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“In a moment she was out of her carriage. “Charlotte,” she said to her companion, a lady of more than mature age, “you are something of a doctor. Can you find out what is the matter with him o' And she turned away to look at Rajah, who was standing by the phaeton in the most composed manner, with a self-satisfied air, which would at any other time have made me roar with laughter. As it was, I could scarcely help shrieking with pain, even under the light touch of the lady doctor. “I think Mr. Glenavon's leg is broken,” said this lady; “we must either take him home or send for help.” “‘Oh, take him home,” answered Mrs. Wycherley, quickly; “your husband can attend to him at once. Dr. Clarke and his wife are stopping with me,” she explained, “and he can set your poor leg at once, if you don't mind. The groom will walk back, and Mrs. Clarke and I will drive you. It is not half a mile to the house. and it's ever so far to Glenavon.’ “In a few minutes the ladies had piled up all the cushions in such a manner as to make almost a horizontal couch of the front of the phaeton, and while I endured tortures the three helped me into it. Mrs. Wycherley sat down beside me on the bare boards, while ‘Charlotte' perched herself on the seat behind, and the little groom led Rajah back to Glenavon. It was a very short drive to Mrs. Wycherley's pretty home, and the rugs and cushions made it fairly easy. There was, however, time for me to admire my fair companion's eyes, which were large and liquid, and seemed full of pity and anxiety; her dainty gloved fingers, which so deftly handled the reins and whip ; her— But why describe her, gentlemen 2 You have seen her and know her. Excuse the enthusiasm of a husband who is still a lover. “To resume, Dr. Clarke had me carried to a spare room and set my leg at once. He absolutely prohibited my being removed for a week at least. He, his good wife and Mrs. Wycherley took turns at nursing me, and when after a few days his professional avocations called him to town, Mrs. Wycherly was my constant companion. An invalid-couch was brought, which enabled me to be wheeled into the adjoining room, and my fair hostess was so kind, and made my convalescence so pleasant, that I was quite sorry when I was able to hobble about on crutches, and had no longer an excuse for trespassing on her hospitality. The party here broke up when you heard of the accident, of which you could not guess the details, and you were all good enough to come and pity me, while I felt that I was the happiest man alive. You know the rest. As soon as I recovered the use of my leg I knelt at Mrs. Wycherley's feet, and she is now Mrs. Glenavon.” “But what about Rajah 2" we all asked. “Oh Rajah's history is this : I discovered it afterward. He came out of a traveling circus, and had been taught to perform as a Life Guardsman's horse in Egypt. His master was supposed to be wounded by a shot from as Arab, and to fall off. Rajah had then been trained to bury him in the sand all but his head, and to gallop away to fetch, an ambulance. The poor horse expected me to fall off at the first shot, and was very indignant at my not doing so. When at last I tumbled, he was grieved and astonished at my not remaining motionless like the circus rider. He then covered me with leaves, as there was no sand, and galloped off for the ambulance, which he met in the shape of Mrs. Wycherley's pony phaeton. “Her attention was, of course, attracted by the riderless horse, and his neighing and other extraordinary antics induced her to follow him, with what result you know.”

“What have you done with Rajah 2" I inquired.

“He has the best and most comfortable box I could build,” replied Roland, “and my wife rides him from May till August. In the shooting season he is led about by a lad for fear of accidents, and when he gets old he will be pensioned, for he has made me the happiest man alive.”


