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- ,C HA' " u 2.3 OR. A CHAPTER XXXll.â€"(Continui3d). They have by this time left. the town behind them, and have. turned through a stone-pillared gate down an ilex-v and ficus-shcltered drive, along which the indigcne, whipping up his horses to an ‘ avenue canter, lands them at the arched door of a snowy Moorish house, whose whitewash shows dazzling through the interstices of .a Bougainvillia fire blaz- ing all over its front. Two minutes later Jim is standing by Sybilla‘s couch. She is holding both his hands in hers. and there is something in her face which tells him that she means that he shall kiss her. "When I think-when I think of our last meeting l” she says hysterically. “Yes,” he says, gasping: “yes, of course. What a beautiful villa you have here i” The observation is a true one, though, for the moment, he has not the least idea whether it is beautiful or not, as he turns his tormented eye's ‘round upon the delicious little court, with its charm- ing combination of slender twisted mar- ble colums, of mellow-tinted tiles, of low lashing fountain. Originally it has een open, roofless to the eye and the breath and the rains of heaven; but its Northern purchaser has covered it in With glass, and set low divans and lux- uriantly cushioned bamboo shairs about its soft-tumbling water. Sybille. has let fall her hands. and the expression of the wish for a sisterly cm- brace has disappeared out of her face. For a few moments she remains abso- lutely silent. He looks round anxiously for Cecilia, but she has gone to take off her bonnet, and Mr. Wilson has not yet come in. Under pretence of examining the tiles, he walks towards the lovely little colonnade of horseshoe arches that form the court, and his uneasy look rests, scarcely seeing them, upon the ver- tical lines of lovely old faiencc that in- tersect the whitewash with softest blues and greens and yellows. .When will Cecilia return? :him he presently hears the 'veicc,.steadied and coldened: . It is very beautiful; and, of course, it is everything for weary eyes to, have such pleasant objects to rest upon. I b-elievc”â€"wit.h a little laughâ€"“that. we Sick people really take in most of our nourishment through the eyes. Was not it wonderful enterprising of us to come here? I suppose your first thought when you heard the news was, ‘Ilow mad of Sybille to attempt it t" It is needless to say how innocent of the. mental ejaculation attributed to him Jin. has been, and the consciousness of it makes him inquire with guilty haste: , “But you were .none the worse? you got over it all right?" ‘ u “I was really wonderful," replies she: we Sick peoplc"â€"with a little air of playfulnessâ€"“do give you well ones these surprises‘sometimes; but I must not take the credit to myself; it is really every bit due to Dr. Crump, my new doctor, who is a perfect. marvel of intui- tion. I always tell him that he never need ask; he divines how one is; he says he is a mere bundle of nerves him- self; that is, I suppose, why one can talk to him upon subjects that are scaled books with one’s nearest and dearest.” Her voice has a suspicious tremble in a which frightens Jim anew. He looks again apprehensivcly for help towards the two tiers of curving column and rounding arch, which rise in cool grace above each other, and sees, with relief, the figure of Cecilia leaning over the balustrade that runs along the up- per tier, and looking down upon him. At the same moment Mr. Wilson enters, and shortly afterwards they all go to luncheon. It is not a very plcaSant r1â€" past, although the cool dining-roon'i, with its beautiful old pierced stucco ceil< ing and its hanging brass lamps, con- tributes its part handsomely towards what should be their enjoyment. There is no overt family quarrel, but just enough of covert recriminalion and sub- acid sparring to make an outsider feel thoroughliy uncomfortable. and to prove how inharmonious a whole th esourcd little family now forms. “We quarrel more than we usrd to do. do not we?" says Cecilia, when Jim, a little later, takes leave, and she walks, under her red sunshade, up the ilcxed drive with him to the pillari‘d gate; “and to-day we were better than usual, ,‘bccausc you.