"Your friendship is very dear to me, my little girl."

"I'm not a little girl. I was 18 last week."

"Pardon me, young lady, but can you tell me something of the hall-what sort of place it is?"

"Oh, it is a grand old place, with great stone porticoes, and marble mantels carved to represent gods and goddesses, and the ceiling all frescoed in blue and gold sunsets, and a big conservatory, with blue passion flowers, flaming cactuses and orange trees with real oranges on them. Oh, it's so nice, so nice!"

"Lizzie, Lizzie, you are talking far more than is necessary. Go to your French immediately.'

And as the abashed damsel obeyed, he heard Blanche say:

"Dignity on the family! Nothing but a confidential clerk."

And Lizzie exclaimed:

"I don't care. I like him."

A month had passed by. Mr. Hartley had exchanged his close apartments over the kitchen for more commodious ones at the village inn. Thence he calmly superintended the projected improvements at the hall, and all the gossip exchanged between himself and Lizzie was in the course of her rambles through the St. Leon woods, and if the family had only known how often these rambles were taken, their aristocratic tendencies would have been tearfully shocked.

And now Mr. Hartley sat in the same little parlor where Lizzie had first vowed to be his friend and awaited the appearance of the judge.

He came at last.

"You wished to see me, Mr. Hartley?" "Yes, sir. I came to ask you for the hand of your daughter, your little Lizzie. I love her more than my life, Judge Ray." 'You cannot have her! No, sir! I look for something higher for my daughter than a confidential clerk. If that is all, I bid you good evening."

Next night the judge rode slowly home to dinner, feeling a presentiment of evil.

"Where is Lizzie?" he inquired of Blanche, as he entered the cozy dining-room. "In her room, I suppose, mourning after her dear clerk."

"Well, call her to dinner, child.” Blanche went, but returned immediately, with a pale, frightened face.

"She is not there, papa, but this note lay on her table."

The judge broke the seal and read, with a face that had grown suddenly pale:

"By the time that you read these words, dearest papa, your little Lizzie will be another's. I shall be married to Mr. Hartley. I hope it is not wrong, for indeed I do love him very much."

Is this Mr. Ray?"

The judge bowed, hardly knowing whether to embrace him as Herbert St. Leon or to repulse him as an emissary from the confidential clerk.

"Ah, so I concluded. Is Mr. St. Leon here?"

"Mr. St. Leon, sir, is in Paranham, Brazil."

"I think you are mistaken, sir, as I have been informed he is at this moment in his native village."

"Herbert St. Leon at home and not sent word to me, his agent? I must go the hall immediately."

Blanche arose from the sofa, shaking the bright drops of cologne from her curls. "You will be sure and bring him home to dinner, papa, won't you?"

"I'll try, Blanche; I'll try." "Oh, papa, you are trying to draw on your boots over your slippers! "So I am, but this little affair has so upset me." He was up and away.

The lights glimmered brightly from the Gothic windows of the hall and winked defiance at the blustering storm without as the judge rang the bell at the great front door.

"Mr. St. Leon-has he arrived?"

The servant bowed and ushered him into a room whose superbly arranged furniture struck Mr. Ray with an indefinite idea of luxury.

Lizzie was standing by a tall alabaster vase that stood in the bay window, arranging the tropic vines that curled around its standard, and the light from the colored lamps shone down on the curly head so dear to the judge's heart. The confidential clerk stood near.

"I wish to see your master, young man."

"I am at your service, sir."

"You are! Who the mischief cares whether you are or not? I wish to see Mr. St. Leon."

"Herbert St. Leon is my name, sir." "You? Why, I thought you were the confidential clerk."

"I never told you I was. You took that for granted. As the confidential clerk I wooed and won your daughter. As Herbert St. Leon I could have gained no greater treasure."

"It's all a mistake from beginning to end. Son-in-law, you're a trump. Come

frontier post. Word had come in that Willie Pray, a sheep herder on Turkey Creek, had been found in his cabin with a gaping knife wound in his breast, and a Mexican woman, whom he had recently engaged to go out to take charge of the domestic arrangements at his ranch, was also discovered with her throat cut.

Whatever was the cause of the double murder was only a matter of surmise, but surmise is generally enough for Judge Lynch. He doesn't waste much time upon quibbles. The matter was argued out in this way:

here, Lizzie, and kiss your old father."New York Times.

Drawn to His Doom.

There was unusual excitement at Fort Clark. Cattlemen, cowboys, horse ranchers, teamsters, soldiers,-all moved around in an uneasy, excited way, and threats of violence against some unknown person came fast and furious.

Fort Clark is a frontier post in southwestern Texas. It was not of so much importance as a town in '69 as it now is, but civilization not having crept so close over iron rails, it was of more importance as a

"Anybody seen any Indians about?" came from a young soldier who stood in a group near Bill Chunk's store.

"Taint no Injuns!" came from a longhaired hunter, who was seated on a stump mending the cinch of his saddle with buckskin thongs.

