Godby of St. Vitus! That was the name. She remembered it at once. The man for whom Dr. Osborne had telegraphed to come and see her father, or rather would have sent for, but for the amount of his fee. Good God, what a contrast between that sick room and this! The boy had been carried into his father's bedroom, as nearer and larger than his own; and as Marian looked around on every side, her glance fell on signs of comfort and luxury. The room was very large, lit by a broad bay window, with a splendid view of the surrounding country; the walls were hung with exquisite proof-prints in oaken frames, a table in the centre was covered with books and periodicals, while on a smaller table close by the bed was a plate piled with splendid grapes. The bed itself, with fresh bright chintz curtains hanging over it, and a rich eider-down quilt thrown on it, stood in a recess, and on it lay the suffering lad, giving no sign of life save his deep, heavy, stertorous breathing, and occasional restless motion of the limbs. How vividly the other room rose to her memory! She saw the ugly panelled walls, with the cracking, blistering paint, and knew the very spots from which it had been worn off. She saw the old-fashioned, lumbering bedstead, and the moreen curtains tied round each sculptured post. She remembered the roseate flush which the sunlight shed over the face of her dying father, the hopeless expression which remained there when the light had faded away. It was money, only money, that made the very wide difference between the two cases, and money could do anything. Money was fetching this clever surgeon from London, who would probably save the life of this wretched boy. What was the value of a life like this as compared to her father's? But, for the want of money, that sacred life had been suffered to pass away. Thoughts like these crowded on her brain, and worked her up to a pitch of feverish excitement during the early part of the night. She had plenty of time for reflection, for she had become accustomed to the regular heavy breathing of the patient, and no one entered the room save Mr. Creswell, who would sit for an hour together by his boy's bedside, and then, watch in hand, get up and murmur piteously: "Will the night never go! Will the man never come!"


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I was reminded of this strange figure a few months later when I noticed in one of the London papers a telegram from Vienna to the effect that some thirty persons had been

The Bishop’s great, sympathetic soul went out to the poor fellow, and though he had rather spend the next two miles of Ben Butler’s slow journey to church in thinking over his sermon, he never failed, as he termed it, “to pick up charity even on the road-side,” and it was pretty to see how the old man would turn loose his crude histrionic talent to amuse the slubber. He knew, too, that Bud was foolish about horses, and that Ben Butler was his model!

Handmaidens brought cushions, giggled and fled. Retief and Georges settled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence.

“It’s Mrs. Bangs” ses I “I want to see.”

"I watched you go through here that morning. You had no hat on, and you were singing a hymn."

“I wish you would.”

Draw a woman, said Ames, and then, as the nimble pencil obeyed, Nonot an old woman. Drawyou know. Draw a savage woman.

This marning whin I clared aff the brikfust dishes I fownd a letter oonder Mr. Wolley’s chare, which dishthressed me badly. It were as follows:

But it is a very different matter when the author of a book like mine ventures, as I have done for sufficient reasons but at the same time with regret, to sit in judgment on the works of men of research and experts, who belong to our own time and who exert a lively influence on their generation. In this case the author can no longer appeal to the consentient opinion of his contemporaries; he finds them divided into parties, and involuntarily belongs to a party himself. But it is a still more weighty consideration that he may subsequently change his own point of view, and may arrive at a more profound insight into the value of the works which he has criticised; continued study and maturer years may teach him that he overestimated some things fifteen or twenty years ago and perhaps undervalued others, and facts, once assumed to be well established, may now be acknowledged to be incorrect.

"You men always stick up for each other," protested his wife. "No doubt you are as ready to praise that horrible man who ruined poor Mrs. Coventry's life. I can't remember his name at this moment."

We will venture the assertion that when the history of the past century is being written up, the chroniclers will discover that there has been as much, if not more progress and advancement made in the nineteenth century than in all of the eighteen centuries preceding it. The advancement in the past century was phenomenal in the marvelous achievements in inventions and in discoveries in every branch of industry, in the arts and sciences; and I am delighted to know that agriculture, horticulture and floriculture have also received some attention, although not so much as might have been. Still, we are pleased that a beginning in those branches has been made, and we hope for much more rapid advancement within the next two decades.


2.Out of curiosity on the last day of my stay in Berlin, I went to a famous concert agent’s office, ostensibly to make some business inquiries, but, in reality, to have a look at the underworld of art; for the business side of all art has almost invariably an underworld of its own in which there is much irony and in which dwells a spirit of strangely sardonic humour.


And in spite of the anger she felt towards Guy for his outrageous presumption, Trixie's heart sank lower than ever. She knew so little of the history of George's first marriage--had refused to hear when her mother and "Gommie" had wanted to tell her. Never once had she questioned her husband about the divorce, and naturally no one had mentioned it to her in India, until now this blundering boy had raked up the talk he had heard. A horrible doubt assailed her. Could it be true


"Twenty-five is enough time to be a meteor," said Judy.


fishes and worms in the animal kingdom. The real resemblance of the organisms in such groups is unconsciously accepted by the mind through the association of ideas, and it is not till this involuntary mental act, which in itself requires no effort of the understanding, is accomplished, that any necessity is felt for obtaining a clearer idea of the phenomenon, and the sense of this necessity is the first step to intentional systematic enquiry. The series of botanical works published in Germany and the Netherlands from 1530 to 1623, from Brunfels to Kaspar Bauhin, shows very plainly how this perception of a grouping by affinity in the vegetable kingdom grew more and more distinct; but it also shows how these men merely followed an instinctive feeling in the matter, and made no enquiry into the cause of the relationship which they perceived.


that after the balloon went up, and Sam Stacker came before the curtain and told that astounding lie about the balloon being six miles in the air, and made his magnificent offer to take care of our wives and children that didn't exist, Jenny had tumbled over, screaming, "Oh, Ted," or "Oh, Ned," Jack couldn't remember which. He hadn't been able to bring her to since. Sam slapped her hands, Dag loosened her dress, and I produced a brandy flask, which Ted was about to take out of my hand and put to her lips, but I preferred doing that myself, and quietly pushed him away while I supported her head and got a few drops of brandy between her teeth. In a few minutes of this vigorous treatment she recovered, did like all people coming out of a fainting fit—sat up, wondered where she was, had it all come back to her in a moment, and seizing Jack, began to cry hysterically. Jack yelled too, so we had a devil of a commotion for a while; but Sam, who had sublime common sense, put an end to it by calling a carriage, packing Dag and Jack and Jenny in it, and sending them off to Jenny's lodgings. Then we went to Sam's hotel and got the champagne before mentioned.


Any history of these outlaws would doubtless be looked upon as wild fiction unless the statements were carefully verified by court records and contemporary newspaper notices, and the records of early writers who gathered the facts regarding them when these facts were told by men and women who lived at the time the atrocities were committed. The adage that “truth is stranger than fiction” is exemplified fully in their careers.

. . .