€"day T'askii he. pn‘sently. cl \".s-vl “ Why isn’t he with you i’" " He. has found somebody more to his fancy. perhaps." As Sie says this she glances round, as lliough for the first time alive to the fact. that indeed he is not beside her. "Impossible!" says Kennedy. "Give any other reason but that. and I may belive you. I am quite sure he is miss- ing you terribly, and is vainly search- ing every nook and corner b this time for your dead body. So dou it he fears the worst. If you were myâ€" I mean If ever I were to marry (which of course Is quite out of the question now). I :houldn't let my face out of sight." Oh, how I wish he would go back to his' P t , ing burned to death while staying . " Poor woman! what a time she is ing to put in!” says Mrs. Branscom pityin ly. " Don't go about telling peo- p ~\‘\\‘ _. ple al that. or you will never get a wife. By this time Dorian and I have made. the discovery that we can do ex- cellently well without each other some- times." Dorian coming up behind her 'ust as she says this. hears her, and c ianges color. ". How d'ye do!" he. says to Kennedy. civilly. if not cordially. that young man receiving his greeting with the ‘ut- most bonhommie and an unchanging front. For a second Branscombe refuses to meet his wife's eyes. then. con uering the momentary feeling of painei disap- pomtment he turns to her. and says. gently,â€" you care to stay much longer? Clarissa has gone, and Scrope. and the Carringtons. _ "I don't care to stay another min- ute: I should like to go home now." says Georgie. slipping her hand through his. arm. as though glad to have something r to lean on; and, as she speaks. she lifts her face and bestows upon him a smile. It is a. very dear little smile, and has the effect of restoring him to perfect happiness again. _ . Seeing which, Kennedy raises .his brows, and then his hat; and. bowmg. turns aside. and is soon lost amidst the crowd. “You are sure you home 9" says Dorian anxiously. not in a. hurry you know." “I am. I have walked enough. and talked enough. to last me a month." " I am afraid I rather broke in upon your conversation just now," says Branscombe, looking earnestly at her. ” But for my coming, Kennedy would have stayed on with you; and he .18 a. gag rather amusing sort of fellow, isn't e I! “Is be? :He was exceedingly_stupid to-day, at all events. I don't believe he has a particle of brains, or else ‘he thinks other people haven‘t. I‘cnjoy- ed myself a great deal more With the old duke, until that ridiculous Sir John Lincoln came to us. I don’t think he knew a. bit who the duke was, because he kept saying odd little things about the grounds and the guests, right un- der his nose; at least, right behind his back: it is all the same thing," "\Vhat is? His nose and his back 2" want to come ” I am asks Dorian ; at which piece of folly they ? both laugh as though it was the best thing in the world. Then they make their way over the smooth lawns, and past the glowing flower-beds, and past Sir John incoln, too, who is standing in an impossible at- titude, that makes him all elbows and, knees, talking to a very splendid young ? -manâ€"all bone and muscle and good humorâ€"who is plainly delighted with him. To the splendid young man he is nothing but one vast joke. Seeing Mrs. Bransoombe, they both ‘aise their hats. and Sir John so far for- gets the tulips as to give it as his opin- ion that she is ” Quite too, too intense for every day life.” \Vhereupon the splendid young man. breaking praise too, declares she is " Quite too awfully ‘olly, don't you knowi" which commonp ace remark so horrifies his companion that be sadly and tcarfully turns aside, and leaves him to his fate. Georgie, who has been brought to a standstill for a moment, hears both re- marks, and laughs aloud. ” It is something to be admired by Colonel Vibart, isn't it ?” she says 'to Dorian 5 “ but it is really very sad about poor Sir John. He has bulbous roots on the brain, and they have turned him as mad as a hatter." (To Be Continued.) â€"â€"â€"â€"-â€"‘â€"â€"â€"___. PRINCESS BEATRICE. Princess Henryâ€"or Princas Beatrice, as the English people still call herâ€" is in her 39th