\vere by. Oh, I wish you i were always by l” 110 cannot echo the wish. He had thought that he had already held his dead Amelia at her true value; but never, until to-day, has he realized through what a long purgatory of ob- scure heroisms she had passed to her re- ward. (L ' i do hope you will not drop us atto- gethcr. Of course, now that the link that bounii us to you is hrol;en"’â€"-hcr voice quivers, but he feels neither the [cur nor th-i rage that like phenomenon in lJilla has {endured in him-«“thcre is no- thing to hold you any imgrr; but I do trust you will not quite threw is ever.” “My dear old girl, why should I? I hope that you and I shall always be the best of ihall see you settled in a home of vour own." ‘ Behind invalid’s SAD LlFE STORY. item-+04 WWWW l l I “You mean that I shall marry ?- Well, to be sure”â€"with a recurrence to that business-like tone which had alwilb'S amused him formerly in her discussion of her affairs of the hearâ€"“I ought to have a better chance now than ever, as I shall have a larger fortune; but”â€"â€"with a lapse into depressionâ€"“this is not a good place for menâ€"I mean English- men. There are troops of delightful-look- ing Frenchmen, Chasseurs d'Aiiquc, and Zouavcs ; but, then, we do not know any of themâ€"not one. Well, perhaps,"â€" philosophicallyâ€"“it for the best; one always hears that Frenchmen make .,n very bad husbands. CHAPTER XXXIII. Notre Dame. d’Afriqueâ€"-Our Lady of Africaâ€"is an ugly lady. . homely and black; and the church that is dedicated to her is ugly' tooâ€"new and mock- Moorish; but, like many another ugly lady, beinggvery nobly placed. she has a great and solemn air) It is Our Lady of Africa who first. gives us our greeting as we steam in from scawards: it is to Our Lady of Africa that the fisher people climb to vcspcrs, and to the touching ofllce that follows, when priests and acolytcs pass out of the church to the little plateau outside, where, sheer against the sky, stands a small Latin cross, with a plain, and, as it seems, iCOlIllPSlltIp-Bd stone beneath it, on which one reads the inscription: “A 1e memoire de tout ceux, qiii ont pcri dans le mer, ct one do enscvelis dans scs flots.” “All those who have perished in the sea, and been buried in her waves 1” What a gigantic com-pany to be cov- ered with one little epitaph! Notre Dame d'Afique stands grandly on the cliff-tops, overlooking the sea, whose cruel deeds she is so .agoniz-edly prayed to avert, whose cruelty she is sometimes powerful to assuage, witness the fre- (uent votive tablets with which the church walls are covered: “Merci, 0h ma mere." “J‘ai prie, et j'ai etc cxauce.” “Reconnaissance a Marie." “Reconnaisanice a Nolre Dame d'Alique." She does not look very lovable, this coal-black Marie, who stands in her stiff brocade, with her ebon hands stretched straight out above the high altar;‘ but how tenderly these poor fisherwives must have felt towards her when she brought them back their Pierre or their Jean, from the truculent deeps of the ocean t Burgoyne has been told. both by the guide-book and by his table-d'hotc neigh- bor, that he ought to see .\'0tre Dam-e d’Afique; nor is he loth to pay further obeissance to that high lady who al- ready yesterday beckoned to him across the blue floor of her waters. He does not tell Cecilia of his intention, as he knows that she wou.u offer to accom- pany him; but on leaving her he takes his way through the gay, French town, along its Arab-named ‘i-ifipets, Baba Zoun and Bab-el-Cued, towaids the vil- age of St. Eugene, and breasts the wind- ing road that, with many an elbow and send, heading a deep gorge that runs up from tho-sea to the church-foot, leads him within her portals. The congrega- tion is sparseâ€"â€"a few peasants, a blue and red Zouavc, and several inevitable English. Now and again a woman, clad in humble black that tells of prayers in vain, goes up with her thin candle. and, lighting it, sticks it in its sconce among the others that burn before the altar. For awhile Burgoyne finds it pleasant after his climb lo sit and watch her, and speculate pilyingly with what hope of still possible good to herself she is set- ting her slcnder taper alightâ€"410w that her treasure has all too obviously gone down beneath the waves. to sit and spec- ulate, and smell the heady incense, amt listen to the murmur of