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V THE ViCAlijiEOVERNESS. CHAPTER XXVIII. ‘ “There‘s not a scene on earth so full of 11 fitness '1‘ at withering care Sleeps not beneath the flowers turns their brightness To dark despair." - â€"Hon. Mrs. Norton. and It is a day of blue and goldness so intense as to make one believe these two are the only colors on earth worthy ‘ of admiration. The sky is cloudless; the great sun is wide awake; the flmvars are drooping. sleepingâ€"too languid to lift their heavy heads. - l "The gentle wind. that like a ghost' doth pass. A waving shadow on the cornfield keeps." Air-l Georgie descending the stone steps of the balcony. feels her whole nature thrill and glow beneath the warmth and richness of the beauty -spread all around with lavish hand. Scarcely a breath stirs the air; no sound comes to mar the deep stillness of the day. save the echo of the "swal- lows' silken wings skimming the water of the sleeping lakc." As she passes the rose trees. she puts out her hand, and, from the very fullness of her heart, touches some of the drowsy flowers with caress- ing fingers. She is feeling peculiarly happy Ibo-day; everything is going so smoothly with her; her life is devoid of care; only sunshine streams upon her path; storm and rain and nipping frosts seem all forgotten. Going into the garden. she pulls a flower or two and plm them in the bosom of her white gown. and bend- ing over the basin of a fountain, looks at her own image. and smiles at it, as well she may. Then she blushes at her own vanity. and, drawing back from nature’s mir- ror, tells herself she will go a. little fur- ther. and see what Andrews. the under- gnrdener (who has come to Sartoris from Hythe), is doing in the shrub- bery. The path by whish she goes is so thickly lined with shrubs on the right- hand side that she cannot be seen through them. nor can she see those beyond. Voices come to her from the distance. that, as she advances up the path. grow even louder. She is not thinking of them, or, indeed. of any- thing but the extreme loveliness of the hour. when words fall upon her ear that make themselves intelligible and send the blood with a quick rush to her heart. “It is a disgraceful story altogether; and to have the master’s name mixed up with it is shameful l” The voice. beyond doubt, belongs to Graham. the. upper-housemaid. and is full of honest indignation. Hardly believing she has heard aright. and without any thought of eaves-dropping. Georgie stands still up- on tho walk. and walls in breathless silence for what may come next. “Well. 1 think it is shameful." says another voice, easily recognized as be- lon ing to Andrews. “But I believe it is t c truth for all that. Father saw him with his own eyes. It was late, but 'ust as light as it is now. and. he saw iin plain." "Do you mean to tell me,” says Gra- ham. with increasing wrath (she is an elderly woman. and has lived at Sartoris for many years). “that you really think your master had either hand. act. or art in inducing Ruth Annersley to cave her home l" "Well, 1 only say what father told me." says Andrews. in a half-apologetic fashion. being somewhat abnshed by her anger. “And he ain't one to be much. He saw him with her in the wood the night she went to Lunnun. or wherever ’twas. and they walked together in the way to Langham Station. They do say. too. thatâ€"â€"â€"" l _ A quick light footstep. a pulling aside of branches. and Georgie. pale. but com- cd, appears before them. Andrews. using his head. drops the knife he is holding. and Graham grows a fine pur- le. . p "[ don't think you are doing much good here. Andrews." says Mrs. Brans~ combo. pleasantly. "These trees look well enou h; go to the eastern walk. and see w at can be done there." Andrews. only too thankful for the chance of escape. picks up his knife and beats a hasty rctreat._ _ ’l‘hen Georgie. turning to Graham. says. slowlyâ€" . "Now. to 1 me every word of it. from beginning to end." ' . licr assumed unconscmusness has vanished. Every partioal of color has flown from her face. her brow is con- tracted. her eyes are shining With anew and most uncnviable brilliancy. Per- haps she