"Why, Uncle Bill?" came from several voices.

"Injuns don't knife unless it's for hair. 'Sides that, ef they'd bin around I reckon that thar jacal'd bin a blazin'. How did this yer news come, anyhow?"

No one seemed to know. The report just appeared to spring up without there being any responsible author for it.

Here comes Jake Breen," said one of

the group; "he seems to know as much about it as anybody."

When Jake came up, he said he did not know any more than the rest.

"You see, Pray took a greaser woman out there to look after his ranch. Most Mexican women have lovers of their own color. Everybody knows Mexicans are jealous and revengeful. They mostly use a knife, while a white man uses a shooting iron. The report says that both were killed with a knife, which shows that it was done by a Mexican who was jealous of Pray, and the only Mexican we know of about the place is the herder he had looking after his sheep.

"Then, what's the use waiting around here? The greaser ain't going to come up here and ask us to hang him. He may be around the ranch yet, if he ain't skipped to Mexico. We've got to hang a greaser mighty quick, if we want to do justice in this matter," said Jake, and the most of those there assembled appeared to agree with him.

"I reckon we'd better go an' see ef they're dead afore we hang anybody. We'd best go to the ranch an' take a look at the late lamented afore we undertake to do anything else. We can take a judge along for convenience in case we need him. I'm goin' to the ranch," and Uncle Bill picked up a saddle that lay on the ground near him and started for a pony staked out on the prairie a hundred yards off.

This move of Uncle Bill's appeared to meet with favor in the crowd, and by the time he was on his pony and started toward Turkey Creek he had a party of twentyfive at his back, among whom was Jake Breen.

It was not a long ride to Pray's ranch, and the ponies went on a trot. The way led principally over a rolling prairie, with an occasional motte of live oak, or a chaparral thicket to relieve the monotony.

When they had come within a mile of the ranch someone in the cavalcade called out that there was a herd of sheep off to the northward. The company halted and looked in the direction, and, sure enough, on the other side of a slight depression in the prairie was a herd of sheep quietly grazing, but evidently making their way slowly in the direction of Pray's ranch, as a man was apparently urging them on, while a dog was keeping them from straggling.

"That's Pray's greaser now," said Breen; "I know him by his having that dog with him. We'd better get him while we have a chance," and he turned his pony's head in that direction.

"Say, squire," said Uncle Bill, turning to a bright, intelligent-looking young man riding near him, who got his title by being

a lawyer, "'pears like you'd best go along an' see that the Mex don't escape from the hands o' jestice," and a sly twinkle came into his eye, as he added: "Seems like a mighty desprit feller, the way he drives them sheep, an' Jake an' the other fellers mebbe couldn't handle him right alone. I'll take keer o' this cavyard."

So the young lawyer and five others followed Jake Breen in a dash over the prairie to capture the Mexican, while the rest of the cavalcade rode on to the ranch.

Pray's jacal, or hut, was a rude affair, constructed, as many of them are in that country, by planting live oak pickets, ten feet long, in an upright position, side by side, to form the walls, and making a roof of prairie grass thatch. The cracks were stopped with mud, and there was no opening except the door, which furnished all the light and ventilation needed, besides that which came in through the numerous crevices in the rude structure. It was situated in a grove of trees on the banks of the creek.

"Well, I'll be derned!" exclaimed the old man, as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light in the cabin; "ef it hain't so, fer a fact."

And then the others crowded up to look in and see what Uncle Bill had seen; the body of the woman on the floor, near the rear of the room, with her throat cut, and the body of Willie Pray near the door, lying in a pool of blood, which had evidently flowed from a wound in his side.

"Don't crowd that thar door, men, I want ter see," said the old man, as he caught hold of Pray's hand. That gal's gone, but this here boy seems ter be kinder warm yit. Give a hand, a couple o' you 'uns, an' let's see w'at a leetle fresh air 'll do."

They took him up gently and bore him to a grassy place in the shade of some trees. Here they lay him tenderly down upon a bed of blankets, and after moistening the lips with liquor they began examining the wound.

They had just reached this stage of the proceedings when there was a diversion. It came from the party who had gone off to capture the Mexican. They rode along, the unfortunate greaser being tied to a lariat attached to the saddle bow of one of the men. He was running along, uttering protestations, his face actually pale with

terror.

No, sabe, senors; no entender, Senor Caballeros."

"Here he is!" called Jake Breen, as the company came to a halt and dismounted. "We've got the scoundrel."

And then they all crowded up to where the wounded and apparently dead man lay upon the blankets. As the last party came up they approached the feet of the wounded

man. The sheriff led the Mexican up, the others making room for them.

"Stand back, men, an' let us have air. This yer corpse seems ter be revivin' some;" and Uncle Bill put his arm under Pray's shoulders to raise them up.

