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358 balanced. It was not until July 660 that Mu'āwiya caused himself to be proclaimed Caliph at Jerusalem. Six months later Ali succumbed to the dagger of an assassin (24 Jan. 661). Mu'āwiya had to thank this circumstance for his victory, for Ali's son and successor Ḥasan came to terms with him in return for an allowance. Herewith began the rule of the Umayyads, and Damascus became the capital of the empire.

This has been rightly termed the Arabian Empire, for it was founded on a national basis, in marked contrast to the subsequent State of the Abbasids, for which Islām served as a foundation. The first Caliphs had striven after a theocracy, but, as all the members of the theocracy were Arabs, an Arabian national empire was created. For a time the migration of the tribes had more weight than religion. We see this most clearly by the fact that no longer the pious companions, but the old Arabian aristocracy, no longer Anṣār and Muhājirūn, but the Arabian tribes of Syria and 'Irāḳ, determined the destinies of the empire. The great expansion however was only able to hold back religion for a time. Religion soon served to give authority to the government in power, but at the same time provided a special motive for all kinds of opposition. That is shewn by the domestic policy of the Umayyad State; in the first place to force the discipline of the State on the ruling class, i.e. the Arabs, without which no successful combined social life was possible, and in the second place it was necessary to regulate their relations with the non-Arabian subordinate class.

The fight for the supremacy in the State, which appeared to the 'Irāḳ after the days of Ali as the rule of the hated Syrians, formed the life-task of all the great Caliphs of the house of Umayya. Mu'āwiya had still most of all the manners of an old Arabian prince; he appeared to the Romaic element simply as the of his governors,. In Syria they had been accustomed to such things since the days of the Ghassānids, and to that may be ascribed the better discipline of the Syrian Arabs, who in all respects stood on a higher plane of culture than those of 'Irāḳ. Mu'āwiya was a clever prince, and ruled by wisdom over the tribes, whose naturally selfish rivalries supported the structure of his State like the opposing spans of an arch. His rule was so patriarchal, and his advisers had so much voice in the matter, that some have thought to have found traces of parliamentary government under Mu'āwiya. Nevertheless Mu'āwiya a knew quite well how to carry his point for the State, i.e. for himself, though he avoided the absolutist forms and the pomp of later Caliphs. The nepotism of Othman was quite foreign to his rule; although his relatives did not fare badly under him he nevertheless looked after the principles of State in preference to them. He had a brilliant talent for winning important men. On the same principles as the Caliph in Damascus, the Thakifite Ziyād, whom he had adopted as a brother, ruled as an independent viceroy


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174 claimed Mother Wit, kindly, hovering over the little girl. "You won't be blamed for this, I know."

But the child was staring after the sleigh instead of picking up her goods, and with such a wondering look on her face that Laura asked:

"What is the matter with you? What did you see?"

The child still remained dumb, and Laura took her by the shoulder and shook her a little.

"What is your name?" she demanded.

"Maggie," said the little one, gulping down a sob.

"Maggie what?"

"No, ma'am; Maggie Plornish," stammered the other.

"My goodness me!" gasped Laura. "Did you see the man in that sleigh?"

"No, ma'am! No ma'am!" cried the little girl, in great haste, and shaking her head violently. "There warn't no man in the sleigh."

"Yes there was, child."

"I didn't see no man," declared Maggie, energetically. "It was the lady I seen."

"Do you know her?" asked Laura, slowly, convinced that the child was deceiving her—or, at least, attempting to do so.

"No, ma'am. I never seed her before."

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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Rh It was evidently useless to try to get anything more out of the child on that tack. But Laura was sure that there could not be two Plornish families in Centerport, and if Jess had seen the stage director in Lily Pendleton's sleigh, it was plain that Maggie had seen him, too. And she had recognized him.

"Where do you live, little girl?" asked Laura, quietly, as she saw Jess returning with a fresh bottle of milk.

"Over 'ere on Governor Street. Number ninety-three, Miss."

"Lead the way, then," said Laura, promptly. "We'll help you carry your things home and explain to mamma how you came to get them scattered. You surely have a mamma, haven't you?"

"Yes, ma'am. And there's a new baby. That's who the milk's for."

"Say! how many of you Plornish children are there?" asked Jess, to whom Laura had immediately whispered the intelligence that this child was evidently one of Mr. Pizotti's progeny.

"Seven, ma'am. But some's older'n me and they're workin'."

"Don't you go to school?" asked Laura.

"I can't—not right now. We ain't got good


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176 shoes to go 'round—nor petticoats. And then, the baby didn't come along until a month ago and he has to be 'tended some while mamma washes and cleans up around."

Laura looked at Jess meaningly and asked:

"Where's your papa?"

"Oh! he's home," said the child, immediately losing her smart manner of speaking.

"Doesn't he work?"

"Yes, ma'am. Sometimes."

"What's his trade?" asked Jess.

"Huh?"

Maggie Plornish had suddenly become very dull indeed!

"Doesn't your father work regularly?" explained Laura, kindly. "Hasn't he any particular work?"

Maggie considered this thoughtfully. Then she shook her head and with gravity replied: "I guess he's an outa."

"A what?" gasped Jess.

"An outa, Miss."

"What under the sun's an 'outa'?" demanded Jess, looking at Laura.

But Mother Wit understood and smiled. "You mean he's 'most always out of work?" she asked.

Maggie Plornish nodded vigorously.


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Rh "Yes, ma'am! He's us'lly outa work. Most reg'larly. Yes, ma'am!"

"Well for mercy's sake!" gasped Jess, gazing at her chum in wonder. "Can you beat that? If this is the same family"

Laura stayed her with a look. "We'll see," said Mother Wit. "Lead on, Maggie. We'll see your mother, anyway."


text: The Girls of Central High on the Stage/Chapter 21


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was just as dirty and squalid as any other tenement-house street in the poorer section of a middle-class city. The street-cleaning department had given up all hope before they reached Governor Street, and the middle of the way was a series of ridges and mountains of heaped-up, dirty, frozen snow.

The snow had been cleaned from the sidewalks, and the gutters freed so that the melting ice could run off by way of the sewers when the sun was kind; but the way to Number 93 was not a pleasant one to travel.

However, Laura and Jess, with little Maggie, reached the door in question in a few minutes. A puff of steamy air—the essence of countless washings—met the girls as the lower door was pushed open. That is the only way the long and barren halls were heated—by the steam from the wash-boilers. For Number 93 Governor Street was one of those tenement houses which


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Rh seem always to be in a state of being washed, and laundered, and cleaned up; yet which never show many traces of cleanliness, after all.

"We live on the top floor," said Maggie, volunteering her first remark since starting homeward.

"That doesn't scare us," said Laura, cheerfully. "Lead on, MacDuff!"

"No. My name's Plornish," said this very literal—and seemingly dull—little girl.

"Very well, Maggie MacDuff Plornish!" laughed Mother Wit. "We follow you."

The little girl toiled up the stairs like an old woman. Laura and Jess caught glimpses of other tenements as they followed the child and saw that there was real poverty here. Jess began to compare her situation with that of these humble folk, and saw that she had much to be grateful for.

She was troubled over the lack of a new party dress, perhaps, or because there were times when she and her mother were pinched for money. But the bare floors and uncurtained windows of these "flats," with the poor furniture and raggedly clothed children, spelled a degree of poverty deeper than Jess Morse had imagined before.

A sallow woman met them at the door of one


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180 of the top-floor flats. She was as faded as her calico dress. Her arms were lean and her hands wrinkled, and all the flesh about her finger nails was swollen and of a livid hue, from being so much in hot water.

Indeed, two steaming tubs stood in the kitchen into which the girls of Central High were ushered. A big wash was evidently under way, and Mrs. Plornish wiped her arms and hands from the suds, as she invited the girls in, staring in amazement at one and another meanwhile.

"Your little Maggie met with an accident, Mrs. Plornish," said Laura, pleasantly, putting the packages she had carried upon the table. "And so we helped her home with her groceries."

"And Mr. Vandergriff says never mind the bottle of milk that was spilled," explained Jess, setting the second bottle on the table.

"You come from Mr. Vandergriff?" asked the woman, her faded cheek coloring a trifle.

Laura explained more fully. Mrs. Plornish seemed to have had her motherly instincts pretty well quenched by time and poverty.

"Yes'm. I expect Maggie'll git runned over and killed some day on that there Market Street," she complained. "But I ain't got no-


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Rh body else to send. Bob and Betty, and Charlemagne, air either at school or to work"

"Where is your husband?" asked Laura, briskly. "Is he working?"

"Off an' on," said the woman, but looking at the visitors a little doubtfully.

"Engaged just at present?" pursued Laura.

"Look here, Miss," said Mrs. Plornish, "air you charity visitors? Though you be young."

"We have nothing to do with charities," Laura said. "We just came to help Maggie. I didn't know but I might know of something for your husband to do if he is out of work."

"He ain't. He's got a job right now. And I guess it will turn out to be a good one," spoke Mrs. Plornish, and she smiled with sudden satisfaction.

"It seems to please you, Mrs. Plornish," said Jess, quickly. "I hope you will not be disappointed. Where is he working?"

"Oh, this job o' work is goin' to take him out o' town for a while," returned the woman, doubtfully.

"Indeed? To Lumberport?" asked the insistent Jess.

"No."

"To Keyport, then?"

"I can't tell you. It—it's a secret—that is,


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182 it's sort of a private affair. Abel is a very smart man in his way—and this—er—this job will bring him considerable money, I expect. I hope we'll all be better off soon."

She seemed excited by the prospect of her husband's secret employment, yet she was doubtful, too. Laura and Jess looked at each other and they both came to the same conclusion. If Abel Plornish, alias "Mr. Pizotti," was scheming to get some money from the Pendletons, Mrs. Plornish knew at least a little something about it.

