The Breton Mills

BY CHARLES J. BELLAMY. Jopyrigfcted by the Author, and published by arrangement with him. ( HAITER XVIII. WHT COULD'T 8HB HAVE WAITBDf The new niaid, who showed Philip Breton into Mrs. EUingsworth's parlor, was uofc uaar}y as pretty as her predecessor in offloe, but tae was too much absorbed with his delicate errand to takeany notice of her. Bertha was alone somewhere, deserted, unprotocted. Bomething must be done for her. It was a strange place to seek pity for her, In the woman's bosom which he had seeu tioaviug in bate of her; but a magnanimous heart ia wont to count on the generosity of others. The maid bad said Mr. Ellingsworth was not ia, and so bc was lef t to appeai to the womanly tenderness of bis wife. He rose snddenly from the satin covered eoía and looked wonderingly at a womau's f orm in tho doorway. Coulíi this be the poor little factory girl, this faahionably dressod woman, with a train likea queen's? Ho had stupidly enough expected to ünd her in the same oíd calicó dress, perhaps with the ding}', plaid shawl about hor shoulders. But the girl was not so sensitive as to bo annoyed. Had not she kept him waitiug while she dressed on purpose to enjoy a triuinph? And no-.v &be was quite pleased at tho plain evidence of it. She siniled rather coasciously as shc extended her jeweled little hand to Mm "TVhy havent you called beforeF Hor voice had lost the desperate or sullen tone he remernbered in it of oíd, but he was not sure he liked it any better. He bowed, like any gentleman, a.s he touched her hand, and noticed the great gold bracelete on hei' slim wrists. Philip was unpleasantly reininded oL manaclcs, and tbeu the massive chain oround her neck, with a huge locket shaped like a padlock, had suggestions, too, of a sort, he jancied, the girl would hardly have likod if the had thought of them. He glanced at hor olive cheeks, and the slightly obliqueoyes, iid tho voluptuous fullness of her fonn. How could an American village have prodneed so perfect an odalisque? "I did not wish to interrupt your Uouoymoon. " He seawd himself again. Sbe was looking oddlyat him, as if curióos whether he had f orgotten her indiscreet visit, wheD she had told him of her own brokoa hart. Philip snddenly met her eyes as ehe sat op]Xite him. "The truth is, Mi-s. Elüngsworth, I have hardly been in the mood for jiohte calis of late. I suppose you imderstand." "How shotilrl ir She elevated her dark brows rather unplcasantly as if to dismiss, once for all, any further confidences with him. Philip smiled, in spite of himself, at her tactii's, "Do you where Bertha ís:" he usked, simply. A sudden flash of color lit up her cheeks. "I hato the vei-y name of her," she exclaimed, as she rose as if to leave him. She was not yet wonted to the enstoms of her new i-ank. "Don'tgo," he urged, "I aai so anxious to know where she is. No doubt jrou have cause to be angry with her,"' Phiiip did uot notice the growing passion in the giri's eyes, "but you surely would not have her starve ta death, or suffer and die alone."' "Perhaps not;" Jane meant to smile, lut she only produeed the effect of showiug the cruel white of her teeth. "Hasnt she got - " the word stuck in her throat, "'himï'' "Why, didn't you know," crie( Philip breathlessly, "sbs has lef t him ? She is alone somewhere, for all we know, in want: think of it, and she too proud to " "Left her - husband?" 'If he was her husband I didn't kiiow,1" he hurried on, as if afraid of the answec íhat ■would come; "I heard, and I (tidu't iike to ask." She hal seated herseïf on the pink satín beside him and caught his hands as lie bcnt toward him to read his thoughts bcfoits he upoke. "Di jou hear they were not married?"' the fllmost hissed at him. "Why, yes, that is - '"he looked away in liisshamc. "It was told about t)u village, but you know better, of eourse," He triedlo laugh, then grew sober again. "How vilo of thern to whisper it, and it was vüe of 1110 to let even the taint of a fear iuto my miad." But sbe did not answer him yes or no. Her pyes hal (,-rown preternaturally large, and tbere was a liappiness in them as if she looked right into the gates of heaven. All the cöminon e.xpressions were gone from her íace. One could read there now uothing but puritj' and sweetaeBS, such as make up tlie substance of droams of Jove. "And he is alone. Ohl where is he? I raust know. I must go to him. It caunot be truo.'' The aiigelie look flittéd, the tüquisit droopiug at rtie corners of hef suoutn was gone. "If you bave dored to lie tó rae." l'hilip was perfectly