year" She has always been known as the most accomplished musician of the royal family. \Vhen quite young she developedawonderful gift of reading difficult music at sight. and this has been carefully cultivated. She is also a. most graceful composer, and has set to music various poems by Lord Tennyson. These songs were heard at the great concert given the {car before last as a memorial of the am poet laureate. Two or three years ago the Plrmcess narrowly escaped be- at Hesse-Darmstadt. She was on a viSit at the .time to her brother-in-law. Prince Louis of Battenberg. and‘ while there the beautiful caught fire at night. the flames spread- ing With such rapidity that the Princ- ess barely had tune ‘to save her life? and lost all her jewels and effects. To the Princess belongs the credit of revrvmg her mother's long dormant taste for theatrical entertainments. 'In her youth Queen Victoria was frequent- ly, throughout. the Lopdon season, to be seen at the varied theatres with her young husband. and for 'the first fifteen yearsthat followed her marriage. hardâ€" ly missed a single important operatic event in the metropolis. showing not only a keen and intelligent apprecia- tion of both music and drama, but also a very kindly fooling towards the art- ists. After the death of the Prince Consort, in 1861. the Queen declined to hear_any longer of anything connect- ed With the stage, and it was only with the utmost difficulty that some ten years ago the Princess was able to in- duce her mother to permit the organi- zation of some tableaux-vivants at Osâ€" borne. This had the effect of pavin the way to amateur theatricals, 0 which the Princess is inordinately fond; and from amateur theatricals to per- foriiianccs given by professionals was but another step. Of recent years the Queen has again taken such a liking toi the drama. that she goes to the expense! of having entire metropolitan irriulxzs and their scenery conveyed till the way from London to Balmoral. a twenty- iour hours" journey, in order to pro- vide her with an evening‘s entertain- mcn t. .___x.___.___._.- -_- FA L‘S E ALA R M. Sir! called a frightened man to a policeman. there's a burglar trying to get into aback window of this house next door! Il-u-s-hl said the policeman. that's no burglarâ€"that's Mr. Youngfalhcr trying to get in without waking the baby. TIIE PROBABILITY. Mrs. De Bellowâ€"What is the name of that tall. slender young wonitin ov- er there by the mantel, Mr. (lruffyl Her name was Morsv before she was inari'ivd. but [cannot n-inuinber what it iii now. Mr. Uruffyâ€"llemorse. likely. 'daily, which would into ; palace. of Heilingenberg ' HEALTH. ‘\\\\~. \VATER DRINKING FOR TYPHOID. \Vater drinking in typhoid fever is not a new suggestion. The importance of subjecting the tissues to an inter- nal bath was brought prominently to the notice of the profession by M. De- bove, of Paris; who was perhaps the first to sysieiuatize this mode of treat- ment. The treatment of this eminent physician consists almost exclusively of water drinking. " I make my patients drink," he says: and they must be kept pretty busy in attending to this rins- ing process; for they are required to take from five to six quarts of water amount to eight ounces every hour. , The writer has for many years fol- =lowed the practice of having his pat- ients drink from one-half to two-thirds of a glass of water hourly, when awake. It is, sometimes. however, impossible to induce patients to drink a large quan- tity of water. In cases in which the stomach is dilated, the patient is often unable to ubsorbovaier so rapidly. In these cases the inlroduction of water by the rectum proves a satisfactory sub- stitutofor water drinking. Of course, if the patient subsists chiefly upon a _ diet of thin gruel, fruit juices. or skiin- med milk, the amount of liquid thus ltaken. ma be subtracted from the quantity 0' water named. The. import- ant thing is to .get into the system. and out of it. a sufficient amount of water to prevent the accumulation of ptomains and toxins within the body. Copious water drinkinr does not . weaken the heart, but on t ie contrurn, encourages its action. by maintaining