But Laura did not know how to get this information from the woman; nor did the girl believe that it was really right for her to do so. But Mother Wit thought it would do no harm to help the family if she could do so without offending. She drew forth her purse and looked gently at Mrs. Plornish.

"You won't mind if I give you something to spend on Maggie?" asked Mother Wit, in her most winning way. "Do let me help her, Mrs. Plornish! I really mean no offense."

"Why, you look an honest enough young lady," said the woman.

"Maggie says she needs shoes so that she can go to school. Don't you think you can spare her for at least a part of the time?"


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Rh "Mebbe I'd better, Miss. The truant officer's been around once," said Mrs. Plornish. "But the baby's so small"

"If your husband is as successful as you think he'll be," interposed Jess, sharply, "you'll be able to afford to let her go, eh? Then you will not have to work so hard yourself."

"That's right, Miss!" cried Mrs. Plornish, briskly.

Laura put the money for Maggie's shoes into her hand. "I hope we may come and see Maggie again?" she said, pinching the thin cheek of the little girl, who had been staring at them all this time, without winking, and without a word.

"Sure you can, Miss! And thank you. Thank the young lady, Maggie," ordered Mrs. Plornish.

Maggie gave a funny, bobbing little courtesy as the older girls went out. Laura and Jess said nothing to each other until they reached the street. Then the latter declared:

"She knows something about it."

"About what?" asked Laura.

"Whatever it is that's going on. Whatever it is 'Pizotti' is doing."

"And we know he is staging your play for


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184 the M. O. R.'s," said Laura, quietly. "That's all we do know at present."

"But there's something else."

"That we don't know. I wish we did."

"And he's going out of town!"

"Perhaps that is not so," returned Laura, thoughtfully. "Of course his wife knows that he works under an assumed name. That is no crime, of course"

"But there's something odd about it all," cried Jess.

"All right. How are we going to find out? Lil won't tell us"

"And it is her business—or her mother's," said Jess. "And that's a fact."

"She's one of us—she's a Central High girl," repeated Laura. "If we can save her from the result of her own awful folly, we should do so."

"Huh! And we don't know what she's to be saved from as yet!" cried Jess, which ended the discussion for the time being.

But that evening Bobby Hargrew hailed Jess in her father's store.

"Say, Eminent Author! what do you know about this?"

"About what, Bobby?" returned Jess.

Bobby was unfurling some sort of a folded


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Rh paper which she had drawn from that inexhaustible pocket of hers.

"See! it's a show bill. My cousin, Ed Pembroke, sent it to me from Keyport. He says the town is plastered with them. Does it remind you of anything?" and she began to read in a loud voice:

Coming! Coming! Coming! North Street Orpheum' same date as your show here on Friday night, Jess."

"I see," said Jess, peering over her shoulder as Bobby unctuously read on:

High Class Entertainment for High Class People!' Ha! that's good," sniffed Bobby. The Lady of the Castle' played by a capable cast of professional Thespians, who will assist the Talented Young Amateur, GREBA PENDENNIS. Her portrayal of the Duchess is a Work of Art.' Wow, wow! Listen to that now!" cried Bobby, in great delight. "Wouldn't you think that was Lil Pendleton?"

Jess stared at the bill, and whispered: "I would indeed."

But of course it isn't!" gasped Bobby, looking at Jess, in sudden curiosity.

"What is Lil's middle name?" demanded Jess, suddenly.

"Why—I Ah! she has got a middle


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186 name, hasn't she? She signs it 'Lillian G. Pendleton!

"That is it," said Jess.

"But of course this can't be Lil?" cried Bobby, aghast. The Lady of the Castle' might be another name for 'The Duchess of Doosenberry'; though. What do you think, Jess?"

"I don't know what to think," said Jess. "But you give me that bill, Bobby, and I'll show it to Mother Wit."


text: The Girls of Central High on the Stage/Chapter 22


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Page:On the Influence of Carbonic Acid in the Air upon the Temperature of the Ground.pdf/14

Rh vapour, the last two to that of carbonic acid. It should be emphasized that Langley has applied the greatest diligence in the measurement of the intensity of the moon's radiation at angles between 36° and 38°, where this radiation possesses its maximum intensity. It may, therefore, be assumed that the calculated absorption-coefficients for this part of the spectrum are the most exact. This is of great importance for the following calculations, for the radiation from the earth has by far the greatest intensity (about two thirds, cf. p. 250) in this portion of the spectrum.

As we have now determined, in the manner described, the values of the absorption-coefficients for all kinds of rays, it will with the help of Langley's figures be possible to calculate the fraction of the heat from a body at 15° C. (the earth) which is absorbed by an atmosphere that contains specified quantities of carbonic acid and water-vapour. To begin with, we will execute this calculation with the values $$\text{K}=1$$ and $\text{W}=0.3$. We take that kind of ray for which the best determinations have been made by Langley, and this lies in the midst of the most important part of the radiation (37°). For this pencil of rays we find the intensity of radiation at $$\text{K}=1$$ and $$\text{W}=0.3$$ equal to 62.9; and with the help of the absorption-coefficients we calculate the intensity for $$\text{K}=0$$ and $\text{W}=0$, and find it equal to 105, Then we use Langley's experiments on the spectral distribution of the radiation from a body of 15° C., and calculate the intensity for all other angles of deviation. These intensities are given under the heading M. After this we have to calculate the values for $$\text{K}=1$$ and $\text{W}=0.3$. For the angle 37° we know it to be 62.9. For any other angle we could take the values A from Table II. if the moon were a body of 15° C. But a calculation of the figures of Very shows that the full moon has a higher temperature, about 100° C. Now the spectral distribution is nearly, but not quite, the same for the heat from a body of 15° C. and for that from one of 100° C. With the help of Langley's figures it is, however, easy to reduce the intensities for the hot body at 100° (the moon) to be valid for a body at 15°


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 will form a new light to lighten the Irish, and will, I hope, be duly appreciated by the public. I have not returned Miledi's verses, because I am not aware of the error she mentions, and see no reason for the alteration; however, if she insists, I must be conformable. I write in haste, having a visitor.
 * "Ever yours, very truly,

"NOEL BYRON." "MAY 14, 1823. "MY DEAR LORD: I avize you that the Reading Association have received numbers of English publications, which you may like to see, and as you are a member, should avail yourself of early. I have just returned my share before its time, having kept the books one day instead of five, which latter is the utmost allowance. The rules obliged me to forward it to a Monsieur G-, as next in rotation. If you have any thing for England, a gentleman with some law papers of mine returns there to-morrow (Thursday) and would be happy to convey any thing for you. Ever yours, and truly, "NOEL BYRON. "P. S. I request you to present my compliments to Lady Blessington, Miss Power, and Comte D'Orsay."


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return p

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Rh in consequence of dacryocystitis. Sometimes when this occurs the fossa lacrymalis may be seen externally.

Polypi of the lachrymal sac occur simultaneously with the blennorrhœa of its mucous membrane. Their presence may, in many cases, be recognized by the fact that after pressing out the blennorrhœal secretion through the puncta, the sac is not emptied, but still offers an elastic resistance. There is no difficulty in extirpating these polypi after opening the sac. But such growths sometimes occur also in the lower part of the nasal duct. I have at least once during an anatomical examination found a pediculated villous growth of the mucous membrane in the lower third of the duct. In such cases both the diagnosis and the treatment would be very difficult.


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216 best method is the use of nitrate of silver, to be neutralized immediately after with a solution of common salt. By this method one can be certain that the cauterization is localized and is not infiltrated in the adjoining tissues. Energetic cauterizations must be made daily for some time in order gradually to destroy the mucous membrane. Care must be taken, too, that the concentrated solution of silver which forms in the sac during the cauterization does not run through the canaliculi into the conjunctival sac.

If one wish to employ the actual cautery for the obliteration of the lachrymal sac, the galvano-caustic is the best.

An annoying epiphora does not always remain after obliteration of the sac, just as strictures may exist without giving rise to any great inconvenience, provided they do not cause a blennorrhœal inflammation of the mucous membrane.

If rupture of the lachrymal sac occur in chronic dacryocystitis, the opening generally closes under proper treatment, or perhaps spontaneously. Often, however, it shows no tendency to heal; it contracts only slightly, the edges become callous, and a lachrymal fistula is established, out of which pus and tears flow. Especially is this the case when from syphilis, scrofula, or any other cause there is caries of the bony walls of the lachrymal canal. But fistulas of the lachrymal sac occur also without any disease of the bone. In many cases the opening becomes exceedingly small, and if at the same time no blennorrhœa of the sac exist, or very little, the annoyance is very slight.

The first object of treatment is to re-establish the normal passage through the nasal duct. The presence of bone disease demands, besides the local treatment of the diseased bone, of the mucous membrane, and of the strictures, treatment of the existing dyscrasia. Especially is the use of iodide of potassium often indicated in these cases.

If there be no bone disease, it is well, in addition to the probing, to touch the walls of the fistula with nitrate of silver. If the duct below the fistula be obliterated, and if there be considerable blennorrhœa of the mucous membrane, the question of the cauterization of the sac arises. Capillary fistulas are best left untouched, since when there is absolute impermeability of the lachrymal canal the closure of the fistula will probably not improve the condition.