astonlshed at the sudden change in ber tare and voice. Her black eyes blazed u igovernable passica into Lis. The qciclí troasition from the heighfc of blissfu! hopo to the depths of deep despair secrard to bear her over the line i f humauily. "Teil me, have you lied to raaUc aslioirof me?" She trembled for an instant, like a wild creature before a spring, then she chitched with her hot supj)le lingera at his throat, magniñccnt as a tigresa and in every motion a perfect, tertible grace. Philip thi-ow lier trom him a.s he would some untamed auimal; it was hard to remember her ivomauhood then. She sat where he had left her, as if just awoke from a terrible nightmare, her (ingors parted and eárved and moved spasmodically as if she yet luid him by the throat. ïhen she buried her face in the cushion in a fiood of tears. "I didn't know what I was doiug," sho sobbed. "Don't remember it,"' I was mad." She rose tremblingly to her feet :ind canao forward covering her face with her hands. Hhe might hae been an abused child, so gentle and sweet she seemed now. She took down her hands from her face; what uian could be so cold and hard as to stand against such,eyes as hers looking through theii But sjlie was alone, CHAPTER XIX. A RADICAL. "Ob, my Ood, my God, why couldn't I have waited f She toro the gold chain from her neck and cast it on floor. Her husband had given iü to her, and she hated him at this ruotnont and the pro jd name he had pilt upon hor. She had rathcr one smüe of that ethers than all theèe einpty golden favors. "I am sick of their soft ways and üicir lying tongues," 'ahe moaned; "why didn't I wait?" Jaiio Ellingsworth bogan to walk rapidly about the room, wrenching the great i gold bands about her wrLsts, uuconscious that she chafed and brulsed the skin "I miht havo known üod would not deny him to nio. I wanted hiru so uiueh. Oh, my lovc, my darling, I would have fought for j'ou, I would have starved for you. It would havo bowi suect with you, and I could not wait oue year. I might havo known it would come, but I could not wait." She drove hor nails into her llesh as sbe clasped them in her anguish. She panted for breath; her rich Bliic dress üeemed to suiïocato her, and tho perfumed air was too heavy and dcad; it seemed to strangle her. "He is f ree ; he would have opened his arms to me. He may be coraiug now to ask me to go with him. He could never have loved that cold, bloodless ciijature. Ah, how I could have loved him. I would have taught him tbat a woman can lo ve." She unclaspod her hands and let them fall gently to her side, and her convulsed face took on a new, soft tuderness. "I would go with him," she inurmured. "A hungry heart caimot feed ou such things as these. Oh, but he would not have me, a low creature who has sold herself; he would not have me. He would despise me ; he would not oven look at me. She feil back in one of the satin covered chaii-s she had bought with her husband'a mouej , and cried and sobbed till the salt founUins di-ied up. It was Uien, while sha sat siljat and teailess, looking at her bruised wrists ind at the wounds her nails had mada, that shc3 heard a familiar, delicate tread in the hall. It was as well Mr. Ellingsworth did not catch the expression on her set, weary face as his tall f orm appeared in the doorway. He seemed to her fancy that moment the most terrible monster in the world, this elegant figure of a man, whose disposition was the very essence of refiuement, and sho dropped her eyes to the carpet as he carne toward her with his eternal smile. "All alone, Jeunie? Why you have dropped your chain, here it is on the floor." "Oh, thank you," but she shuddered in spite of herself as he seated himself uear her and warmed her hands fondly between his own soft, white palnis. "My little girl,"' he began. Yes, she was his, his and no other's, his every day and hour of her life, for hadnt he bought her, and what better title was there than that by purchasei She raised her eyes and made them rest on his fine, sraooth sha ven face. She had never noticéd bef ore a certain cold and cruol light in his eyes, as if he could enjoy keenly the torture of a living soul, or that beside the sensual Unes of his finely chiseled mouth there was a suggestiou of an exquisito brutality on the thin lips. Sho trembled before him. "I have a favor to ask of you." He looked admiringly at her as he spoke. Mr. Ellingsworth never tired of the rich, oriental type of his wife's beauty. If Bertha's mother had been like her there ueed never havo been any unpleasant stories