knows this herself. as. after the first swift glance at the woman on Andrews's departure. she never lifts her eyes again. but keeps them deliber- ately fixed upon the ground during the entire inter-View. She speaks _in a low, miiccntrnted tone. but with firm com- pressed lips. ‘ . Graham's feelings at this moment would be impossible to describe. After wardâ€"many months afterwardâ€"she herself ave some idea of them when she. doc ured to the cook that she thought she should have "swooned right off." ’Uh. madam! tell on what i" ‘she says. now, in a terriied tone. shrink- ing away from her mistres. and turn- ing deadly pale. . "You know what you were speaking about just now when I came up." _ "it was nothing. madam. only idle gossip. not worth--" , "Do not equivrrMe. to me. Xou were speakin of Mr. Branscombe. Repeat 'our 'i le gossip." 1 Will have it word or word. Do you hear f". She beats her foot with quick impatience against the ground. . "Do not comer me to repeat so Vile a lie." untreats Graham. earnestly. "Ir is altogether false. indeed. madam." â€"confuso.1l_v.â€""l cannot remember whai it was we were saying when you came up to us so unexpectedly." “Then 1 shall refresh your memory. You were talking of your master and-â€" and of that girl in the village who-â€"~" lhe words a most suffocate her; invol- untarily she raises her hand to her throat. on." she says, in a low. dangerous tone. Graham bursts into tears. "it was the gardener at Hytheâ€"old Andrewsâ€"who told it to our man here." She sobs. painfully. “You know he is his father, and he said he had seen the master in the copsewood the evening Ruth Annersle' ran away.” "lie was in ondon that evening." "hes. madam. we all know that." says the woman. eagerly. "That alone proves how false the whole story is. But Wicked le will talk. and it is wise people only who will not give heed to them.” “What led Andrews to believe it was your master i" She speaks in a hard constrained voice. and as one wno has not heard a word of the precedin speech. In truth, she has not listens to it. her whole mind being engrossed wrth this new and hateful thing that has fallen into her life. _“He says he saw himâ€"that he knew him by his height. his figure, his sideâ€" face, and the coat he wore.â€"a. light overcoat. such as the master gener- ally uses.” "And how does he explain away the fact ofâ€"of Mr. Branscombe's being in town that evening 3" At this question Graham unmistak- ably hesitates before replying. When she does answer, it is wrth evident re- luctance. “You see, madam," she says,_ very gently. “it‘would be quite possnble to come down by the mid-night train to Langham. to drive across to Pulling- ham. and get back again to London by the evenin train." ‘ "It soun quite simple," says Mrs. Branscom‘oe. in a strange tone. Then follows an unbroken silence that lasts for several minutes and nearl sends poor Graham out of her mind. he can- not quite see her mistress’s face as it is turned carefully aside. but the hand that is resting on a. stout branch of laurel near her is steady as the branch itself. Stead ,â€"-but the pretty filbert nails show end white against the ray-green of the bark, as though ex- reme pressure. born of mental agitaâ€" tion and a. passionate desire to su press and hide it. has compelled t 9 poor little fingers to grasp with un- due force whatever may be nearest to them. . \Vhen silence has become positively unbearable. Georgie says. slowly.â€" “And does all the world know this ‘3" “I hope not, ma’am. I think not. Though. indeed,"â€"says the faithful Gra- ham, with a burst of indignation,â€" “even if they did. I don’t see how‘ it could matter. It would not make it a. bit more or less than a deliberate lie.” "You are a good soul. Graham," says Mrs. Branscombe. wearily. Something in her manner frightens Graham more than all that has gone before. “0h, madam, do not pay any atten- tion to such a wicked tale." she says. anxiously, “and forgive me for ever having resumed to lend my ears to it. No one nowing the master could pos- s1bly believe in it." "Of course not.” The answer comes with unnatural 'calmness from between her white lips. Graham bursts into fresh tears. and