chanted suppli- caiion; but presently, growing weary of the uncomprchended service, he slips outside to the little plateau, with its view straight outâ€"no iinportunalc land- objcct interveningâ€"towards the sea, across which a little steamer is casting her way; and on the horizon two tiny shining sails are lying. Here, on this bold headland, it. seems as if one were one’s self in mid-ocean; and one has to lean far over the low wall in order to realize. that there is some solid earth between us and it ; that two full cities of the deadâ€"a Jewish and a Christian-~11e below. For read by the light of that plain ii‘iscriplion upon which his eyes are resting, what is even the azure Mediterranean but. a grave? For the matter of that, what is all life but a grave? “First our pleasures die, and then Our hopes, and then our fears, and when These are dead, the debt is due : Dust claims dust, and we die too." Ilc turns away, and, muttering these. words half absenily between his lips. begins to make the circuit of the church ; iiiends, and that before longsr I and in doing so comes suddenly upon three persons who are apparently simi- larly employed. The party consists of ahead of him they are, for the first mo- ment or two, not aware of his presence, an ignorance by which he, rather to his own discomfiture, profits to overhear a scrap of their conversation certainly not intended for his ear‘. “I suppose that you were wool-gather- ing, as usual?” Mr. Le Merchant is say- ing, with an accent of cold severity to lnr daughter; “but should have thought that even you might have remembered to bring a. wrap of some kind for your mother !" Jim starts, partly at. having happened 53 unexpectedly upon the people before him, partly in shocked astonishment at the harshness both of voice and words. In the old days Elizabeth had been the apple of her father‘s eye, to oppose whose lightest fancy was a. capital offence. for whom no words could be too sugared, no looks too doting. Yet now she anSWers, with the sweetest good- humor, and without the slightest sign of surprise or irritation, or any indication that the occurrence is not a habitual one: “I cannot think how I could have been so stupid; it. was inexcusable of me." “I quite agree with you," replies the father, entirely unmollified; “I am sure you have been told oft-en enough how liable to chills insufficient clothing makes people in this beastly climate at sundown." .\ _ “But it is not near sundown," breaks in Mrs. Le Marchant, throwing herself anxiously, and with a dexterity which shows how frequently she is called upon to do so, between the two others; “look what a great piece of blue sky the sun has yet to travel.” “You shall have my jacket," cries Eliz- abeth impetuously, but still with the same perfect sweetness; “it will be ab- surdly short for you, but, at least, it will keep you warm." So saying, she, with the speed of lightning, whips off the garment alluded to, and proceeds to guide her mother's arms into its incon- veniently tight sleeves, laughing the while with her odd childish light- heartedness, and crying, “You dear thing. you do look too ridiculous t" The mother laughs too, and aids her daughter's efforts; nor does it seem to occur to any of the three that the fatal Southern chill may possibly strike the delicate little frame of Elizabeth, now ex- posed, so lightly clad in her tweed gown, in its insidious influence. » “i wish you had a looking’glass to see yourself in," cries she, rippling into fresh mirth; “does not she look funny, father ?” appealing to him with as little resentment for his past surliness as would be shown by a good dog (I can- not put it more strongly), and yet, as it seems to Jim, with a certain nervous deprecation. The next moment/one. of themâ€"he does not know whichâ€"has caught sight of himself, and the moment after he is shaking hands with all three. It is clear that the fact of his presence in Algiers has been notified to Mr. Le Merchant, for there is no surprise in his coldly greeting. He makes it as short as possible, and almost. .at once turns to continue his circuit of the church, his wife at his side, and his daughter meek- iy following. Doubtless they do not wish for his (Jim’s) company; but yet as he was originally, and without any refer- ence to them, going