Spontaneous obliteration of the lachrymal sac occurs quite rarely


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 "MAY 23, 1823. "MY DEAR LORD: I thought that I had answered your note. I ought, and beg you to excuse the omission. I should have called, but I thought my chance of finding you at home in the environs, greater than at the hotel. * * * Ihope you will not take my not dining with you again after so many dinners, ill; but the truth is, that your banquets are too luxurious for my habits, and I feel the effect of them in this warm weather for some time after. I am sure you will not be angry, since I have already more than sufficiently abused your hospitality. * * *I fear that I can hardly afford more than two thousand francs for the steed in question, as I have to undergo considerable expenses at this present time, and I suppose that will not suit you. I must not forget to pay my Irish Subscription. My remembrances to Miledi, and to Alfred, and to Miss P -. Ever yours,

"MY DEAR LORD: I find that I was elected a Member of the Greek Committee in March, but did not receive the Chairman's notice till yesterday, and this by mere chance, and through a private hand. I am doing all I can to get away, and the Committee and my friends in England


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140 forehead and temple with tincture of iodine, etc. Electricity also does good service in the later periods of the disease, and although the electric treatment, on account of the deep position of the muscle, cannot act in so direct a manner as in the case of other muscles, still, some part of the electric current seems to be able to reach it.

The indications suggested by the presence of syphilitic, cerebral, or spinal disease, belong in the province of special pathology, and need not here be discussed.

To relieve the annoyance of diplopia, a pair of spectacles may be worn which cover the affected eye with a ground glass. The idea suggests itself of uniting the double images by means of prisms, but it is seldom practicable. The principal reason for this is that, even in a case of slight paralysis, the distance between the double images is too great to admit of their being united by prisms which could be worn as spectacles. Prisms of more than 6° or 7° can scarcely be worn for this purpose, partly because of their weight, partly because of their chromatic aberration. Even if both eyes were provided symmetrically with such prisms, the effect would be that of a prism of 12° or 14°, which would generally be insufficient.

Another essential reason against their use is, that the distance between the double images varies greatly with every change in the direction of vision. If, for instance, with paresis of the abducens on the right side there be single vision in the left half of the visual field, while during vision directed in the median plane diplopia is present, which could be corrected by a prism of 12° or 14°, it would still not be well to allow such prismatic spectacles to be worn. On account of the increased distance between the images in the right half of the field, they would not be sufficient to unite the double images during vision in this direction; while in the left half of the field, where there was normal single vision, the prisms would provoke crossed double images, and a compensating convergence of the visual axes. Under these circumstances a secondary contraction of the antagonistic muscle is induced, and the development of strabismus convergens is favored.

The correction of the diplopia by prisms is, then, indicated only when there exists secondary contraction of the antagonistic muscle, and, as a consequence of that, diplopia throughout the


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 seem both to approve of my going up into Greece; but I meet here with obstacles, which have hampered and put me out of spirits, and still keep me in a vexatious state of uncertainty. I began bathing the other day, but the water was still chilly, and in diving for a Genoese lira in clear but deep water, I imbibed so much water through my ears, as gave me a megrim in my head, which you will probably think a superfluous malady.

"Ever yours, obliged and truly, "NOEL BYRON." In all his conversations relative to Lady Byron, and they are frequent, he declares that he is totally unconscious of the cause of her leaving him, but suspects that the ill-natured interposition of Mrs. Charlemont led to it. It is a strange business! He declares that he left no means untried to effect a reconciliation, and always adds with bitterness, "A day will arrive when I shall be avenged. I feel that I shall not live long, and when the grave has closed over me, what must she feel!" All who wish well to Lady Byron must desire that she should not survive her husband, for the all-atoning grave, that gives oblivion to the errors of the dead, clothes those of the living in such sombre colors to their own too-late


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what an impassable barrier bad arisen between them, one which neither of them, by act or word, showed any disposition to pass over.

The short, sad days of the winter time had come, and the snow Iny deep and still upon the buried earth. The light of the sunset had long since grown pale, and the night-shades had gathered in the chamber where Agnes and her cousin Martha stood beside the dying bed of Mrs. Murrey Dr. Reynolds, who had been summoned in the absence of his uncle, was there also, and proposed to remain through the night. This was a support to poor Agnes, who could hardly believe that the blow, so long de- layed, had thus suddenly fallen upon her. There was no thought now of other love in her mind than that which had always burned warmly to- ward the mother, who, in spite of all weakness and sickness, had loved her daughter with ten- der affection. She sank away gently, and Agnes, overwhelmed by the awful shadow of death hovering over them, and by the burdens of gor- row that filled her young heart, knew not that the soul had taken ita flight till Martha, whis- pering softly, said, ‘Agnes, she has left us.” Then the long-suppressed torrent of grief burst forth—she sank upon her knees by the bedside and sobbed like a child. Gradually she became calmer, and with a strong impulse to be alone, she left the chamber and stole to the parlor below. Oh, how sad and desolate it seemed. The fire burned low upon the hearth, the pale moonlight cast the long shadows of the windows apon the carpet, making Agnes shudder as they looked to her excited fancy like the broad, white tablets in the church-yard. She sat down by the window, and pressing her burning cheek to the cold pane, gazed out upon the dreary mid- night landscape. How still and cold lay the earth in its snowy mantle, even as the dead lay above beneath the white coverings. She looked upward, and the stars, smiling as they used in her happier hours, seemed now mocking her desolation. ‘I am all alone,” said she, ‘‘alone in the wide world,” and in her earnestness she exclaimed unconsciously, ‘“‘Alone! alone!” in tones that mocked the bitterness of her spirit, and touched a most sympathizing chord in the heart of him who had entered, all unperceived by the weeping girl. A light touch was upon her shoulder, but though she felt it in the thrill which ran through her frame, she did not move nor speak. That touch lingered a moment, and then « voice, 60 musical in its low tenderness, said, “Agnes!” She raised herself at the sound, unfamiliar from those lips, and met the sympathy that looked down from the deep, mild HERO. 195 eyes of Arthur Reynolds. She still said nothing, but turned her eyes once more out upon the wintry landscape, jealous of the intrusion upon her sacred sorrow. ‘I hope I do not intrude,”’ said he, at length, ‘‘I too have borne the yoke of sorrow in my youth, and know bow hard it is to bear. Yet that yoke makes us strong and patient.” ‘But FE have no strength,” replied she, ‘‘to bear the burden—it seems to crush me.” ‘No strength in yourself indeed, but look upward—there ie strength there.” Agnes in- voluntarily lifted her eyes heavenward, almost as if she expected to see an angel descending with the blessing; and though the stars looked down still as ever, their smiling now brought peace and inward consolation. ‘Agnes,’ said he agnin, after another pause, during which he stood regarding her with looks of longing sad- ness, ‘I ought not to speak of myself now, but I wish I could help you.” ‘You have been a great help to us,” said she, mechanically. ‘If I might think that I could give you such aid and comfort as one whom you loved would have a right to do.” Agnes now turned with won- dering eyes, and said simply, ‘I do not know what you mean.” ‘I mean,” he answered, ear- nestly, ‘that I love you, and would gladly make you my wife, that you might no longer be alone as you just said, but lean upon one whose whole soul and strength belongs to you next to God, dear Agnes.” Agnes felt as if she were dream- ing, and clasped her hands together tightly to make sure that she were really awake. First a full tide of joy rushed over her, then sadly the shadow of a deep humility gathered, and she felt herself again far removed from the comfort that had a moment before flooded her soul. ‘‘Speak,”’ said he, at last, entreatingly, fearing she was offended and slarmed by her silence, ‘just one word.” Agnes rose, and standing face to face with him, said slowly as if speaking her doom, ‘‘No—no, it cannot be; I am not worthy to become the wife of so good s man.” He drew her eagerly, almost violently to him. ‘*Agnes,”’ said he, ‘if that be the only bar be- tween you and me, J claim you as my own from this very hour. You are all that I want you.” “Then you do not know me,” she replied, while she rested, soothed and comforted by the strong hold which he kept, as if he would never again let her part from him. ‘Yes, I know you better than you know yourself. Once I thought you frivolous and heartless, but I have learned you better. I understand the worth of my treasure, and shall know how to value it.” “Then what I am not, you must help me to become.” ‘We will help each other in all that is right,” and the


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 202 JENNY AND MR. CLEAVES.

“Then I am angry! [am as angry as I can be! for I have told him that [like him! I have told Mrs. Cleavesa—who, pray, is this Mrs. Cleaves then?”

place; he just spends his summers, and now and then a week, or a few weeks, as he is doing now, out here at their house.”
 * “*His brother’s wife. That is his brother’s

Well, 1 told Mrs. Cleaves that I like him! that I like him very much indeed! Mercy on us!” for 1 was horrified aa one recollection came crowding after another. ‘I told him no longer ago than last evening, when we three—be, Mrs. Cleaves and I—were sitting here together, that his conservatism, humane and just toward all sides, collected, reasonable, philosophical and clear, at all timer, upon all questions, quieted me—only think, George!—soothed me—think of that!—whenever I niet it upon a disturbing topic; was what I, who am prone to over-fear- ing, over-hoping, over-working, and all manner of tension, and many others like me, here on the wrong-headed earth, where there is so much to disturb one, need. J told him that I had a long time seen and felt this in his writings; that pow I knew him personally, and had him for my friend, I was glad of the quality, as proud of it as if he were my own brother! It was very much like this, what I told Aim—for I felt how good he is, and what goed he) does me—and 1 am ashamed! He will know some time that I thought he was married; but I am ashamed! and I will not see him once more! In every note Miss Perkins has sent out to me, she has begged me to come in and go to Salem with her. I will go in with you this very day; I ought to have gone before.”

George— bless his calm, sincere face and voice! —said quietly, without minding my storm, “Lye been thinking I should like to marry Miss Per- kins, if she’s any like you, if this is what makes you like her so well, if she'll have me. Will she, think, if I offer?”.

‘Likely as not,” I told him, instantaneously pleased, instantaneously losing sight of my vexa- tion. ‘Likely as not she would. She's a little, blue, shivering, cold thing; she needs just such a husband as you are to make her life warmer. Oh! but I forget! I must go and find Harriet.”