in the community on her score. And Jane was lovelier than ever today, with this peculiar brilliancy in her eyes and the bright red spot on either dark cheek. She didn't know how to furnish her parlor very well, but he had never yet been sorry he married her. She seemed to understand so well how to manage him, never too fond, always a little on her guaní, like a judicious artist, who will not let even the most ardent admirar come too near his canvas. "It is about Bertha," he continued, not seeming to notice her start. "She has left that fellow. I havea't troubled you before, but she has been alone up in Viueboro for a good many months. I think best she should come home now. It will be in better taste" Mr. Ellingsworth rose to his feet at a rumbliug noise and stepped to tUe window. Wheu he carne back the color hd í'aded f rom Jane's cheeks and her smaü mouth closed very tight. Her hands were trembling violently, but she had hid them in tho folds of her dress, so her husband could not see her intense excitement. Her heart was beat ing loudly ; her old madness seemed coming upon her again, but this man's cold, smiliug face subdued her. " When is she coming T' "I didn't know but that was the caí riage; well, I suppose she may be here," he glanced at his gold faced watch, "perhíps in an hour or two." The giiTs lips quivered; she almpst broke into a passion of angry words; the líate that seethed in hjr heart for that woman was almost bubbling forth 'its bitterness. But the cool assurance on her husband's face, as his keen, pitiless eyes seemed to search out all tho seciete of her soul, cowed the woman. 3he rose and moved, as one in a dream, toward the door. "I must Jt Ihiugs ï-eady then."' And so this was what her gentle voiced husband called asking a favor of her. She did not love him, but she feared him, now. as she remembered her secret. She woukl obey his nod as i f she were his dog, she wou ld study bhe signs on his placid face. He had never anythiug but srailes and kind speeches for lier, but she would have sunk into the very earth at his feet rather thau that he should open his mvsterious armory of instruments of deadly torture for the souL "Well, well, I thought she would make more fass.'" The afternoon sun was well down on his last stretch wheu Philip Breton came back f rom his faetory, and up the sti'eet toward SIr. Ellingsworth's house. ïhore was some ono wif.h him, a man so tall and slight that the weight of his head, which was quite large, seeincd to bow him. It was an old jentleman, to judge froni the wrinkles on üs face, but he had hardly enough hair to show Tihcthor it was gray or only flaxen. "Tou have done splendidly, my boyl" It was an old acquaintance Of Phüip's, whom [ie had osed to talk philoaophy with at college, one of thoee lxnevolent minded gentlemen who are so optimistic that they have so go to boys tbt sympathy. "Splendidly," ie repeated, "only wby stop just vvhere you are? Il every mili owner would do in his mili what you have done, it would bea grand thlug for this world. But they wou't. Now you have started beautifully, but there is too much business to your plan." Philip smiled argumentatively. It was like his boyhood returned to hear the old man's mcllow tones. "But, Mr. Philbrick, an honest business man eau do more goot! than a dozen impracticable philanthropistB like you." "But think of the things that business principies never can regard. Your help work ton weary hours a lay, all ther poor lives; business demanda that, doesn't it? Woll, I say that is where benevolenee must come in. It is temblé to be shut up as they are; it kilk body, inind and soul. Business principies never can savo them," said the old jeutleman, tuining his kindly eyes on the young mili owner; "]hilanthropy, I don't care what you cali it, some gentle spirit of love ought to lift the burden that crushes the life and hope out of thsm, contrary to business principies, higher than business principies." As'Mr. Philbrick firÚ3hed, a close carriage i-olled by them and stopped a little beyond, where a gentleman and lady stood to weieome the visitor. "Your reforms," answered Philip, after a moment's thought, "should be fouuded on business principies. Then the force of the business instinct will carry them out. Otherwise" - he lifted his hat to Mra. Ellingswortu, but she did not seem to notice him; her eyes wcre fixed on her husband, who was in tho net of handing a lady out of the carriage. The lady wore a traveling suit of a blue shude. Her face was hid as she stepped down, showing a whito