in their direction, it would seem natural that he should walk along with them. He is hesitating as to whether or no to adopt this course, when he is decided by a very slight movement of Elizabeth’s head. She does not actually look over her shoulder at him, and yet it seems to him as if, were her gesture completed, it would amount to that; but. it is arrested by some impulse before it is more than Such as it is, it suffices to and it seems .to sketched. take him to her side; him that there is a sort. of satisfaction mingled with the undoubted apprehen- sion in her face, as she realizes that it is so. [for eyes, as she turns them upon him, have a hungry question in them. which her lips seem afraid to put. Apparently she cannot get nearer to it than thisâ€"very tremblingty and hurried- ly uttered, with .a timid glance at her father’s back, as if she were delivering herself of some compromising secret in- stead of the mere platitude which she so indistinctly vents : “Aâ€"aâ€"gr-eat many things have hap- pened sinceâ€"since we last met f" bill, from which, unlike Cecilia’s rain- bow raiment, the crepe band has not yet. been removed; and he understands that she is coniprchendii'ig his trouble as well as her own in the phrase. “A rrcat many 1” he answers baldly. llc has not the cruelty to wish to keep her on tcnler-liooks, and he knows per- fectly what is the question that is writ- ten in the wistful blue of her look, and whom itconcerns; but it would be im- pcrtinencc in him to take for granted that knowledge, and answer that curio~ sity which, however intense and appar- ent, has not. yet become the current. coin of speech. Probably she sees that he is unable or unwilling to help her, for she makes another tremulous effort. “1 hope thatâ€"thatâ€"all your friends are well." “All my friends i" repeats he, half sadly; “there are not such a numerous band; I have not many friends left still alive." llis thoughts have reverted to his own loss, for. at the moment, Amelia is very rcscn to him; but the words are no sooner out of his mouth than he. sees how false is the impression produced by 'hi; replyâ€"secs it written in the sudden dead-whiteness of her cheek and the ter- roi in her eye. “Do you i‘iicai'i"â€"-slie slaniincrsâ€"“thal your a'iiyliodywany of ll‘l('ll(lSâ€"‘â€"lHâ€"â€"l5 lately dead?" 1 “Oh no' no t“ he cries. roassuringly; “‘yoti are making ii niistiikc. iiz'ibody is draft-nobody, that is.'~â€"\vilh ii sighâ€"~ that _\’ou do not already know of. .\ll our friendsâ€"atl our coininiin friends” are 9' ~50“ i know a man and two ladies. Being a 0 tier cye travels for a moment to 'his- E. L l l p "Elizabeth!" breaks in Mr. Le Mar- chant's voice, in severe appellation; he has only just become aware that his daughter is not unaccompanied, and the discovery apparently does not please him. Without a second’s delay, despite her twenty-seven years, she has sprung for- ward to obey the summons; and Jim has the sense to make no further effort to rejoin her. By the time that their cir- cuit is finished, and they have again reached the front of the church, vespers are ended, and there is a movement out- wards among the worshippers. They streamâ€"not very numerousâ€"out on the little terrace. The priests follow, ton- sured, butâ€"which looks strangeâ€"with beards and whiskers. The acolyles, in their red chasubles, carry a black and white pall, and lay it over the memorial stone below the cross. On either hand stand a band of decently clad youths-â€" sons of drowned seamenâ€"playing on brass instruments. It is a poor little music, doubtful in tune; but surely no rolling organ, no papal choir, could touch the heart so much as this simple ceremonial. The little Latin cross stand-~ ing sheer out against the sea; the black pail thrown over the stone that com- memorates the sca's innumerable dead; the red-clad acolytcs, standing with eyes cast down, holding aloft their high tapers, whose flickering [lame the sea- wind soon puffs out; and the sons of the drowned sailors, making their homeâ€" ly music to the accompaniment of the salt breeze. 