Whistling softly, composedly—although 1 believe he made the composure this time—he opened the door for me, and saw me go.

Harriet had hid herself in the nursery. When T looked in, she crowded herself back into a cor- her, waiting there, watching me, with air half laughing, half deprecating; but, at last, with air wholly deprecating, she came forward, saying, “It was too bad, darling!” and took me into her long, beautiful arms. ‘It was too bad! and I, as a woman, knew it was all the time. But George wouldn’t listen to me. He always made me do just as he pleased at home, you remember; and I, some way, couldn't resist him now, especially as Robert thought it well enough, under the circumstances. George said there was nothing else that would make things go on right between you and—and Mr. Cleaves, whom we all like so much, and wanted you to like. He said you would be flying off, or you would just be an odd, silent thing—this is what he said, dear—every time Mr. Cleaves came in, if we didn't do sume such thing to deceive you, and this is why we did it. I am sorry; I have been sorry all along that I consented; but you will forgive us!”

Yes, I said, but I must go, that day, with George, in to Miss Perkins’. And then her tears, which had been all the time struggling, came forth a stream. Mine, which also had been struggling, came; and we wept like two children. Then we kissed each other with hot kisses, as Harriet said, ‘‘Now all was spoiled—now would never forgive them; she saw plainly that I never would. If she had only held out, in the first place, in what she knew to be right; but now all was spoiled!”

In vain I assured her that I loved them as much as ever, more than ever; the assurance was in vain, because, after I had made and repeated it, I adhered still to my determination about going. I got my release, at last, only by showing her that it could not fuil of being a thousand times worse for all concerned, if I remained; for if I remained, and again met Mr. Cleaves there, I should appall him and them all by my counter-impudence and fierceness. We laughed at this, then we sighed. Harriet called it “a bad business,” but nequi- esced. She would rather I would go than stay and give myself and him that pain, she said; for I, as well as he, would feel better if I went, leaving the peace of those few pleasant days unbroken.

Yes, I said, begging her pardon for the pain I was giving her. I would come again, I told her, whenever she could write to me that Mr. Cleaves was traveling up the Nile, or the Senegal, or any of their branches. Again she laughed, then again she sighed, and her tears rose. When the time came, and I was about to enter the carriage, she held me, with streaming tears, and said, ‘I shall never forgive myself! It was a wicked, cruel lie, and I shall never forgive myself! George, I don’t see how you can be so comfort- able about it: he was composedly buckling a rein, ‘for it was a false, cruel thing. If Jenny


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4 scendantly dismal. The slowly changing shadows waved on it from the heavy trees, were doleful in the last degree; the house was ill-placed, ill-built, ill-planned, and ill-fitted. It was damp, it was not free from dry rot, there was a flavour of rats in it, and it was the gloomy victim of that indescribable decay which settles on all the work of man’s hands whenever it is not turned to man’s account. The kitchens and offices were too large, and too remote from each other. Above stairs and below, waste tracks of passage intervened between patches of fertility represented by rooms; and there was a mouldy old well with a green growth upon it, hiding, like a murderous trap, near the bottom of the back-stairs, under the double row of bells. One of these bells was labelled, on a black ground in faded white letters,. This, they told me, was the bell that rang the most.

“Who was Master B.?” I asked. “Is it known what he did while the owl hooted?”

“Rang the bell,” said Ikey.

I was rather struck by the prompt dexterity with which this young man pitched his fur cap at the bell, and rang it himself. It was a loud, unpleasant bell, and made a very disagreeable sound. The other bells were inscribed according to the names of the rooms to which their wires were conducted: as “Picture Room,” “Double Room,” “Clock Room,” and the like. Following Master B.’s bell to its source, I found that young gentleman to have had but indifferent third-class accommodation in a triangular cabin under the cock-loft, with a corner fireplace which Master B. must have been exceedingly small if he were ever able to warm himself at, and a corner chimney-piece like a pyramidal staircase to the ceiling for Tom Thumb. The papering of one side of the room had dropped down bodily, with fragments of plaster adhering to it, and almost blocked up the door. It appeared that Master B. in his spiritual condition, always made a point of pulling the paper down. Neither the landlord nor Ikey could suggest why he made such a fool of himself.

Except that the house had an immensely large rambling loft at top, I made no other discoveries. It was moderately well furnished, but sparely. Some of the furniture—say, a third—was as old as the house; the rest, was of various periods within the last half century. I was referred to a corn-chandler in the market-place of the county-town to treat for the house. I went that day, and I took it for six months.

It was just the middle of October when I moved in with my maiden sister (I venture to call her eight-and-thirty, she is so very handsome, sensible, and engaging). We took with us, a deaf stable-man, my bloodhound Turk, two woman servants, and a young person called an Odd Girl. I have reason to record of the attendant last enumerated, who was one of the Saint Lawrence’s Union Female Orphans, that she was a fatal mistake and a disastrous engagement.

The year was dying early, the leaves were falling fast, it was a raw cold day when we took possession, and the gloom of the house was most depressing. The cook (an amiable woman, but of a weak turn of intellect) burst into tears on beholding the kitchen, and requested that her silver watch might be delivered over to her sister (2, Tuppintock’s Gardens, Liggs’s Walk, Clapham Rise), in the event of anything happening to her from the damp. Streaker, the housemaid, feigned cheerfulness, but was the greater martyr. The Odd Girl, who had never been in the country, alone was pleased, and made arrangements for sowing an acorn in the garden outside the scullery window, and rearing an oak.

We went, before dark, through all the natural—as opposed to supernatural—miseries incidental to our state. Dispiriting reports ascended (like the smoke) from the basement in volumes, and descended from the upper rooms. There was no rolling-pin, there was no salamander (which failed to surprise me, for I don’t know what it is), there was nothing in the house, what there was, was broken, the last people must have lived like pigs, what could the meaning of the landlord be? Through these distresses, the Odd Girl was cheerful and exemplary. But, within four hours after dark we had got into a supernatural groove, and the Odd Girl had seen “Eyes,” and was in hysterics.

My sister and I had agreed to keep the haunting strictly to ourselves, and my impression was, and still is, that I had not left Ikey, when he helped to unload the cart, alone with the women, or any one of them, for one minute. Nevertheless, as I say, the Odd Girl had “seen Eyes” (no other explanation could ever be drawn from her), before nine, and by ten o’clock had had as much vinegar applied to her as would pickle a handsome salmon.

I leave a discerning public to judge of my feelings, when, under these untoward circumstances, at about half-past ten o’clock Master B.’s bell began to ring in a most infuriated manner, and Turk howled until the house resounded with his lamentations!

I hope I may never again be in a state of mind so unchristian as the mental frame in which I lived for some weeks, respecting the memory of Master B. Whether his bell was rung by rats, or mice, or bats, or wind, or what other accidental vibration, or sometimes by one cause, sometimes another, and sometimes by collusion, I don’t know; but, certain it is, that it did ring, two nights out of three, until I conceived the happy idea of twisting Master B.’s neck—in other words, breaking his bell short off—and silencing that young gentleman, as to my experience and belief, for ever.

But, by that time, the Odd Girl had developed such improving powers of catalepsy, that she had become a shining example of that very inconvenient disorder. She would stiffen, like a Guy Fawkes endowed with unreason, on the most irrelevant occasions. I would address the servants in a lucid manner, pointing out to them that I had painted Master B.’s room and


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Rh balked the paper, and taken Master B.’s bell away and balked the ringing, and if they could suppose that that confounded boy had lived and died, to clothe himself with no better behaviour than would most unquestionably have brought him and the sharpest particles of a birch-broom into close acquaintance in the present imperfect state of existence, could they also suppose a mere poor human being, such as I was, capable by those contemptible means of counteracting and limiting the powers of the disembodied spirits of the dead, or of any spirits?—I say I would become emphatic and cogent, not to say rather complacent, in such an address, when it would all go for nothing by reason of the Odd Girl’s suddenly stiffening from the toes upward, and glaring among us like a parochial petrifaction.

Streaker, the housemaid, too, had an attribute of a most discomfiting nature. I am unable to say whether she was of an unusually lymphatic temperament, or what else was the matter with her, but this young woman became a mere Distillery for the production of the largest and most transparent tears I ever met with. Combined with these characteristics, was a peculiar tenacity of hold in those specimens, so that they didn’t fall, but hung upon her face and nose. In this condition, and mildly and deploringly shaking her head, her silence would throw me more heavily than the Admirable Crichton could have done in a verbal disputation for a purse of money. Cook, likewise, always covered me with confusion as with a garment, by neatly winding up the session with the protest that the Ouse was wearing her out, and by meekly repeating her last wishes regarding her silver watch.

As to our nightly life; the contagion of suspicion and fear was among us, and there is no such contagion under the sky. Hooded woman? According to the accounts, we were in a perfect Convent of hooded women. Noises? With that contagion down stairs, I myself have sat in the dismal parlour, listening, until I have heard so many and such strange noises, that they would have chilled my blood if I had not warmed it by dashing out to make discoveries. Try this in bed, in the dead of the night; try this at your own comfortable fireside, in the life of the night. You can fill any house with noises, if you will, until you have a noise for every nerve in your nervous system.

I repeat; the contagion of suspicion and fear was among us, and there is no such contagion under the sky. The women (their noses in a chronic state of excoriation from smelling-salts), were always primed and loaded for a swoon, and ready to go off with hair-triggers. The two elder detached the Odd Girl on all expeditions that were considered doubly hazardous, and she always established the reputation of such adventures by coming back cataleptic. If Cook or Streaker went overhead after dark, we knew we should presently hear a bump on the ceiling; and this took place so constantly, that it was as if a fighting man were engaged to go about the house, administering a touch of his art which I believe is called The Auctioneer, to every domestic he met with.