the volume of blood. It. also aids the action of the liver, the kidneys. and the skin; and by promoting evaporan tion from the skin, it lowers the tem perature. â€"â€"â€"-d QUINSY i Quinsy is an inflammation of the ton- sil, attended by pus-forinaticnâ€"-au absâ€" cess. The onset of ipiinsy is like that of an ordinary sore throatâ€"pain and sore~ ness, aggravated by swallowing and talking, aswelling of the glands of the throat, and redness of the affected tonsil. Onc peculiarity of.the disease is that it is apt to attack the same person each year about the same season; most commonly in the more changeable 'weather of spring and autumn. throat by means of cold compresses, the inflammation may often be checked at its onset. If no such measures are taken, the pain is likely to grow more severe, shooting toward the ear of the side af- fected; swallowing becomes difficult and more painful, and relief is only exâ€" perienced by the. bursting of the ab- scess or by the incision of the phystâ€" man's lancet. loung people of robust health are the most common sufferers from quin- sy. for the reason perhaps, that they are oftenest exposed directly to unfav- iorable weather conditions. It ought to be known that much. can be done to avoid attacks of quinsy. The trouble usually occurs in tonsils that are already enlarged, or that are subject to recurring attacks of inflam- mation. Many of these attacks are slight and tranSitory; others are of greater severity. terminating in 1:. spotted condition of the tonsils known as follicular Lonsillitis, while some at- tacks procecd to the severe form, which is attended with the formation of pus within the substance of the tonsilâ€"- quiusy sore throat. Persons whose tonsils are always swollen. and often troublesome, should use a daily gargle of some mild anti- septic wash. The throat should pro- tected against cold and dump winds, but the neck must not be debilitated by the constant wearing of a muffler. Protection of the foot from wetting should be rigorously adhered to, while mnslipaticii, which predisposes to rheu- mutic as well as to LUDSliilLl' affections, should be regularly avoided. DANGER FROM CON'I‘AG ION. A large portion of our people are renters of houses and frequently change their aimless; but how many are thoughtful enough to ask about sick- 'ncsses which have recently occurred in the houses to which they propose to move their familicsl The point is this: The germs of many dismisses, us scarlet fever, measles,.diplitiicriu, typhoid fev- er, etc” my huge; for months about a house, andu family niovnig inlo'sucli a place may in :1 inc: weeks in”. stricken down. and muuli’suffuring, expense. and even death be the result. 'l‘liere_is no truth ill. the old llllfu’ that children must have the whole series of children's (IISf'flSflS. The most of iliriii can be avoided, and if more care were exercis- ed by pan-ms, thousands of lllllUl'f'llC il\'(,‘5 might be saved. If cliildi'leii can be. carried beyond llie ago of Hi yours without..conlrm'tiiig scarlet. fi-vi-r or diplitlici'izi,-â€"llie two most dn-nzlcd dis- eases of childliim'l,â€"-â€"lhero is lhcii mm- pxirziti'vcly little danger from iiliful ‘Thc same is true of other (linililfifffi. CARE OF RINGS. It is never wise to wet rings that have stones in them. Of course. all rings need to be cleaned from time to time, and diamonds. rubies. emeralds and sapphires will stand washing with strip. Turquoise and seed pearls will change color if subjected it.) any such treatment. The majoril ' of pearl rings have not ihc full roiiri perfect pearl. which alone will stand wetting. Al- most all pairls have at least a tiny pin prick somewhere on ilwir surfrme, and this, like a sict of decay in a tooth. will admit substances which will doinâ€" a c them. It is therefore usual to Lake o i' onc's rings when washing the hands. This is how many valuable jewels are losl. An oldâ€"fashioned but excellent preventive of forgeii'ulncss on such oc- casions is m mt the ring into your mouth or at cost between your lips. Then vnu will rcuienilmr to slip it on your finger after drying your hands. . . c .. MM mm‘ 3-m’ . By a prompt treatment of the sore‘