'lhc little service is brief, and those who have taken part in it are soon dispersing. As they do so, Jim once more finds himself for a moment. close to Elizabeth. (To be continued). ‘7‘“- - N lllt llllltl. MWWVNNVWW SHEEP NOTES. A cross of Southdown rams on Cots- wold cwes produces a good type of mut- ton sheep. They are well woolled and have comparatively close fleeces. The Cotswold is a heavy wool-pro- ducer and will improve the wool-pro- ducing facilities of the Mei-ines- when crossed on them. Good grad-e mutton lambs go to mar- ket at seventy to 100 pounds when from five to six months old and bring top prices. Grade Southdown lambs are valuable for this purpose. Kentucky blue grass seed sown on bare places in the pasture before a rain, should take root and keep the pasture good. It should be cured. An acre or two of rape will be found valuable for pasture during the summer when a small flock is kept. Grain should be given the ewes in pasture if an extra grOwth is wanted on the lambs. Have you a lamb creep? Better fix one so that you can feed the lambs some grain and not have the old sheep steal it ati away from them. It. pays. Deck the lambs before the flies get numerous. About the best time is when they are a couple of weeks old. Go round the fences and see that there are no holes for the sheep and lambs to crawl through. Once the habit is formed it will stick like a burdock burr. Drinking surface water and feeding too long on one pasture are two causes of stomach worms. Isn‘t the way clear then to a cure? Give the sheep good pure water and change their pasture often. A good way to get. into sheep cheaply is to take a small flock on share, of a neighbor who has more than he can well pasture. They will soon double up and bring you a good flock, without paying out much, if any money. POOR RESULTS. When manure stands in piles over the field the soil directly beneath the piles will be excessively richâ€"it will cause corn to run to stalks and grain to straw. In other words, the soil will be over-de. Surrounding soil, havvcvcr, will be under-fed. The plant. food which goes into the soil directly beneath the pile recs away down, so deep in fact, that a large part of it never becmnes available for plant growth. When a crop is grown on a field which has been fertilized in this manner, the growth is uneven. Where the piles have been standing all winter the crop will be thick and heavy, between the files it will be thin and scattered. This practice at best is a poor one. No doubt it is better for a faiiiicr to ap- ply the manure in this manner than not to apply it at all, but it is worth apply- ing.r in the right way. The correct way is to haul the fresh manure to the field and scatter it in a finely pulverized condition over the en- tire surface. This can be done at any time of the year. The first. rain will wash every particle of plant food into the soil. Then, when plowing time comes, if this manure on the sin-fare is turned under, the final step has been taken to return to the soil every dollar‘s worth of plant food which the manure contains. \VllY EVERY FARMER SHOULD HAVE A SPREADER. It. is the easiest way to spread manure. it the fastest. way of spreading ina- mire. It increases the. value of manure 100 per Ct‘lll. ll iiiakiis the most disagreeable job on ll!“ farm pleasant. lt rrluriis plant food to the soil. It iiiipi-ovcs the texture of the soil, allowing it to hold lllr’llSltll'i‘. and thus fin-res a heavy gi'i'iwlli of crops. It stops the expense of commercial fertilizers. It can be used every day of the year-â€" something which cannot. be said of many other farm machines. It. spreads so evenly that the manure does not interfere when working the ground with other machines. It permits spreading after seeding or planting, or it can. be used to top dress the meadow or pasture without chok- ing down the grass or grain. It is capable of spreading so thin, that the manure will not interfere with the pasturing of stock. It never throws out large chunks, be- cause the teeth are so arranged on the beater hats that all matter which passes over them is torn apart. It can be operated by a hey just as well as a man. It saves and makes money. LIVE STOCK NOTES. A colt overworked at three years old will be unsound by the time he is six or seven. If he is sound at eight or nine he will remain so. A lazy hen is worthless. The hens that work are the ones that are a profit to their owner. Give them something to do and a place to work in. Then if they, persist in