It was in vain to do anything. It was in vain to be frightened, for the moment in one’s own person, by a real owl, and then to show the owl. It was in vain to discover, by striking an accidental discord on the piano, that Turk always howled at particular notes and combinations. It was in vain to be a Rhadamanthus with the bells, and if an unfortunate bell rang without leave, to have it down inexorably and silence it. It was in vain to fire up chimneys, let torches down the well, charge furiously into suspected rooms and recesses. We changed servants, and it was no better. The new set ran away, and a third set came, and it was no better. At last, our comfortable housekeeping got to be so disorganised and wretched, that I one night dejectedly said to my sister: “Patty, I begin to despair of our getting people to go on with us here, and I think we must give this up.”

My sister, who is a woman of immense spirit, replied. “No, John, don’t give it up. Don’t be beaten, John. There is another way.”

“And what is that?” said I.

“John,” returned my sister, “if we are not to be driven out of this house, and that for no reason whatever, that is apparent to you or me, we must help ourselves and take the house wholly and solely into our own hands.”

“But, the servants,” said I.

“Have no servants,” said my sister, boldly.

Like most people in my grade of life, I had never thought of the possibility of going on without those faithful obstructions. The notion was so new to me when suggested, that I looked very doubtful.

“We know they come here to be frightened and infect one another, and we know they are frightened and do infect one another,” said my sister.

“With the exception of Bottles,” I observed, in a meditative tone.

(The deaf stableman. I kept him in my service, and still keep him, as a phenomenon of moroseness not to be matched in England.)

“To be sure, John,” assented my sister; “except Bottles. And what does that go to prove? Bottles talks to nobody, and hears nobody unless he is absolutely roared at, and what alarm has Bottles ever given, or taken! None.”

This was perfectly true; the individual in question having retired, every night at ten o’clock, to his bed over the coach-house, with no other company than a pitchfork and a pail of water. That the pail of water would have been over me, and the pitchfork through me, if I had put myself without announcement in Bottles’s way after that minute, I had deposited in my own mind as a fact worth remembering. Neither had Bottles ever taken the least notice of any of our many uproars. An imperturbable and speechless man, he had sat at his supper, with Streaker present in a swoon, and the Odd Girl marble, and had only put another potato in his cheek, or profited by the general misery to help himself to beefsteak pie.


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32

my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh me

asleep, for I am very heavy?

Ant. Go sleep, and hear us.

[All sleep but Alon., Seb., and Ant.]

Alon. What! all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes

Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find

They are inclin'd to do so.

Seb. Please you, sir,

Do not omit the heavy offer of it:

It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth

It is a comforter.

Ant. We two, my lord,

Will guard your person while you take your rest,

And watch your safety.

Alon. Thank you. Wondrous heavy.

[Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel.]

Seb. What a strange drowsiness possesses them!

Ant. It is the quality o' the climate.

Seb. Why

Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not

Myself dispos'd to sleep.

Ant. Nor I: my spirits are nimble.

They fell together all, as by consent;

They dropp'd, as by a thunder-stroke. What might,

Worthy Sebastian? O! what might?—No more:—

And yet methinks I see it in thy face,

What thou should'st be. The occasion speaks thee; and

My strong imagination sees a crown

Dropping upon thy head.

 196 discretion: reputation for discretion

198 Go sleep, etc.; cf. n.

202 heavy: drowsy

211 consent: mutual agreement

215 speaks thee: proclaims thee (King)

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 awakened feelings, as to render them wretched for life, and more than avenges the real or imagined wrongs of those we have lost for ever.

When Lord Byron was praising the mental and personal qualifications of Lady Byron, I asked him how all that he now said agreed with certain sarcasms supposed to bear a reference to her, in his works. He smiled, shook his head, and said they were meant to spite and vex her, when he was wounded and irritated at her refusing to receive or answer his letters; that he was not sincere in his implied censures, and that hewas sorry he had written them; but notwithstanding this regret, and all his good resolutions to avoid similar sins, he might on renewed provocation recur to the same vengeance, though he allowed it was petty and unworthy of him.

Lord Byron speaks of his sister, Mrs. Leigh, constantly, and always with strong expressions of affection; he says she is the most faultless person he ever knew, and that she was his only source of consolation in his troubles on the separation.

Byron is a great talker; his flippancy ceases in a tête-à-tête, and he becomes sententious, abandoning himself to the subject, and seeming to think aloud, though his language has the appearance of stiffness, and is quite opposed to the trifling chit-chat that he enters into when in gen-


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penitence—you shall not despise me! But ah, ; what am I saying? You love another now—you would love her if you lived—you will claim her for your wife in heaven. Oh, Paul!” and, sob- bing bitterly, she bent her face upon his knee. Alice,” and the sick man’s hand was laid tenderly on her bowed head, ‘this unnerves me, I cannot bear it! Oh, Alice, I have loved you— I love Jessie now much as I dare love in this hour when the earthly grows dim and the eyes of man look beyond the portals of Immortality. But oh, Alice, in the land where I am going we  read, ‘They marry not, neither are given in marriage.’ Strive to meet me there. Promise me this, Alice Rossiter!”

“I promise! I will try!” sobbed the humiliated woman, snatching his hand and covering it with kisses. ‘‘Now, Paul, I am going—for I  cannot stay to see you die!” and gathering up her sweeping sable robes, she passed out. - -

And while the carriage which held Mrs, Rossiter rolled down the green, fern-bordered country road, little Jessie Moore, with tear-filled eyes, but a smile of resignation on her face, gently held her lover’s hand, looked into his triumphant eyes, and caught the last breath which passed his lips as his earthy life lapsed into the better.

Too late the earnest “call” which came from the wealthy city church for the talented, genius- dowried, yet humble and child-hearted servant of the cross, for he had passed to the mansions prepared for him in the city of the Great King; too late the soft, lilac-scented airs which played round his native farm house home, where they bore him with the fatal splendors of consumption on his cheek; but not too late the gentle love of sweet Jessie Moore, who kissed his pale forehead as she closed his eyes, saying softly to the - weeping mother, ‘We shall meet him again in heaven!”

But oh! the anguish—the shrinking from a dreary, rayless future that stretched away bleak and bare before her—which came to Alice Rossiter when they told her,

‘The minister of Hawthornwold is dead!”

Oh, whoever, reading this, dares to thrust away from his heart a pure and deathless love for the lure of station, wealth, or any other blandishment, let him bethink—ere it be forever too late—of the ghosts that nor will nor pride  have power to lay—the ghosts of remorse, that, so sure as love is of the soul and the soul is of God, will walk with him, hand-in-hand, through all his future!

IN THE SUGAR CAMP.

BY F. H. STAUFFER.

How it snows! How it blows! Quite enough to freeze one’s toes, Or make one mutter as he goes, “How confoundedly it blows!” It is March, and the larch Moans such dreary moans! And the trembling poplar trembles As the white pine flings her cones On the rocks and scraggy stones!

It augers little good When through the maple wood The borers wend their noisy way! To be rapping, to be sapping With a sort of syrup-titious tapping Where the juicy veins may lay! Through tubes of elder or sumach Flows the dripping sap; And such nectar! even Hector Would have stood protector By those vessels filling to the rim, Running over at the brim!

How the smoke is curling And unfurling Upward from the low-roofed shed; While the men with faces red Under the kettles and the boilers, Eighteen and twenty gallon boilers,

Thrust the blazing wood! Oh, it does one good Just to catch the flavor, And the savor That comes from the scum, And the diliquescent gum That may drip upon the wood, If through carelessness it should!

How the girls, with eyes like pearls Shining through their curls, Pour the sugar into moulds With the dipper each one holds! Verses improvising as they watch it crystalizing “In the icy air of night;” What a sight! In itself a crystalline delight, A saccharine delight!

There are foot-prints in the snow By the maples far below, And peals of laughter ring upon the air, Startling the drowsy hare, And waking echoes here and there! Have a care, and beware! Such kisses, pretty Misses May steal your hearts away Some Winter day, So they may!


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HE corn which had sprung up in spring matured to yellow spikes, and sickles converted the copious crop of the field into rows of sheaves. Boldly now over it wander grey-fleeced sheep after a piping shepherd; the cricket hops insolently about the boundary-stone, the partridge with her young scarce hides herself from the searching looks of the pointers, and St. Martin’s summer hangs from stalk to stalk in glittering threads.

The breast of mother earth now needs the showers of the spring—no young corn bursts from it to ripen into fruit—or if some tinge of green yet bedecks the field, it is but the memory of that which was, but which alas! shall be no more.

And man is like the divine field of Nature, capable of all—of passion, learning, puissant deeds, noble actions—happy is he in whom all ripens which germinated in his spirit of lovely and exalted.

But the spiritual sowing hath also its ill seasons, which though perhaps they do not shake the world can drive to despair him whom they encounter-can even perchance annihilate him. The spiritual sowing hath also its hailstorms, which splinter the beautiful, hopeful stalks, batter down what was destined to life, and so crush it, that what awakened in us hopeful delight is now but a source of pity and astonishment.

It is easily said—Betuska was buried. On a coffin adorned with garlands young men and maidens threw handfuls of earth, the grave-diggers raised a mound, and parents spread over the grave fresh turf and adorned it with flowers.

But if by the grave closing over us everything else that was bound up with us could also come to an end, perhaps it were better it should die with us; but perhaps yet better it should live.

I am, in truth, in difficulties how to find words if I am to depict the spiritual state of Uncle John. Despair is little, and at the same time also much. He had moments when not the least anguish survived in his breast; hatred and wrath took its place, but he had moments also in which all this gave way to a horrible quietude, a sort of stupor, so that he could laugh with him who laughed, and curse with him who cursed.