flings her apron over her head. Mrs. Branscombe. at this. throws up her head hastily. almost haughtily. and, drawing her hand with a swift move- ment across her averted eyes. breathes a deep lingering sigh. Then her whole expression changes; and. com- ing quite near to Graham. she lays her hafnil lightly on her shoulder. and laughs so 1. y. Graham can hardly believe her ears; has that rippling. apparently unaffect- ed laugh come from the woman who a moment since appeared all gloom and suppressed anger? “1 am not silly, enough to fret over a ridiculous story such as you have told me." says Georgie, lightly. “Just at first it rather surprised me. I con- fess. but nowâ€"now 1 can see the ab- surdity of it. There; do not cry any more; it is a pity to waste tears that later on you may long for in vain.” ’But when she has gained the house. and has gone up to her own room. and carefully locked her door her assumed calmness deserts her. She paces up and down the floor like some chained creature. putting together bit by bit the story just related to her. Not for a moment does she doubt its truth; some terrible fear is knocking at her heart. some dread that is despair and that. convinces her of the reality of An- drews's relation. . Little. actions of Dorian's. light words. certain odd remarks, passed over at the time of utterance as being of no im- portance. come back to her now, and assert themselves with overwhelming {mi-sistency. until they declare him guilty beyond all dispute. When she had gone to the altar and sworn fidelity to him. she had cer- tainly not been in love with her hus- band. according to the. common acce ta- tion of that term. But at least she ad given him a heart devoid of all thought for another. and she had fully. utterly, believed in his affection for her. For the past few mUIthS she had even be- gun to cherish ibis belief. to chng to it. and even to feel withidherself sonic returning tenderness for him. it is to her now. therefore. as the bitterness of death. this knowledge that has come to her ears. To have been be- fooled where she had regarded herself as being most beloved.â€"-to have been only second, where she had fondly im- agined herself to be first and dearest. --is a thought bordering upon mad- ness. Passionate sobs rise in her throat. and almost overcome her. An angry feel- ing of rebellion. a vehement protest against this deed that has been done. shakes her slight frame. it cannot be true; it shall not; and yetâ€"and yetâ€" why has this evil fallen u n her of all others? Has her life on such a happy one that Fate must needs be- grudge her one glimpse of light and lndnessl Two large tearsgnther in er eyes. and almost unconsciously roll down her cheeks that are deadly white. Sinking into a chair. as though ex- hausted. she leans back among its cush- ions. letting her hands full together and lie idly in her lap. _ Moiionlesa she Sllb. With eyes fixed as if riveted to earth. while tears insenâ€" sibly steal down her pensive cheeks. which look like weeping dew fallen on the statue of despair. For fully half an hour she so rests scarce. moving. hardly seeming to breathe. Then she rouses herself. and, going over to a table. bathes her face with eau-de-Cologne. This calms her in a degree. and stills the outward ex- pressuni of her suffering. but in her heart there rages a fire that no waters can quench. Putting her hat on once again. she goes downstairs. feeling eager for a touch of the cool _evenin air. The hot sun is fading. dying; a breeze from the distant Sea is creeping stealthin up to the land. At the foot of the staircase she encounters Dorian coming toward her from the library. "1 have been hunting the place for on." he says, gayly. “Where on earth ave you been hidin l Visions of hastly death rose up fimfore me. and was just about to have the lake drag- ged and the shrubberies swept. Martin is nearly in tears. You really ought to consider our feelings a little. \\ by. where were you off to now f"â€"â€"for the first time noticing her hat. "Out." returns she, coldly. looking straight over his head; she is standing on the third step of the stairs. while he is in the hall below. "'I feel