feather iu the back of her hat, and a few strands of golden hair below. Thon sho raised her face as the carriage rolled away, and a wild, sweet tbrill of pain shot through Philip's heart, while every nervo in his body tinglad like finely tuned stringod instruments, trembling in sympathy with a resounding ehord. His ■ feet refused to take him away, while his hungry eyes devoured Bertha' s beauty, f or it was no other than she come back- his lost darling found again. His heart warmed, as lie looked, into a divine glow ; ho w cold it had been, and so long. A great burden of weariness seemed lifted from him. It was as if, after a dreary oíd age, the sweet peace of childhood was bom in hira again. For the moment he forgot everything that had come between them, as in the bright, perf umed niorning a child f orgets the dreary night just iast. But the long night had changedher; the exquisito roundness of her face and form had gone; even her grand blue eyes seemed faded like her cheeks, once so rich in their sunset glow. And he only yearned over her the more tenderly - the new i element of pity seemed only wanting before I to glorify his love into a religión. He longed to rush to her, putting away her father, who had no caresses for her, and his wife, who was darting flashes of hate at the unwelcome gnest. He would cnfold ter in liis arms. j She would bü glad for them at last; such love as his made the closest kin in the world. He tooi a step toward her, but no one saw him. The eyes of the two women met. Their wills met and struggled for the mastery in that moment. TTndisguised hate was in one face, lof ty contempt in the other. -There had been one gentle, wistful expression in Bertha's face as she flrst alighted, but there was no trace of it now. She had drawn herself up to her full height, so that the other woman seemed like a chüd before her, and her hand, as it feil to her side, opened outward in a gesture of disdaiu for the creature her father had choseu for his wife. It was harclly a second before her rare lips parted. They at least had not changed. Jane winced for fear of some bitter taunt. She had learned how terrible á blow well traiued tongues can give; but the wcrds were only some polite eommonplace; the toue - well, it caused Mr. Ellinpswortli to glauce critically at his wife. She seemed vulgar in his eyes for the first time. Jane tried to brazen it out, but her face only took on au expression of pugnacious insignificance. "What was it you were sayiug?" resumed Mr. Philbrick as Philip overtook hiui. "I had forgotten." "Speaking of business?'' suggested the other, and tlien coutinued himself, not displeased at au extra turn. "Business, I .say, is heartless and cruel as death. It is pitüess. and pity is the uoblest of emotions; it is ungenerous. it is unfair, we have had enough of it wheu it gi-inds so terribly." Mr. Philbrick thought his tirade would surely fetch an enthusiastie retort. But Philip only walked on by his sido in silence ; he seemed intent on some bcautiful masses of cloud just behind the sun, as he sped on his way to the west. "Can'tafford it, can"t afford it," went on the old gentleman, gesticulating with his forefinger, "that is what you would say, I presume; of course you cau't if the upper classes waste the wealth they do. I teil 3"ou there is no sense or excuse for a man spending ten and twenty and fifty thousand dollars a year. Why, it is a good workman in your mili who earns ten thousand dollars in a lifetime, addiug all his days' wages together. There ought to be more fairness about these things. Such men as you, Philip Breton, get too much - more taan any reasonable creature could want. Now, you ought to go right to work and distribute your surplus - I mean your real surplus - back where it came from, among the r-oor. It takes but very little money to buy what can inake a life comfortable and complete. The rich are always complaining that they don't enjoy life more than the middle classes, but they manage to waste what would make a thousand wretched homes happy without one pang of conscience." ';But what do you want ma to do?" asked Philip in astocishment. The old crentleman's face was flushed with enthusiasm. "Why I want you totake hold, and begin to mako thing3 cqual, by payüig back your surplus u oue forrn or auotlier. Givo thcm bettcr homes to live in. Shorten their bours so thej" eau have a little existence besides drudgery'; pay theni better wages." Philip looked distressed and doubtful. He had thought the subject over carefully and U'lieved be had doneagreat