THE bland varieties of fruit (says a medical contemporary) are the most wholesome and nutritious—strawberries, apples, pears, grapes and gooseberries. The last named, however, with currants and raspberries, are less wholesome than the others. Stone-fruits are apt to disagree with the stomach; but the more watery, as peaches and large plums, are better than the smaller and drier, as apricots and damsons. The pulp of oranges renders them heavy. Among foreign fruits, bananas are wholesome. Dried fruits and the skin of fruits in general are indigestible. Cooking removes much of the acidity from crude fruit, and renders it lighter as well as more palatable. So treated, it is productive of good, and no harm ; but it is a fundamental principle that whatever fruit is eaten uncooked must be fully ripe and not over-ripe. This may sound trite, and, indeed, the principle is commonly admitted, but not, it would seem, by all; for we still find people, and not a few, who will themselves deliberately take, and worse, will give to their children, green gooseberries, green apples, etc., the very hardness of which, apart from their acid pungency, suggests their unfitness for digestion. Such people use as food an acid irritant poison, whose necessary action is to cause exces. sive intestinal secretion, with more or less inflammation. Hence arises diarrhea. On the other hand, fruit which is over-ripe, in which fermentation has begun, is a frequent cause of this disorder, and equally to be avoided. It should never be forgotten by any who incline to follow the season in their feeding, that the want of such precautions as the above may produce that dysenteric form of diarrhea which is occasionally as rapidly fatal as the more dreaded Asiatic type of that disease.


THE father of Peter the Great, Alexis Michaelowitz, was one of the most popular czars Russia ever had, and he would have been one of the greatest if his brilliant son had not eclipsed him. Like many other crowned heads we have read about, Alexis was wont to dress in a plain civilian's garb or a common soldier's uniform, and move among his subjects, thus finding out their likes and dislikes, their wrongs and grievances; and very frequently the monarch's ukases were the result of the private's experiences among the people. Not far from Moscow lived a poor nobleman named Matwies, who often received visits from the czar in his various disguises. Although Matwies recognized the czar every time, he was always careful to treat him according to his diguise, so that the other members of his family were entirely ignorant as to the real character of the visitor. One day the czar visited Matwies dressed as a captain of the “guards.” While conversing together a young lady entered the room where they were, but immediately retreated when she found it occupied. Alexis saw enough of her to notice that she was beautiful.


“Who is this young lady, Matwies 2" he asked, after she had closed the door. “I never saw her here before.” “That is Nathalie Narajchkin, a distant relative from the country. She is poor, but amiable, and is an apt pupil. I have adopted her in my family, and love her as my own.” “Well,” answered the czar, “take good care of her and teach her well, and I will find her a husband and give her a wedding-present. Does she know me?” “She does not, sire. She never goes out. saw you.” “Introduce me to her as a simple captain, and do not let her know who I am.” At dinner the czar met Nathalie; and found her a very intelligent and highly interesting maiden, so much so, indeed, that he fell desperately in love with her, and the great Czar of all the Russias was conquered by a modest girl. From that day the czar came more frequently than ever before, and being handsome and gallant, it was but a short time before Nathalie found herself longing for the visits of the captain. Although no declaration was made, yet she was not blind to the captain's devotion to her. Matwies, however, saw with alarm their growing attachment to each other, as he was aware of the fact that the czar was about to choose a wife from among the most *andsome noblewomen of the empire, and he feared that his acquaintance with Nathalie would end ignominiously. On the day before the one appointed by the czar for the choice of his czarina, he once more came to Matwies as captain. “Matwies,” he said, “you know that to-morrow I shall make a choice from the ladies of the Kremlin as to who shall share my throne with me. I desire Nathalie to be present and choose for herself a husband from among my courtiers, and whoever the fortunate man shall be I will rapidly promote him.” “Your will shall be obeyed, sire,” said Matwies. “Well, then, remember that for twenty-four more hours I am the ‘captain' to Nathalie.” On the evening of the long-expected day the entire city was illuminated, and the palace, the Kremlin, was gorgeously decorated, while the brilliant lights threw their beams far across its surroundings; inside all was gayety, but with the handsomely attired, ladies there was a general feeling of anxiety. Who would be the happy one 2 They all rivaled each other in the splendor of dress and sweetness of manners. One, however, was more confident of success than all others, and that was the handsome but haughty Elizabeth, who was considered to be the belle of Moscow. As the czar had been wont to mingle with these ladies occasionally in various incognitos, while one of his courtiers was representing him, none of the ladies knew whether the czar was present or not. Added to this the gentlemen were all masked. Consequently the ladies were anxious for the time to approach when the czar should command the masks to be lifted. A long way back in a corner, with Matwies, sat the humble Nathalie, with a plain dress, and not a single diamond to adorn her beauty. She thoroughly enjoyed what was to her so novel a scene. Suddenly she recognized among the masks her lover, by his captain's uniform. As soon as the captain's wandering eyes had found what they looked for, half hid in a corner, he came to her. She asked him whether or not the czar had made his choice yet. “No, not yet,” answered the captain. “But come with me, and I will bring you nearer to the monarch, and