stifled in this house." Her tone is distinctly strange. manner most unusual. Fearin lS_ really ill, he goes up to her on his hand upon her arm. ‘ "Anything the matter. darling? How white you look." he begins. ten- derly ; but she interupts him. “I am quite well." she says, hardly. shrinking away from his touch as though it is hateful to her. “I am gomg out because I wish to be alone." She sweeps past him through the old hall and. out into the darkening sun- light, Without a backward glance or another word. Amazed, puzzled. Bfranscombe stands azing after her unâ€" til the last fold of or dress has disap- peared. the last sound of her feet has echoed on the stone steps beyond; then he turns aside, and. feeling, if possr- his. more astonished than hurt, goes back to the library. From this hour begins the settled coldness between Dorian and his wife that is afterward to bear such bitter fruit. She assigns no actual reason for her changed demeanor; and Dorian. at first, is too proud to demand an ex- planationâ€"though perhaps never yet has he loved her so well as at this time, when all his attempts at tenderness are coldly and obstinately rejected. Not. until a full month has gone by, and it is close upon the middle of Au- gust, does it dawn upon him why Geor- gie has been so different of late. Sir James Scrape is dining with them, and. shortly after the servants have withdrawn, he makes some casual men- tion of Ruth Annersley’s name. No notice is taken of it at the time, the conversation changes almost directly in- to a fresh channel. but Dorian. hap- pening to glance across the table at his Wife, sees that she has solutely livid. and really, for the in- stant. fears she is going to faint. Only for an instantl Then she recovers her- self. and makes some careless remark, and. is quite her usual self again. But he cannot forget that sudden pal- lor, and like a flash the truth comes .to him, and he knows that he is foul and des icable in the eyes of the only woman e loves. \Vhen Sir James has gone. he comes over to her, and leaning his elbow on the chimney-piece. stands in such a. her she lays full view of her face. “Scrope takes a great interest in that girl Ruth.” he says, purposely intro- ducing the subject again. “it certainâ€" ly is remarkable that no tidings of her have ever since reached Pullingham." Georgie makes no rele. The nights have already grown c illy and there is a fire in the grate. before which she is standing warming her hands. One foot.-â€"a. very‘ lovely little foot,â€"clad in a black shoe relieved by large silver buckles. is resting on the fender. and on this her eyes are rivited. as though lost in admiration of its beauty, though in truth she sees it not at all. "I can hardly understand her silence. persists Dorian. "I fear. wherever she is, she must be miserable." Georgie rises her great violet eyes to his. that are now dark and deep with passionate anger and contempt. “She is not the only miserable woman in the world," she says, in a low. quick tone. “No, I suppose not. sympathetic tone you use! can feel for her ?" "Feel for her! Yes. No woman can have as much compassion for her as l have." “That is putting it rather strongly. is it not? You scarcely know her; hardly ever spoke to her. Clarissa Peyton. for instance. must think more pitifully of her than you can." "i hope it will never be Clarissa's lot to compassionate any one in the way I do her." - “You_spea.k very bitterly." "Do i? I think very bitterly.” "\tht do you mean f" demands he, suddenly. straightening himself and drawing up his tall figure to its fullest height. . His bone is almost stern. “Nothing. There is nothing to be gained by continuing this conversa- ion." "But I think there is. Of late. your manner toward me has been more than strange. If you complain of anything. let me know what it is, and it shall be rectified. At the present moment, I confess. I fail to understand you. You speak in the most absurdly romantic way about Ruth» Annersley (whom you hardly knew). asthough there existed some special reason why you. above all women. should pity her." "i do pity her from my heart; and there is a special reason; she has been deceived. and