And this before grandfather, who spoke but little with his son, and avoided his looks, which were full of reproach and horrible accusation, partly perhaps justified, but partly not so.


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 “Yes, and—and the Duke—caught me, and—brought me here—and—and then he came—and saved me!”

The air blowing in from the window stirred the ruffles of my lord’s shirt, and blew a strand of her dark hair across Diana’s face. She caught it back and stared at Richard with a puzzled air.

“Pardon me, sir—but you are so like him!”

“I am his brother,” answered Richard shortly.

Her eyes grew round with surprise.

“His brother, sir? I never knew Mr. Carr had a brother!”

“Mr.who?” asked Richard.

“Carr. It is not his name, is it? I heard the Duke call him Carstares—and—my lord.”

“He is the Earl of Wyncham,” answered Richard, stretching out a hand to relieve Andrew of the jug of water he was proffering.

“Good—gracious!” gasped Diana. “B-but he said he was a highwayman!”

“Quite true, madam.”

“True? But how—how ridiculous—and how like him!”

She soaked a handkerchief in the water, and bathed my lord’s forehead.

“He is not coming to in the least,” she said nervously. “You are sure ’tis not—not”

“Quite. He’ll come round presently. You said he had ridden far?”

“He must have, sir—I wish he were not so pale—he was staying with the O’Haras at Maltby.”

“What? The O’Haras?”

“Yes—and he must have ridden from there—and his wound still so tender!” Again she kissed the limp hand.

Over by the window his Grace, his breath recovered, was eyeing Andrew through his quizzing-glass.

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 And at other times again, he went like a man crushed at heart, without will and feeling, chilled in all his perceptions, inaccessible to grief, and indifferent to pleasure.

Then he almost jested: he told grandfather that now he need not dread a hated marriage, and in general that affairs had turned out better than had ever been looked for.

Grandfather was now more afflicted than his son. The misfortune which he had caused to fall on the head of old Kubista, did not suffer him now to sleep more often than did the hatred which before he had felt for that trusty friend.

Even in his work Uncle John was like two different beings. Sometimes he did everything thoroughly and conscientiously; sometimes again he took no pains, and at times he did not work at anything for a whole day.

Once he came to the boundary-stone which divided grandfather’s field from that of old Kubista.

Old Kubista was afield. Uncle John went to him, kissed his hand, and said to him, “You know, Kubista, you only yet remain till death my father.”

Kubista’s tears fell fast. Without speaking a word he went home, and his people who worked with him afield ceased in their work for the anguish which they felt with their honoured master. Then uncle’s horses had a rest. He loosed them from the plough, and sat himself down alone at the boundary-stone and thought—God alone knows of what; perhaps even he did not think of anything.

They brought him his dinner and he did not touch it. He sat till evening and perhaps would have sat even till next morning if Kubista had not gone back to the field and sat down beside him.

“I have not spoken to you about your daughter,” said Uncle John, as if between the time that Kubista departed and returned not a minute had intervened, “and trust me I am more intent upon reconciling myself with you than with my own father.”

“What avails hatred here? We know you grew up together, and I, without her, might have been a happier father than as it is I am. Would that your father were now also happier than he has been hitherto.”

They spoke long together, and Uncle John in his presence unbosomed himself completely, as if he had seen in the father the spirit of poor Betuska—so he disclosed in his presence everything without reserve. He added that he desired but one thing, and that


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 was that Kubista should recognize that he was worthy of his daughter.

And Kubista did indeed stand to him in place of a father, at least according to sorrow.

Whenever they saw one another afield they always came together, and their first salutation was dedicated to the memory of Betuska.

Only sometimes uncle came here alone, alone, and then complained to heaven and earth, fell on his face, and drowned his grief in tears. Aye, he could not see this place without shuddering, but his eyes in vain sought the village, to see whether Betuska would come from it, to make all clear to him as none else could.

Coming home again he was so variable that neither grandfather nor grandmother could understand him.

Sometimes indeed quite affable, and at other times again he shut himself like a monastic in his cell.

He did not speak much with people, and if he spoke he touched on matters entirely indifferent, so that it might appear to others as if this misfortune had not so very deeply affected him.

Sometimes also he jested with them—even cruelly. He said, “So! I told you to laugh at me when I was no more Kubista’s boy. Laugh now, you have a right to do so.”

And he began himself to laugh, as though he wished to give them a taste for laughing.

Who saw him thus found his taste for laughing with him soon gone.

And after that again he was so leaden-hearted that grandmother felt grave concern about him, lest, perhaps, he should attempt his own life. Meek and gentle sometimes like a child, and sometimes again he dealt out his words as though he would speak daggers.

“You know excellently how to take care of children,” he said to grandfather, “not only of your own but even of Kubista’s—for you have taken care of Betuska better than he himself did. No one could have provided for her better. Faith ’tis quite a peculiar talent when a man can so prettily blast another’s happiness.”

Grandfather was scared at these words. There lay in them an enormous weight of accusation and yet they were pronounced with as much coldness as if he had said, “My pipe has gone out.”

Grandfather, however, did not dare evade the charge implied, but began to consider how he might divert Uncle John to other pursuits. He sought counsel of grandmother, but with her he did


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144 but the reverse obtains in the case of paralysis of the oculo-motorius on account of the number of muscles affected. The field of vision is in rapid succession falsely projected in various directions, according to the changes in the direction of vision; it is first too far on one side, then too high, then too low. The want of correspondence between the strain made upon the ocular muscles and the actual movements of the eye thereby accomplished, causes an impression upon the patient as if the surrounding objects were in motion; this gives him the sensation of dizziness, causes his gait to be very unsteady, and induces total loss of co-ordination in rapid movements.

In reference to the etiology, it should be noted that syphilis is a relatively frequent cause of paralysis of the oculo-motorius. Aside from this it may be caused, as may paralyses in general, by rheumatism, diseases of the central nervous system, changes at the base of the brain, in the orbit, etc.

The treatment is in the first place to be directed against the cause; for instance, syphilis. In other respects the treatment recommended for paralysis of the abducens is applicable.

If, after recovery from paralysis, strabismus remain, it is to be relieved by tenotomy of the rectus externus, and if there be very great loss of motion on the side of the rectus internus, it may be necessary simultaneously to bring the insertion of that muscle forward. The question of treatment is more complicated in cases where the upward and downward movements are only partially restored. Only where the vertical deviation of the eyes is very considerable do we have the indication for bringing forward the insertion of the rectus inferior or superior. Von Graefe recommended that slight defects of vertical motion be compensated for by tenotomy in the other eye of the muscle acting in the same direction, be it the rectus inferior or superior. If, for instance, the right eye squints upward and has but limited movement downward, then a tenotomy of the rectus inferior in the left eye will cause that to turn upward and limit its movement downward. If a harmonious action of the ocular muscles is thus partially, but not sufficiently established, the insertion of the rectus superior of the right eye may be set backward.


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 not succeed very well, for she told him curtly, that he had already shown how clever he was at managing, so then let him manage again according to his own sweet will.

Grandfather began to feel himself veritably isolated. At home all avoided him, and indeed he avoided others more than they avoided him. He then began to drive out to his sons and married daughters, but there also he did not gain much help. None of them was willing to take upon himself the responsibility of advising when matters might turn out badly—for they knew grandfather well.

And after all what advice could they give? Even could they have disentangled his eager confused questions as easily as he entangled them, grandfather would still not have wanted any of their advice. He always knew best himself the author of the confusion—if he could not find the clue who was to find it. When, therefore, he returned home from these visits to his children, he felt his own desolateness even more strongly than before. He had no one to whom to unburden himself and was an object of pity like all the rest.

It is said, “Paint not the devil upon a wall or verily he will appear.”

In fact, grandfather began to hanker after Novak, and when Novak appeared quite unexpectedly, grandfather felt it almost a blessing to have him to converse with.

Novak well knew that he would find it no jesting matter with grandmother, or with Uncle John. He did not come to grandfather at the house, but managed to call him behind the barn, where stood in about seven rows the huge ancestral lindens, in whose shadow he rested as on a feather-bed. To their branches had migrated, at some time or other, a family of starlings, and because the place pleased them had settled themselves there, and multiplied to an innumerable colony. Here it was “chiff-chaff” all day long, and if the old ones flew away, why, then the young ones piped.

Here then Novak awaited grandfather, and when grandfather told him that he thought the weight on his heart grew lighter, Novak said he knew of a remedy, but it must be taken at once if it was to have any effect.

Grandfather, however, had been starving for want of advice, and he inquired what the remedy was. Novak answered without circumlocution, “Your son must get married.”

And at once he had so many reasons for it at the tip of his tongue that grandfather’s head went round.


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 He said that Uncle John dissipated his energies by reflections which afflicted him, that his looks and thoughts fastened only on women, and that what the women altogether had so long failed to effect a single woman would effect if he could be brought acquainted with her.

Grandfather thought all this supremely wise, and wondered at himself for not thinking of it before, and as for Novak, faith he was a man more sensible than a Doctor of Law.

Novak, however, reasoned according to his trade, and if he had been a butcher he would have recommended that uncle should eat plenty of meat. Had he been an innkeeper he would have recommended plenty of beer. Being a go-between in love-affairs, he recommended that uncle should wive.

And all at once he knew everything about a bride in prospect, and described her in such glowing colours that Horakoff’s daughter at Brizoff vanished before her, and was not fit to reach her water at table.

Grandfather thought that he had won “terns”, and he had no need to trouble himself further about anything; for Novak took upon himself all trouble and eased grandfather’s mind by promising that Uncle John should conform to everything.

After this grandfather himself took Uncle John in hand. After suitable circumlocutions, he asked him, as if casually, whether he yet thought of marriage, seeing that his parents were growing old and could not manage the household much longer.