And just then a strange thing happened. The wounded man opened his eyes and stared around in a dazed sort of way. Then fixing his gaze straight before him and raising himself up with his arm outstretched, pointing his finger toward the trembling Mexican, he said, in an almost indistinct, hesitating whisper:

"You-you-killed-her," and then he seemed to gasp for breath, but he made another effort, and added: "Jake Breen," and then would have dropped from exhaustion if the strong arm of Uncle Bill had not been at hand to ease him gently down.

When the name was mentioned it astonished the men as much as if they had heard thunder from a clear sky. Those who were close enough to hear the whisper were so astonished for a moment that they could not grasp the situation. There were two men who did, however, understand what it meant, and when the one, Uncle Bill, looked up to speak, the other, Jake Breen, had allowed himself to be crowded out of the circle and was already on his horse.

It only took a few moments to have a dozen riders following on the trail, headed by the lawyer on Jake Breen's horse.

"Say, you 'uns!" called Uncle Bill to those who had not yet started, "'tain't no use fer us to jine in thet thar chase. One had better ride down to Uvalde an' tell the folks, an' one had better go to Clark for a doctor from the post an' an ambulance. The rest can stay here till mornin' an' hear from the other fellers. Thet sun ain't a half hour high, an' w'en she drops yer know hit ends the chase, unless they're mighty clost on ter him, ez thar ain't no moon."

What the old man meant was that there could be no chase after sunset. There is no twilight in Texas, and when the sun sets one passes directly from daylight to dark. One might make his way by starlight, but he couldn't follow a trail in the shadows.

OKA V., 7 YEARS, AND CADIZ V., 4 YEARS OLD,
Sons of Bro. G. H. Swisher, member of
Div. 477.

so much like he felt." The story will explain what became of the dog.

The first house he came to was a saloon, and, of course, he wanted a drink. He had no money, but went in anyhow to see what he could do. The proprietor, a German, said:

"Well, what will you have?"

He said: "I'll take a little whisky," and then turning to the dog, he asked: "What will you have?"

The answer came very promptly: "I'll take a ham sandwich."

It may be doubted whether the town of Gheel, in Belgium, has often been heard of outside the borders of that thriving and interesting little country, and, even if the name be known, its character is most probably ignored. Since the seventh century Gheel and its surroundings have been inhabited by a great number of idiots and lunatics, who at first sought a cure here from the shrine of St. Dymphnea and later from the peculiar and often advantageous treatment they underwent in the houses of the citizens and farmers. The town and system finally came under government control. It has about twenty thousand inhabitants who care for the harmless fools and lunatics who dwell in harmony, stroll about the streets, take their noonday refreshment at the cafes, and go about their daily routine with more common sense than many worthy citizens who are healthy in mind as well as in body, if a writer in the New York Tribune may be depended upon.

Situated about twenty-seven miles from the great commercial center of Antwerp, it shelters fifteen hundred fools who are taken as lodgers by the townsfolk, all dangerous or violent cases being passed on to outlying villages. The treatment of the patients is a moral one, cures being due to kindness and tact on the part of the towns

folk, who make it their business. The fees for taking in the "innocents, as the pa tients are called, vary from sixty to six hundred dollars a year, according to the manner in which the patients or their friends wish that they should be looked after.

No matter how much he pays, however, the boarder is always the spoiled member of the family, for it is a well-known fact that the people of Gheel understand the management of the insane better than any other community or institution. The patient always has the armchair and the best seat at table, and enjoys every possible attention, with the result that he learns to value the esteem in which he is held-to such an extent that he makes the greatest efforts to master his weakness lest he should forfeit his cherished privileges. The children of the community seem wiser and to have older heads than ordinary youngsters, and this comes from their contact with their elders in years, who, unfortunately, are little older in intellect. Dozens of little ones may be seen walking hand in hand with great, robust men, to whom they chatter in the most familiar manner. Often the boarder is told to watch the baby of the household, and in most cases makes a devoted guardian.

Naturally Gheel surpasses London, Paris, Berlin, or Rome as a residence for emperors, kings, queens, millionaires, popes, archbishops, and pashas, all of whom are fully humored in their fancies. One

king" informs all newcomers that he has two left legs, and is obliged to have his boots and trousers made accordingly. Another old gentleman, who thinks himself the Pope of Rome, says he is perfectly able to fly to heaven, but that for the time being he is too corpulent. His landlord humors him to the extent of offering to assist him in making a start from the window sill, but warns him that he might fall and break his neck, so the "pope until now has thought it wise to put off the experiment, and says each day that he "will wait until after tea." One of the strange inhabitants of Gheel is always on the lookout to borrow a hatchet, because he says he has suddenly grown so stout that he must chop a way through the doorway, which is too narrow to allow him to pass.

No visitor to Gheel need be surprised if he be accosted by an "innocent" in the street, who, with tears in his eyes, will ask him for protection against some horrible butterfly or bird about to attack him and eat out his brains, or by another fancying himself a seed, and asking to be put in the pocket that the wind may not blow him away.

At the inns the landlords show the greatest politeness and consideration