She never

who knows but what he may choose you when he sees you.” “Oh, no " said Nathalie, “I do not desire a crown ; and how can I compete with so much beauty 2 Moreover,” she added, looking archly at his eyes, as they shone through his mask, “I am happy enough now.” “You are very modest, Nathalie. Remember you may add to the happiness of your czar.” “I do not desire to be a czarina. Please, do not insist any longer,” she answered, rather reproachfully. Alexis saw that the only woman he cared for loved him also. Going a few steps away from her, he commands—“Lifu your masks " A deep silence pervaded the room, and every eye rested on the czar. The ladies trembled with fear and expectation, while the noblemen were curiously waiting to see to whom the honor should fall. The czar took his crown, and placing it on the head of the modest Nathalie, said: “Noblemen, see your czarina " The masked gentleman with whom the haughty Elizabeth had been promenading, and whom she telt sure to be the czar, was the court jester

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CoLERIDGE was about seven years old, when one evening, on severe provocation from Frank, he rushed at him, knife in hand. Mrs. Coleridge interfered, and Samuel Taylor, dreading chastisement, and in fiercest fury, ran away to the banks of the River Otter. The cold evening air, it was reasonably calculated, would calm his nerves and bring him quickly home, but the calculation was incorrect. He sat down in resolute stubbornness on the banks of the river, and experienced a gloomy inward satisfaction from reflecting how miserable his mother would be. It was the end of October; the night was stormy; he lay on the damp ground, with the mournful murmuring of the Otter in his ear; but he flinched not, nor relented ; with dogged determination he resolved to sleep it out. His home, meanwhile, was in a tumult of distress and consternation. A search in all directions was instituted, and before morning the ponds and rivers were dragged. At five in the morning the little rascal awoke, found himself able to cry but faintly, and was utterly unable to move. His crying, though feeble, attracted the notice of a gentleman who was passing that way, and he was borne home. The joy of his parents was inexpressible; but, meantime, in rushed a young lady, crying out: “I hope you'll whip him, Mrs. Coleridge " Coleridge informed us that neither philosophy nor religion was ever afterward able to allay his inveterate antipathy to that woman.

To be true men and women, we must be self-poised, self-directing and self-respecting. We must never hang our opinions upon another's thought or a party's dictum : we must never indolently shift responsibility or sink into mental captivity to a stronger nature. The most modest of us all, however lightly he may hold his own powers, must remember that they are his own, and on that account are of priceless value to him.

Ores your mouth and purse cautiously, and your stock of reputation and wealth shall, at least in repute, be great.