“And why not then?” said Uncle John, as if in good humour, “then I shall have obeyed you in everything.”

Grandfather was quite accustomed to his biting sentences, and already sometimes failed to feel their incisiveness. But here, at any rate, he had at last managed to know what he wished to know. He thought, then, that he must be contented with the reply.

And in reality the business began to make satisfactory progress, and before any one expected it a letter came to the house. Uncle John was, moreover, so resigned to grandfather’s wishes, that grandfather must have been delighted with him.

Whether Uncle John read this letter I do not know, but certain it is that when grandfather told him he must write a reply, Uncle John told him he had an answer all prepared.

And the messenger took a letter from him to his intended bride, only that it was the same which he had brought from her to him.

Grandfather must have had satisfaction in seeing how everything succeeded—and he had it.


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 When, after several days, the evenings began to close in, a wedding was already openly mentioned, the servants continually agitated the matter, and after some days even the poultry at Kubista’s talked it over.

Old Kubista’s head spun round.

Now even Novak began to present himself openly at the farm, and when Uncle John greeted him affably enough it followed that the last stumbling-block was quite removed. He flew from the bride to our farm, and thence to the bride elect like one possessed.

It was a wonderful message which Novak carried to the young lady. When he asked Uncle John what proposal he should take to her, Uncle John referred him to grandfather, and in reality grandfather was as well able to compose a marriage proposal as if he had been going to take a wife himself.

Things went on apace.

All unexpectedly one morning grandmother got a command from grandfather to see how many calves were ready for the butcher, what number of fat pigs, how many geese were fit to kill, and she herself was to see to the poultry, for the marriage was even at the doors.

Novak ran to the registry office; put out the banns; briefly, Novak had a matter to settle, and he succeeded in it.

Only one thing was still wanting. Uncle John had not as yet made the acquaintance of his intended bride. That indeed was a very trifling hitch. Still it was all in the day’s work that Novak should put that matter straight also.

Novak, then, must bring them together. He must put the matter before Uncle John in all its different aspects until the latter assented to it.

He might very well have spared himself his pains, for Uncle John scarcely listened with one ear. So much, however, he understood of it all as this, that next Sunday he was to pay a visit to his intended bride, and was to order the servants to have the carriage as smart as possible.

When Novak further assured him that he would be thoroughly satisfied with everything, uncle answered, “You see that I am always satisfied as it is.”

Grandfather took a fresh lease of life, and even his foot ceased to pain him; he walked to the farmyard with Novak, under the lindens, and again from the farmyard to the house. He was more active than Uncle John.


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 Grandmother did, indeed, often look into uncle’s eyes thus inviting him to confidence, that he might unbosom himself to her, for she felt, as no one else could, that what she had heard from grandfather, Novak, and others, could not be his genuine desire and will. A kind of terror fastened itself at her heart.

But Uncle John only looked at her from time to time with anguish, and that was all his answer. At other times he was inaccessible to all. No one could find the key to his soul; perhaps at times he could not even find it himself.

Sunday came, the vehicle was prepared, the horses harnessed. They went for Uncle John, but they did not find him. Grandmother could scarcely speak for terror and surprise, and if she could have concealed the truth from grandfather, she would not have told it for the whole world.

Servants ran hither and thither to look for Uncle John. Even Novak, whose mind was bewildered, and whose countenance paled at the unexpected turn things had taken, set off to search; even grandfather himself looked where he could, calling out and searching, not without fear.

But it was not so bad as that. They soon found Uncle John, at the very boundary-stone of grandfather’s and Kubista’s fields. They found him with his face to the ground, in tears and protestations. Without witnesses he poured out laments to heaven for his affliction and burden of misery, seeking the comfort which he found not among men.

They did not venture to disturb him. They returned home and mentioned to grandfather where and how they found him, adding that he would return by himself.

And uncle soon returned. Not with tears in his eyes, but with a smile on his face, and cold in mien.

To those who saw him in his previous state but a moment before, that smile must have been capable of a strange interpretation.

Uncle John dressed himself and they drove off. On the way Novak repeated very much about his previous performances, about bridals and marriages, until Uncle John bade draw up at an inn that he might have a glass to encourage himself.

And he drank enough to encourage him. They then drove on. Uncle was still in a courageous mood when they alighted, and Terinka, his intended bride, presented herself on the threshold, while in the meantime her father greeted his honoured guest.


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The Tempest, II. i

Seb. What! art thou waking?

Ant. Do you not hear me speak?

Seb. I do; and surely,

It is a sleepy language, and thou speak'st

Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say?

This is a strange repose, to be asleep

With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving,

And yet so fast asleep.

Ant. Noble Sebastian,

Thou let'st thy fortune sleep—die rather; wink'st

Whiles thou art waking.

Seb. Thou dost snore distinctly:

There's meaning in thy snores.

Ant. I am more serious than my custom: you

Must be so too, if heed me; which to do

Trebles thee o'er.

Seb. Well; I am standing water.

Ant. I'll teach you how to flow.

Seb. Do so: to ebb,

Hereditary sloth instructs me.

Ant. O!

If you but knew how you the purpose cherish

Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it,

You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed,

Most often do so near the bottom run

By their own fear or sloth.

Seb. Prithee, say on:

The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim

A matter from thee, and a birth indeed

Which throes thee much to yield.

Ant. Thus, sir:

 224, 225 wink'st waking: keep'st thine eyes shut, when awake

229 Trebles thee o'er: triples thy value

standing: between the ebb and the flow

233, 234 Cf. n.

238 matter: matter of importance

239 throes: pains

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244 the position and direction of its follicle may be in this way permanently changed. This method was described by Celsus as "illaqueatio."

Occasionally, in patients who are annoyed by a sensation as of a foreign body in the eye, there may be found, either with the naked eye or by the help of a lens, a number of very fine cilia (strongly developed lanugo), which, with their points, touch the caruncula lacrymalis. Epilation is the only remedy.

Distichiasis congenita is very rare. In this condition the cilia at the outer edge of the lid are normally developed, but from the intermarginal part, near the mouths of the tarsal glands, there springs a second row of cilia which lean against the eyeball. In many cases there exist still other congenital anomalies; for instance, in one case which I observed there was epicanthus and bilateral ptosis congenita; in another case I found a cleft in the soft palate.

Ammon has given the name epicanthus to that condition in which there is a redundancy of skin upon the bridge of the nose, and as a consequence the inner canthus is covered by a vertical fold. It occurs only when the bridge of the nose is very flat, and in its highest grades is generally associated with congenital ptosis. If it seem desirable to relieve the condition by operation, it may be done by the excision of an elliptical piece from the superfluous skin on the bridge of the nose.

Congenital cleft (coloboma) of the upper lid has been observed generally associated with other congenital anomalies. If the cleft be so deep that it requires to be closed by an operation, its edges are to be freshened and then united with sutures.

SYMBLEPHARON.

Symblepharon is the union of the inner surface of the lid with the eyeball, following destruction of the conjunctiva. Burns with hot metal, concentrated mineral acids, lime, and unskilful cauterizations with nitrate of silver are the usual causes. It very seldom follows wounds made with sharp instruments.

Since it is almost always due to an accidental spurting of the caustic in'to the eye, the scleral and palpebral conjunctiva are generally simultaneously destroyed and the cornea involved in the injury.


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 It is true that Uncle John was merry enough. It was no secret even to the Brezinoffs where this merriment came from, but they did not look too nicely at that. Only let a young man have courage, what matter whether it comes from the heart or the pewter.

And old Brezinoff took further care that it should come so long from the pewter, that it reached the heart at last.

Uncle John jested, pinched Terinka’s cheek, and Novak winked slily at Brezinoff, who merely smiled in reply.

Uncle John asked Terinka, whether she wished to have him for a husband, adding that he had been sent to ask her to be his wife; and he said this without circumlocution.

Terinka blushed becomingly and then responded also becomingly.

Briefly, Uncle John made good progress. He was yet shouting on the road as they returned home long after nightfall.

In the house then at grandfather’s it was now a matter of certainty that there would be a wedding; the banns were sent at once to the parson and a day fixed on which the guests were to assemble.

Grandfather strongly insisted upon there being a large gathering of guests present. And Novak went with the young folk all one day the round of the neighbourhood to invite the whole of it.

Several hogsheads of beer were ordered at once from the brewery, and from Prague were brought about four dozen of the choicest rosolek for the ladies.

The wedding then was prepared.

And when it came everything went off according to the programme. The bride wept, as did her parents, and when they brought her to grandfather’s she had with her about a score of relations.

Evil tongues, and on such occasions some tongues never fail to be so, ran on in this wise:—

“All these relations are instead of furniture, you know; for the bride has not much of that, you know; and if it is a long time coming, that doubtless is because they want to get it cheap to the farm. But how odd! ’tis always such a long way off, you know; and after all ’tis possible the relations have brought it in their pockets.”

But at grandfather’s things went merrily enough. Grandfather was in his element. He at once made friends with all the bride’s relations, and told them all about his own history. Some of these


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 relations were indeed rather distant relations of the Brezinoffs, but that did not signify.

Grandfather showed them everything, conducted them everywhere, and walked so easily that even his foot seemed well again. He paid them so much attention, aye, each and all of them, that the remainder of his sons and daughters were scarcely welcomed. He did not allow himself to converse with his own children, for to-day he had new, more honourable guests.

These were, indeed, convinced that they had found capital quarters for Terinka, but it a little vexed grandfather's own sons that they could not put in even a single word; and they dispersed long before evening, when grandfather led the new relationship afield. They did not shake hands with grandfather at parting, they said to-day doubtless he would not miss them-and grandfather did not miss them that day.