idleness, shorten their rations and make , them work. - A slow milk-er is never tolerated in the dairy districts. The sooner a cow is milked, and all the organs connected with feeding. digestion and secretion are left in their natural condition, the bet- ter it is for the cow. A farmer says when not working his horses very much he can keep them in excellent condition on well-cured pea hay. This man does a lot of work with. his stock and claims to feed but a small amount of grain, yet his stock is al- ways in good condition. Others, who feed a large amount of grain, do not do so much work with them, yet have a lot of trouble with debilitated horses. It is claimed that separated skim-milk is no better than water for calves. The facts are that the separator removes no part from the milk, aside from fat and filth. The remaining casein weighs nearly as much in all cases and is much more nourishing, while the sugar, ash, albumen and other ingredients make an excellent food for growth, and,, when combined with green grass or mill feeds, for fattening. Experiments prove sepa- rator milk to be worth for feeding twenty to forty-nine cents per hundredweight. __,-..- ._.pfi- 2p.â€" UGANDA OF TO-DAY. Changes That [lave Taken Place Since the Building of thee Railway. The progress of civilization in the Uganda Protectorate was the subject of a paper read before the London seeiety, of Arts recently by Mr. George Wilson, C.B., the Deputy Commissioner of the Protectorate. The lecturer dwelt. on the value of the Uganda Railway, contrasting the trip toâ€" day with the former weary and hazar- dous caravan journey of two months. Mombassa. he said, is now a place of modern hotels. Trains run twice a week to the lake, so that you can pass through 584 miles of the most beautiful scenery i'l forty-eight hour:. At the lake you meet the weekly steamers. and m ano- ther eighteen hours you are in Uganda. Formerly the carriage of goods cost. from $1,500 ‘to $2,000 a. ton, and took about three months! now it. is done under four days at rates ranging from $t5 to $75 a ton. The natural products of Uganda are bananas, timber. rubber, coffee. and col» ion. The field for the production of this last, said Mr: Wilson, seems to be at- most unlimited, and although the indusâ€" try on commercial lines is altogether new to the country, it will reach several thou- sands of tons next 'year. He pomted out. the expert opinion that botanically speaking no country was known to be so free from insect pests. _ British enterprise, so backward hither- to. was at last moving to this field, and large business undertakings are in pro- gress. . In conclusion Mr. Wilson said that the country was not ripe for absolute self- government.. “Natives under a With) rc- straint can be like good and clever chil-. dren; in their wild impulses, and Willi passions allame, they can be very devds incarnate. Only a few years ago the chiefs would slit off a nose, cut on lips, lop off a limb increlvfor the accidental spilling of beer. or i..‘.-.-'ippearancc of hair in their food.” He added thatundcr British control since 1899, excepting in the case 'of dispersing a band of muti- peers, only one punitive expedition has taken active measures, and that was to demand retribution for wanton murder by an outlying tribe. . .Sir Frederick Lugard, who presided. gave a brief account of the pcrilious days of 1890, before they succeedrd 1111 got.- ting a treaty, of the disappmiitiiicnt when the Chartered (Zompai'iy ordered him to’evacuaic the country as their funds no longer periii'ilted them to hold it. “I didn't know what to do: he saifl, adding. with a twinkle in his eye, i didn’t'carry out my order. but I (Stillbth l:‘.iiglaiid and started the campaign for Uganda. “The railway to-diiy is not only_pay- big a dividend. but, is paying the inter- est on the capital.” ____._.-» - _p:1._.__â€"..-.. HELPING HANDS. lieâ€"Then it. is settled that we are to elope at midnight? Silil-â€"â€"Yi‘.$‘. lieâ€"And yoii‘arc sure you can get vcur trunk packed in time? V Sheâ€"Jib! yes. Paint and iiiiiii‘iiirc have both promised to help me. .____..-»x~_.â€"â€"â€"-â€" ' “lie olfcri‘d lllf‘ his hand and f'irtuiii‘.’ “llid you acct-pt. " “No; the one was toc big and the other too small." l . mum» Nm1$mma~ mu‘mwmzrt‘g 5:33;. \ g“; I- . :E’b"