so have I." ' "By whom i" “I wish you would discontinue the H But what an un- Surely you subject, Dorian; it is a very painful one i to me. ifâ€"if not. to you." Then she moves back a little, and. laying her hand upon her chest. as though a heavy Weight. not to be lifted, is lying there. she says slowly. “You compel me to say what i would willingly leavo un- said. When I married you. I did not understand your character; had I done .: .. "You would not have married me? You regret your marriage l" He is very pale now. and something that is surely anguish gleams in his. dark eyes. Perhaps had she seen his ex- pression her answer would have been fillifel't‘nt, or. at least. more merciâ€" u . "i do." she says, faintly. "Why?" All heart seems gone from his voice. He is gazing mournfully upon the girlish fi tire of his wife as she. stands at some ittle distance from him.‘ "Have I been such a bad hus- band to you. Gcorgie l" he says brokenâ€" iv. "'.\'o. no. in more ways than one. “lt indrrcd’" 'l'hcn be But it is [Kissible to bet-rue! n sighed grown ab- ' ‘ition as enables him to command a.x wearily; and. giving up all further ex- amination of her lovely unforgiving face. he turns his gaze upon the fire. “Look here." he mys. prescnily: “I heard unavoidably what you said to Kennedy that afternoon at the castle. that we. could manage to gel on with- out each other excellently well on oc- -:-.sions; you alluded to yourself. 1 sup- pose. Perhaps you think we might. get on even better had we never met." "I didn't say that." says Georgie. turning pale. "l understand.”â€"-blttorly; “youonly meant it. Well, if you are so unhappy with me. and ifâ€"-if you wish for a sep- aration. I think I can manage it for on. i have no desire whatever"â€"â€"cold- yfi‘do keep you with me against your w1 . ' “And have all the world talking f" exclziium she. hastily. "N0. in such a. case the woman goes to the wall; the man is never in fault. Things .inust now remain as they are. But this one last thing 'ou can do for me. As far as is DOSSll) 0. let us live as utter stran- gers. to each other." “It shall be just as you please." re- turns he, haughtily. 3 . C O O Day by day the dark cloud that. sep- arates them widens and deapens. drift- ing them further and further :1 art. un- til it seems almost im ssible t at they shall ever come toget er again. To Be Continued. PEARLS OF TRUTH.’ A stranger's kindness oft egcecds a. friend's.-â€"-Middleton. The for barks not when he steal the lamb.â€"Shakspeare. I see there is no man but may make his paradiseâ€"Beaumont and Fletcher. I have seen corruption boil and bubble till it o'errun the st.ew.â€"Shaks- peare. Most men have more courage than even they themselves think they have. â€"Grevill . ’ Our dangers and delights are near allies. from the same stem the rose and prickle rise.â€"Shakspeare. No man can be provident of his time who is not rudent in the choice of his company.-â€"- eremy Taylor. ’When two discourse. if the one's anger rise, the man who leis the conâ€" test fall is wise.â€"Pluta.rch. The accent of our native country dwells in the bear t and mind, as well as on the tongue.â€"Rochefoucauld. I will adhere to the counsels of good men. although misfortune and death should be the consequenceâ€"Cicero. The smallest worm will turn. being trodden on' and doves will peck. in } safeguard of their brood.â€"Shakspeare. would Conceit is to nature what; paint is to beauty; it is not only needless. but impairs what it would improve.â€"Pope. ‘ A clock! with its ponderous em- . bowelments of lead and brass, its pert i or solemn dullness of communication.â€" ' Lamb. This is the fruit of craft; like him that shoots up high. looks for. the shaft finds it in his foreheadâ€"Mid- e on. Brave s irits are a balsam to them- - ,sclves; here is a nobleness of mind lthat heals wounds. beyond sakes.â€" A crowd is not company. and faces 1 are but a. gallery of pictures, and talk ibut a tinkliug cymbal, where there is ' no loveâ€"Bacon. ' ' The creditor whose appearance glad- .dens the heart of a debtor ma hold his head in sunbeams and his oot in storms.