The festivities lasted until the third day, for grandfather was most anxious that the whole neighbourhood should talk about it. He thought that he must needs do something, for latterly such wonderful rumours were afloat concerning the sayings and doings of all of us at the farm, that now verily seemed a fitting opportunity to demolish all such rumours at a single blow.

When on the third day all drove off, grandfather began to settle the bride in the farmhouse. Uncle John, indeed, scarcely paid any attention to any one, consequently his part must be played for him by grandfather.

Grandfather had always taken so much pains to bring all this about, that it was impossible for him all at once to renounce all participation in it.

He had enough to do. Ere he had shown the young mistress everything that appertained to her household duties several days had elapsed.

And yet Terinka had excellent capacities. She remembered everything at once and adapted herself to everything with facility, so that after a short time it was soon shown who now ruled in the farm, and who obeyed.

As I have already said, grandfather had spared no pains to get the farm this mistress, and now that he had obtained her, he took still more pains to fix her there for ever, and to make every one obey her absolutely.

Grandfather was now happy—at least he thought so.

I cannot say, however, that Terinka was really a very welcome guest at the farm.


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Rh The immediate consequence of the injury is generally a severe traumatic keratitis and conjunctivitis, in which, during the acute stage, the palpebral fissure is kept closed either by the swelling of the lids or by the irritation. During this time adhesions form between the two raw surfaces of the conjunctiva or between the inner surface of the lid and the injured cornea. These adhesions remain, although they become somewhat stretched when motion is restored.

The form and extent of the adhesions vary according to the injury to the conjunctiva. The destruction generally extends back to the fornix, so that the lids adhere to the eyeball throughout a great extent of surface. Often in such cases, when both lids are involved, the palpebral fissure becomes shortened, and the mobility of the lids, as well as of the eyeball, is limited.

In other cases the adhesion of the two conjunctival surfaces extends forward from the fornix to the edge of the lid in an oblique direction; a probe can then be thrust for a greater or less distance under the adhesion till its point reaches the end of the pocket thus formed by the symblepharon.

Finally, it sometimes happens that the adhesions do not extend back quite to the fornix, but bridge it over, so that a probe can be passed under it.

In consequence of these adhesions the movements of both the lids and eyeball are impeded. This gives to the patient a sensation of traction, and where the eye still possesses vision it causes diplopia corresponding to the defect of motion.

The removal of the symblepharon may be indicated either to restore the function of the eye, or, where that cannot be done, to render possible the use of an artificial one.

If the cornea be entirely destroyed by the injury which caused the symblepharon and there be no desire to wear an artificial eye, there is no indication for an operation. If a useful degree of vision still remain, or if in case of extensive corneal opacities it may be re-established, for instance, by an iridectomy, the removal of the symblepharon should be undertaken when the adhesions do not involve more than half the upper or lower lid. More extensive adhesions cannot be relieved, not from any difficulty in dividing them, but because of the impossibility of preventing their reunion. After the division of the adhesions the two wounded


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 Grandmother was constrained in manner towards her, for a kind of trepidation continually affected her, though she could not hit upon a name for it. Her thoughts always lost themselves whenever she tried to conjecture whether Uncle John was now happy. When she wiped the plate with her apron, she also wiped more than one tear from her eye, and few saw her then balance herself on tiptoe, and dance according to her ancient wont.

Nor was Uncle John by any means an example of how conjugal affection may make of two people one spirit, causing them to feel with one heart and to think with one mind.

Uncle John did not change in anything to speak of after his marriage, except that he became somewhat more indifferent. He seemed as though he had determined, by the punctual fulfilment of his father’s wishes, to show grandfather how those his wishes had brought misfortune not only on his son, but also on the whole household.

He obeyed grandfather most exemplarily, and since grandfather had no other wishes save those that Terinka expressed, he more particularly obeyed his wife in everything.

Grandfather, then, very diligently himself took his daughter-in-law in charge, so that his presence should make up for every deficiency in other quarters. He himself now contrived and did for her everything for which she had the least fancy. Aye, he even looked into her eyes as a star-gazer looks at the heavens in order to conjecture what would please her and what would elicit a smile from her, for that pleased him beyond measure.

The servants whispered that there was a new mistress, and this lady was imperious and proud, and in a louder voice they declared to the other servants that she was hasty and unobliging, and that there was more wanton wastefulness in the household management than had ever been before.

All day long he spoke of nothing but Terinka. He praised her every moment, her every step. Every gesture seemed to him so becoming that more than once he pronounced her to be the most perfect woman in the world.

The household secretly, and indeed openly, laughed at his eulogiums; and grandmother sometimes felt almost vexed. Uncle John assured him that he was right in everything.

Wonderful it was where grandfather found all the expressions for heaping praise after praise upon her.

But even grandfather at last grew tired of calling her the best


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 woman in the world, and he named Terinka his Flower of Paradise, which he had long been seeking for his house.

“Yes,” he cried, “she is our happiness, and our ornament, in whom we all grow young again.”

And Terinka was indeed a Flower of Paradise. She expanded in all directions, every place was full of her. Every one was made to feel her influence.

Already she had not space enough in the rooms which were originally allotted to her, and she expanded even into the living-room, which grandfather had reserved for himself and grandmother.

Grandfather did, indeed, always, and in everything, give way to her only that she might be content, and he told her that she had only to order what she pleased, and that all her orders must be carried out.

So Terinka began to give her orders in earnest. Once she declared to Uncle John, in the presence of grandfather and grandmother, that “old gran” disgusted her because she had always to be looking at his diseased foot, and she suggested that it would be better if he were banished out of the living-room.

This fell like a thunderbolt.

But grandfather laughed it off, for he supposed it was only jest, though, on second thoughts, it occurred to him that it was a curious mode of jesting.

Grandmother stood aghast, and Uncle John said nothing.

He always heard from grandfather a hundred times a day that everything which Terinka ordered must be carried out—that Flower of Paradise.

RANDFATHER, however, learned very soon what he had praised to the skies: he experienced very soon what is the character of these Flowers of Paradise, and learned by many an unpleasant surprise what it is to carry out the commands of a daughter-in-law.

Old people are slow to adapt themselves to new ideas. What they have once got into their heads is only abandoned by a difficult process, and grandfather had so thoroughly got it into his head that he had provided his home with an excellent mistress as to recognize that he was already in very truth too grey-headed


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 to teach himself new views and new maxims. And so sometimes he reminded Terinka as if involuntarily of his grey hairs. But that scarcely availed him much. Terinka told him flatly that his grey hairs and the grey dog Vorjech were one as dear to her as the other.

Here grandfather no longer smiled; tears trickled down his old face, and though his foot began somewhat to pain him, yet he hobbled out of the living-room, across the threshold, to the farmyard, and there retired under the old lindens, where he sat himself down on a bench. The starlings piped in their nests, and grandfather looked towards his house and reflected on all that he had enjoyed and suffered there.

There was enough to begin to occupy his thoughts. In the meantime Terinka ruled her household like a fine lady—like a very duchess. The servants had very often to harness the horses, and prepare the carriage, and the carriage rolled off to the town, whence she and Uncle John seldom returned before evening. It was not, indeed, possible; before she had completed all her commissions the day had flown like lightning.

But after this our young mistress always appeared in new clothes; aye, sometimes in several dresses the same day, and the servants guessed that in spite of this it was not she who wore all their master bought her.

Verily, with the servants she had a perfect torment, and if Terinka could have learned all they said about her, she would never have recovered from her vexation.

Thus, for example, they said, “Mistress has all her presents and dowry stowed away at a merchant’s in the town, you know; that’s why she drives there so often, you know-to bring it home bit by bit.” For example, she had all her dresses stowed away at his house.

But even at home our young mistress’ dresses outdid all rivalry.

Visits were, indeed, very frequent, not perhaps that grandfather’s own sons and daughters drove over there, but Terinka had uncles enough to fill up the calendar. These did not come all at once, but were good enough to relieve guard, not wishing to be in the way.

On these occasions there were dinners such as only occurred at festivals in grandfather’s time. And every one ate and drank to repletion.

At these feasts grandfather took care still at least to appear to be the host, and gave out that Terinka did it all at his own


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 particular request, and he often consoled himself with the thought that he was not driven out of the house, because he helped to supply the table with drink and victuals. And how sedately Terinka always invited him to seat himself with them! It was enough to move his goodness when he scarcely knew whether he was to sit among them or not.

But he sat with them still.

And then when the relations went home, they could scarcely carry all the presents with which Terinka loaded them. Once a maid-servant allowed herself to play a very untimely joke. Her mistress dispatched her for a carpet-bag in which to pack something for the Lord knows which of her uncles, and the maid brought a regular sack, saying she could not find anything else.

But beside all this there were other things to be observed in our young mistress.

When some one or other of her female relations paid her a visit the servants soon perceived that this relation wore a dress which no long time before their mistress had on new, and that when this aunt or cousin departed she invariably forgot that she had on her hostess’ gown.

Uncle John paid no attention to these littlenesses, he always acted according to grandfather’s wishes, and the instant our young mistress desired it he bade put to the horses afresh, that he might drive with her to the town where she laid in a fresh stock of things to be distributed at home.

They quite understood at the farm what driving to the town meant.

And Novak?

This worthy, when he came to the farm, behaved as though he were part lord and master. To grandfather he scarce paid any attention at all, and merely said a few words to him, though grandfather would gladly have continued the conversation.

On the other hand he listened to our young mistress a full hour, while she related to him how she managed everything, what a torment the old folks were to her, and similar matters.

It would have seemed that Terinka certainly needed no one to establish her in household management, for she already gave evidence of her excellent capacities. But still the advice which Novak gave her was by no means to be despised.

Whenever Novak gave advice he took pains fully to express his meaning. He set down the old folk as dotards, who were already unsuited to the new times, and he complimented Terinka Rh