deal already lor his poor. His philanthropie friend would turn the whole world topsey turrey. "Why, you kuow what the books say - that so much would spoil all the spirit and patieuce of the vvorking classes.'1 "Mere arguments devised to soothe the conscientes of the rich," explalued Mr. Philbrick ivith a grand air. "ïhough there is sunh a thing as unwise benevoleoce, encouraging paupers and beggars ; but a man who worlcs every day of his life isn't a beggar. Your father made a good investment that brings you in say a quartc-r million a year. That is rather above what you pay your best workman; but it doesn't hurt }-our manliness any, my boy. The poorest paid hand in your factory works a great deal harder than you ; you needn't be afraid of degrading his manhood until he gets a quarter milliou."' "But wouldirt they hang off on their oars unlesthey had to struggle for a livelihood?'' "My dear Philip, you wouldn't think it necessary to starve a horse, and hang a bag of oats just before his nose to inake him go. Better feed him the oats, and a uealthy animal likes to go. Do you lie off on your oars? You could afford it a thousaud times better than they. Give thetu a chance for hope and ambition, and it wlll produce the best work ever knuvvii. Who lives herei" He gtopped in front of a graceful little cottage, through whoseopen Windows one cotüd seeinto eheerful, veil i'uruished rooms. Arow of maple saplings had been lately set in front, añd plenty of green shrubs and ampie vines gave the place a most charming aii'. "John Graves, ono of my workmen. His daughtr ïnarried rich, and it is her husband's money which has worked tho remarkable ti'ansfonuation." Philip was very gladto change the subject. "John's wife was sick- supposed to be an invalid. See that ladylike woman watering the hanging pot? that is she. Ellingsworth's money made the change. As for Graves liiinself, he used to be bowed almost like a cripple. He was as melancholy as an undertaker, and he had good reasou to be, poor fellow. He used to pull a great slouch hat down over his face to hide as much as he could of himself. Well, you wouldu't know him now ; he is as respectable a looking man as one of ten sees, and they say he works as hard as ever." "Ho isn't dppraded anv, then?" asked Mr. Philbrick slyly, as they walked on again, "by his good fortune." "I caunot earry out your proposal, it isn't in my line. I am a business man and must work in eharacter. I actually feel as if I had made quito a step, for ma" "A step!" cried his eompanion, eagerly reaching out to clasp his hand. "A stride. only I want you to go clear to the goal." "I am too slow for you," smiled Philip, sadly, as he shook hls head. "What I have attempted seems enough for one life work. I don't want to risk it all by a new experiment. Here we are at my house, won't you come in f They stood at the gato. The front door stood invitingly opan, showing the broad oaken staircase, and still beyoud, the tablo set for the evening ir eal. "Not to-night, thank you." Mr. Phi'.brick shook his hand for parting, but cttd not. seem quito ready to go. "Tea is all ready," urged Philip, "mul I am quite alone." "Oh no, my train leaves," he mude an excuse to look at his watch, "in half au hour." Still he hesitated. At last he laid his hand gently on Philip's arm. "You are young and have probably a long life of usefulness before you. But a man can never tell." Philip looked in swprise at him. "You may change your mind, or give up your work; if you should want to, just let me know, I would like to buy you out and run things on my plan." "But you are not rich onough. You probably know the valuation of the Breton Mills," ansvrered Philip, a little proudly. 'I could pay you something, and you wouldn't drive too hard a bargain. You would be glad, perhaps, to contribute in that way." Philip burst into a hearty laugh; his honest oíd friend was losing his wits. Give up his factory, and his own scheme that was his only hope in life! But Mr. Philbrick did not smile. He seemed actually serious and awaiting an answer. "Well, I will give you the first chanca wheu I want to sell." The old gentleman's earnestness sobered Philip in spite of himself. He was sorry he had laughed. Perhaps he had been mocking hi3 own destiny. The philanthropist's proposal began to affect him as a death's head at a feast. He was af raid he eould not forget it. Did his friend know hiin better than he knew himself ? Did he see elements of weakness in his charaeter that would be sure to wreek his beautiful hopes? Philip