-â€"-â€"Lavater. l Let a prince be guarded with soldiers, r attended by counmllors. and shut up in .forts; yet if his thoughts disturb him he is miserable.â€"Plutarch. l l I will not as those who 8 end the ! day in_ complaining of the he ache and «'the ni ht in drinking the wine that lgives t e headacheâ€"Goethe. i A sleep without dreams, after a rough fday of mil. 1:. what we covet most; land yet-how clay shrinks back from mere quiescent clay.â€"Byron. _____..._â€"â€"â€"â€" \VAS'I‘E OF HAPPINESS. There is nothing which we waste more than happiness. Even those who iare thrifty and prudent in other dir- ‘ections are prodigal here. They stint and plan to save a halfpenny. but they are often indifferent about the loss of . days of happiness. \Ve do not enjoy our Ifriends until they die or we lose them :in some other way. The early spring land summer days pass without our realizing their beauty. \Ve rush through la holiday trip and miss half the scen- : cry, because we are in a hurry. or cross lor anxious about worthless trifles. lNearly every old or even middle-aged :man who looks back honestly on his llife Will admit. that however wretch- 'e.d he may be now. opportunities of Thappincss Were given him. A French writer recorded what most of us know [from experience to be true when he said that many people could be made 3 happy With the happiness which is lost -;in the world. “'6 lose happiness be- cause we often scorrn calm.quiet ,pleas- tires. and seek only for th'OSe that ex- cite. Or we make the mistake of think- ing. that happiness lies only in big son- sational events. instead or the small trifling incidents of daily life. Or we seek for it in the future rather than the present. which is like a man look- ing for his but when it is all the time upon his head. BABY DEVOID OF FEELING. Physicians at Sandusky. Ohio. are greatly puzzled over a peculiar physi- cal trait possessed by the 10 months old daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Joe Ben- nett. The child. which enjoys good health and is as cute and cooing as any babe. beams to have absolutely no feeling in its body. Attention was first attracted to this physical wonder some time ago. when it was noticed that the baby would bite the ends of its fin- ! Cartwright. gers until they 'bled without showing - into their I'lllli'l‘s” any sign of pain, several of the members. I YOUNG FOLKS. M\-\\\“\\\ N \‘w 95‘. AN ARAB’S SAYlNG. Remember. three things come notbacks the arrow sent upon its track-â€" It will not swerve. it will not stay Its speed; it flies to wound or slay. The spoken word. so soon forgot By thee; yet it. has perished not; In other hearts 'tis livin still. And domg work for or ill. And that lost opportunity That cometh back no more to thee. In vain thou weepcst. in vain dost years, Those three will neverinore return. A NOAH'S ARK. "I have planned a new game." said Margaret, during a lull in the conversa- tion. "Then. do let us play it i" exclaimed her young friends, in chorus. "But what do you call it?" asked one of the company. Margaret announced the title given above. "Oh. that is final" said another of the girls. "It recalls our childhood days." “Yes.” said the third. "It brings vis- ions of the time when I worked so hard to make my pigs, cow's, elephants and so forth, stand on three legs. and often on none at all." “But the gameâ€"the. game!" chimed the chorus. impatiently. “\Vell We will begin then. if you please." said the young originator. "with this sentence: "The wolf ran into his den and was seen no more.’ You will notice that I have formed a sen- tence containing the name of an animal. Now, Millicent. as you are next. you will do the same. but the name of your animal must begin with the same let- ter that completed the name of my animal." “Oh, that is fun!" cried the chorus. Millicent thought a moment and then gave this sentence: “The frog jum ed into the water be- fore the boy cou d catch it." “Oh,” exclaimed Edith. who sat next. “I was sure you would use fox! Butl have instead a delightfully easy letter." After a momenl’s silence. she added: “The giraffe ate the leaves all off the tree." May followed quickly with: . “The hunters shot the emu dead on the spot." ' Lena continued promptly: “The unicorn saw the hunters com- ing ,and fled to the woods." "But what shall I do with N?” said Dora, who came next. "Must we con- fine ourselvas to the mammals. Mar- garet ‘2" “No.” was the answer. “We may use anything that Noah would have taken into the ark, and the command. you know.