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CHAPTER I. “O purblind race of miserable mon, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a lifelong trouble for ourselves By taking true for false, or false for true!" —TENNYSON. AMoNG the earliest remembrances of my childhood is that of being nearly run over by a dog-cart drawn by a large golden chestnut, and driven by a young man in a gray overcoat. This, to the best of my belief, was the first time I ever saw Valentine Druce, my sister's sweetheart. We had been blackberrying—my sister and I–and when about to cross the road in search of richer spoil, the aforesaid dog-cart suddenly turned the corner, and, had it not been for Maude's pulling me hastily from under the horse's nose, I should inevitably have been knocked down. The young man, who had been driving at a good pace, certainly did his best to pull up, which he did with such a sudden jerk that lis horse reared and plunged in a most alarming manner. He shouted his apologies and raised his hat, and would, I think, have liked to have spoken to us; but Maude bowed and hurried me away in the opposite direction, my heart thumping from the shock I had received. A very handsome young man was Mr. Druce. I did not know him to be then, as I do now, our best friend and benefactor, but I felt an irresistible liking for him from the first, in spite of our contretemps with the dogcart. His was essentially a good face, with truth, honosty and intellect written clearly in every line and feature, a beautiful soft smile and a gracious sweetness of manner:

“A mouth for mastery and manful work,

A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes,

A brow the harbor of grave thought, and hair

Saxon of hue.”

That day, as he drove past us in his handsome turnout,

smart groom and glittering harness, he seemed, to my youthful fancy, one of the princes out of my fairy tales, and quite the handsomest person I had ever seen.

“Maude, who is he ”I asked, as soon as I could command my trembling voice. “Who is he 7” repeated Maude, in a dreamy voice. “Oh, that is Mr. Walentine Druce ; he owns that pretty place over the river opposite us. Now, darling, you had a narrow escape. Take care in future. It was his fault, though; he ought not to drive at that pace round a corner.” A very pretty girl was my sister. In the Gallery of the Louvre, in Paris, there is a picture of which I am very fond, which reminds me strongly of what Maude was in those days. It is a study of a girl's head by Greuze. The golden-chestnut hair, with the little band of blue ribbon running carelessly through it, the deep-set, earnest blue eyes, the full red lips, form a lovely face, breathing softness and life. It is, I fancy, a well-known picture, for artists are always more or less to be found surrounding it with their easels. As I said, that picture recalls Maude's sweet young face to my mind, only her complexion lacked the vigorous, healthy glow of Greuze's little maiden; Maude's was a pale, transparent skin, with rarely any color. “Oh, tell me something about him,” I continued; “why have I never seen him before ?” “He hasn't been home long, and there is nothing to tell you, dear, except that he lives all alone, poor fellow, with his sister, that lady with the white shawl and curls, you saw in church last Sunday.” “Poor fellow, how dull he must be,” I replied, with a vivid recollection of the plain, uninteresting-looking countenance of the lady in question ; “was that he in the drawing-room, Maude, yesterday ? I saw a hat and stick in the hall, and nurse said I wasn't to go in, as it was a young gentleman come to see you. So I obeyed her, as in duty bound.” “Nurse had no right to prevent you coming in-yes, it was Mr. Druce ; he brought some flowers from his sister; but, come, we must turn back now, as our tea will be waiting, and we have plenty of blackberries to make a tart for supper.” So we retraced our steps homeward, along the smooth, level country road, with the hedges on each side rich with Autumn tints, and overhung with nut-trees, brown copper-beech, mountain ash, with its brilliant berries, and dark fir and pine trees, behind which the hills rose up. Ah, me! when I think of our sweet home in the Wye Walley, the tears rush into my eyes. How dear to me were those rambles, returning home to our comfortable house beside the river, with a frosty, wintry smell in the air, knowing a bright fire and pleasant tea were await1ng us. The Germans have a word called “heimweh,” for which we English have no equivalent—we cannot translate it into such ugly words as “home-sickness,” or “homelonging.” It has a peculiar beauty of its own, which can only be felt by those who have experienced it. We were orphans, my sister and I. Our father—our last remaining parent—had died a year previous to the time of which I write. We had few relations in the world, and those we had were in India. So in the quiet Wye Valley we lived, away from every one, with our old governess, who acted on occasions as chaperon to Maude. We had our friends all the same, but as they lived some miles off, we seldom saw them. Therefore it was not to be wondered at that Mr. Druce's appearance caused me some little excitement, and speculations about him occupied a great deal of my thoughts.

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