walked slowly up to his door. Once he turned and looked after the bent but still vigorous figure of the bad prophet. No doubt he tras already planning how to revolutionize the whole management of the mili. "I will uever speak with him agaiii,"' be muttered. Then he looked back at his house again. It was in that very doorway, open as it was now, that Bertha had stood and kissed her hand to him the last time she had been at his home. That was when his chief thoughts of life were as a wedding .iourncy- tuut was before the first. cloud had dimmrd his sunlight. And now she luid retornad. Slie had shamed her lather's house and her mother'a pure inemory. She had shamed him who had . been lover since childhood, and ail far a man she did not love enough to stay with him. Htill he eould not help that first tumultuous throb of his heart, the unreasouing wave of joy that liad swept over him at the very sight of her ehanged, tired face. She had done her worst to spoil his life, to drive peace and happiness from his soul, but that pure, steady glow in his heart, ah, it was love 3'et. Philip's heart was very full of bitterness, tho fruit of his love instead of peace. He stopped midway to his door, and plueked a rose, slowly tore out its blushing petals and let the summer breeze carry them away. The great work for the poor he had eommeneed would have made him the happiest man in the world if she eould have shared his enthusiasm with him His was the disposition even and sweet, just the one to get the most contentment out of his life, but loneüness was terrible to him. ' "Perhaps it is better so," he said aloud, as he crushed the fragment of the flower in his hand. No doubt he was light and weak, and it was on ly under the pressure of a great burilen that he eould aecomplishanything. That gave him intensity. And then Bertha might have weakened his purpose if he formed one, not sympathizing with hin?, and it had not been her wont to sympathize with him. His very devotion to her might have made him tva ver, or for very happiness he might not have thought of-anything but his bride. If a man has a great work to do it is better to ba alone. Tvro souls never can have but a 6ingle thought, and the least friction might delay his progress; the least discouragement might hinder his footsteps on the mountaiu bringiug glad tidiugs to the wretched. All that peril had been saved him. Curran had proved a better foiend to the peoplo than bO thought, even wheu he deserted them, in breaking in upon Philip Breton's idle dream of love. Perhaps it was from Bertha's shame had sprang all the good that blessedathousand hopeless lives. Philip shuddered as lie went up the broad stone steps to his silent house. It seemed infamous to assocjate (hc thought. of shame with the (roman whose beautiful, high bred face hc had looked into again today. And Bertha was in the very village with him; the great outsido world had given her back safe. He need not tremble for her any more, for her father's arm protected her. He looked across the flelds, wbnre he eould see one gable of the house that held her, almost bidden by overshadowmg ti-ees. Perhaps she was in her room tuis moment weeping bitter tears for the sweet, rare life she had lost by her madness. He passed his hand over his eyes. "Must she .suffer forever- for what she has repented of, and the streams of despair flow always through her heart, wushed whiter than snowf' He walked into his home, and through the echoing hall and stood iu the of his dining room. There were sideboards and chairs enough to provide for a party- the table glittered with its massive plate, and glisteued with exquisite china, but only one seat was placed. CHAPTER XX. 7ERY ODD. It was au honr later than usual the next aftemopn that Philip pushed back his chaü' from t!)e office table preparatory to going home. He did not acknowledge to himself a certain sweet cxcitcmcut that affected him as he rose to his f eet, much less the cause of it; and ho laid it to ordiuary masculino vanity that he paused a moment bef ore a mirror bef ore he wout out. It ivas not the same face he used to see in the glass. His black moustache had grown heavy and completely hid his rather unartistic upper lip, but it was not that had changed hira so mueh. His forehcad had some new linea in it and there was, sornehow, a flrmer look about the corners of his mouth; the youth and freshness that had lasted for twenty-six sunimers had given place on tha tvrenty-seventh. ïhere was a self poise and fc-uggestion of resorved force in him now that stood