-include(l every living thing." “Then I have a sentence. The net glided away before the man could catch : him." I l "Yes," said Anna, “and you hava kind- ly provided me with an easy letter. ' The tiger lay all day in the. shade.” “The rat gnawed a hole through the floor,” continued Bertha. promptly. "Now. Margaret. it's your turn again.” “Yes.” said Margaret; "but since you understand the game. we are going to lay it properly and first. Anna and ora may choose sides." â€" As there were but eight girls present the sides were soon chosen. They were duly ran ed opposite each other.~the leaders si ting quite close together. ac- cording to Margaret's instructions. She placcda light stand between them. and emptied upon it a quantity of small counters of red card-board. "Now," she explained. “whenever one of the players on either side makes. cor- rect sentence. the leader draws out a counter. \Vhenever a. player fails to combine the name of an animal in a sentence. or makes an incorrect one, the leader returns one of the counters she holds to the pile. \Vhen each player has made five sentences. the game is closed. and the side whose leader holds the most counters is the winner. If a majority of the players wish it the game may consist of more than five sentences. but never of less. _ "Next, about the incorrect sentences. There are three kindsâ€"first. mentioning an animal that has been given before in the same game; second, giving an ani- mal an impossible action. like maliin a cat swim or a dog climb a tree; thin . repeating exactly an action previously givon. ,For instance. I make the fox run into his den. Had some one. else made her lion. tiger or bear do the same thing. it would have been :in iii- correct sentence, and would have caused the forfeiture of a counter. and now we are ready to begin." They played several games with much zest, and then Anna suggested that they should use Geographical names instead of animals. "But it will not be 'Nonli's Ark' then," said Dora. "No." replied Anna. "\thn we play it in that way, we call it 'llound tho \‘t’orld.’ So we'll have two games in one." “That's a bright idea," agreed Mara garet. "Let us try. it that way." They played a few gimws and pro- nounced ihe ch:ngc wry inn-rowing. “Now I have an idea.” slid Dora, “l'm going to invite iwi-nly girls to our house some owning to play 'Noah's Ark.’ and the ‘side' that wins Illu most games I shall present ton lillle preq- cnls, one for each girl you sun," Ammo chorus of "Oh. how Ill-light- full" the company lil‘ukv up. whilo Dora \vi-nt home full of supra-I plans about those "Ii-n llllll‘ prose-nix." THE "I CAN'T” ARMY. Oh! dear. What a Irr‘ii‘iv-nrzic bi‘t of cl‘iildi‘en the “i ('an'ls" rm! 'ilivir mothers have to button flu-i" "il'i‘mudll' brii-zh their hair, (Lll'l rial lire}: “:3: ions. and do all sud-i liHi» tisériti fin them, that they llll’l’llf. learn to do in” thcma‘lvvs. if they mull ! (,1;':}.' try '3 .2 ‘ “I'Can'ls”.ilo_ nol aunt in To"..‘.i thing. lliOlr lcnvhcrs l:'!'.'(: 2:: u: . their) to allow their li‘..)"uiis i . b.- [.11 ~‘h l 'l'lif'; -'.(:;‘i (a! f "fl finally destroying.l hard place and whine "i can't u) . n." 'lhc haml3§aml have to be helpt‘l, ui‘ liz’ei': 'Eicy being bandaged. the tot began on itsfiwoulvl stay forever. flow, do 5"“ ~â€" :1.- tongue. and in a few days had bitten off the end of it. stop to this, having ihe child's pulled. extraction. ml the child, but cannot account for the pr-culiar absence of feeling. The parents put a: . u-vih in it? No pain was suffered in their 1 if any one among’ lL. even .’~U'~" Physicians have examin-l he Valence. to the army of paw, the "i Cantu" will err-r inf-i 1m ‘llC worli bell-gr or happier fur f‘mi: !. in; So, of cont-c they nil! my: mind liq-Ls Hm! ‘ . flaws," let him a! on":- «i~=":rt and join the ;-;.:.a of the “Hi 'i‘ry's." “mused; Ifl"“â€"IM-;'1¢u<--¢,.* km-“ ......._-.- uh... _ ,M j A... .-.