for some very rapid development of character. As Philip went up the hill, his quick eyes caught a glimpse of a woman's dress by Mr. EUingsworüi's gate, and in a few steps more he could seo it was the shade of blue Bertha loved. "Why might it not be Bertha, why not, exeept that he was so eager it should be? He hurried as rauch as he dared - how strongly his heart was leating. She mighi turn any moment and go into the house. He tried to think of what he could say to her if it was she. Yes, it was Bertha. Her face was turned away, showing him only the perfect Greek profile and the uncovered coils of lier wondertul golden hair. Her hand rested on the gate as she looked off on the hills. How grand her thoughts must be to harmonize with the superb dignity of her face. Philip feit guilty at distui-bing her, but it had been so long. He carne quite near, so near that the magnetio thrill of her presence touched uim mort deeply, more tenderly, he thought, than of old, but sho had not turned. He saw the path of careworn lines across her forehead that had been as smooth as marble. There was a faded look on her cheeks, less full than they used to be, and their exquisita color less evenly spread. Her hand was whiter and showed lts blue veins almost painfully. His heart ached over her, his proud Bertha. Why could not God have spared herl He would rather have died and sa ved her the care and suffering that had stricken her loveliness. Then she turned at the sound of f ootfiteps, and a great wave of tenderness swept over his soul. He looked at her so eagerly, so gently that it seemed her face might soften a little, but it did not, nor was there any mark of startled surprise at his coming so suddenly upon her. "It is you Philip?'' Even her voice was changed, there was a new hardness in it. She reached out her cold white hand to him. Kor a moment he did not speak. It seemed as if his heart would break, there was such a stress upon it. And then he was af raid she might be ashamed before him, ashamed of the terrible injustice she had done him, ashamed of the blot that had touched her name. But whatever she might have feit, there was no sign of any emotion on her im' passive faee. "And you are the mili owner now," she said. "How odd it seems." She smiled graciously, but still he could not speak. He could only look down at the thin, blue veined hand he held, and keep back the sob that trembled on his lips for his lost love. And that smile and such words as those were all she had for him at last. He had to look away for strength to speak. He must think of some commonplace that would not startle her repose. Ah I there was the door'way where she had given hún the first ardent caress of his lifo the last time he had talked with her, the night she forsook him. Did she remember, he wondered? He looked oaek at the cold, beautiful eyes, and the amused smile yet lingered on her lips. ■Yes, it doos seem very odd." , Yo BE COKTINTTED.I Tlie Pneumonía Season. If New York had one-tenth as many deaths from uny dijease that comes under the head of pestileuce, and typhoitl fever seems to belong there, as it does from pneumonía, it would be wildly panic stricken and evcry Gothamite wbo could get away woulil be on the run. This whole.sale destróyer is busy all the year ronnd, lut chiefly, of course, after thu cold Weather begin. At the present time it is doirig lts fatal work all over the city and adding to llie death list every day. l'he doctors are very little more successful in treatlng it than they were twenty or thirtv years ago, when il was called either tnflammation oL the lungs or congestion oí Uie lnugs. It probably is not any more prevalent than it was then, but we hear a gi'eat deal more about it, anyway. Tlie frequent tncntiun of it in the death notices would seem to indícate that nearly half Wie deaths in the winter are caused by it. iTeither yonng nor old, feeble or strong has any immunity froin it. Men apparently in the most robust health are stricken down by it nlmost instantly, and death frequently ensues within forty-eight hours. If the nired are attacked by it a fatal result is almost absolutely certain. Bome of the doctors are now talking about a microbe that they suppose to be at the bottom of it, but tli.it does not seem to help them in treating it. Microbe or no microbe, it pursues its fatal conrse, sparing neither rich nor poor. - Xew York Cor. Detroit Free Press. A pressed glass tumbler, nine inches tall with a capacity of eighty ounces. the largest in existence, was made in Kochester a few days ago.