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Estes Park, Colorado. From Mrs. Amos Little's "The World as We Saw It." (Cupples & Hurd.)

For eight or ten miles before we reached the park the road was excellent, though it was constantly ascending until, when within two miles of our destination, it descended eight or nine hun- dred feet into a beautiful valley. This valley is undulating, and about three miles wide and eight miles long, with several cañons leading into it, through one of which we had entered. There are many trees in it, and a stream called the Great Thompson winds through it. It is surrounded by high mountain-peaks. Long's Peak and the Snowy Range are partially covered with snow, and their white summits are beautifully tinted morning and evening. They seem to be about one mile distant, but are really eight or ten miles away.

The scenery of the last part of our ride was so magnificent that we forgot all the discomforts of the earlier part. Besides, we had had three relays of horses and an excellent driver, and we did not feel over-fatigued when we drove up to the Estes Park Hotel, about half-past seven in the evening.

The hotel is a two-story frame house, capable of accommodating thirty or forty persons. There are ranches three or four miles apart, each consisting of a main house where the meals are provided, and smaller houses of two or three rooms, which are taken by families who board at the main house.

The atmosphere at the high altitude of the park is so light that, when starting to walk at the usual speed, one is forced to stop and grow accustomed to the new action of heart and lungs. Woollen clothing snaps with electricity, and the hair grows rebellious from the same influence.

Early the next morning we saw coming over this beautiful natural park, on horseback, our friends, Mr. and Mrs. C., who were here seeking and finding health. They reported having seen some mountain-sheep near Ferguson's Ranch, where they were stopping. Another person told of a man having killed three bears and one deer the week before, about five miles from the hotel. This information, added to his enjoyment of the trout which had been caught in the stream near by, aroused the enthusiasm of A., who is an ardent sportsman.

For myself, I took more delight in the beautiful wild flowers; a bouquet gathered that morning contained fourteen varieties. During the day there came a shower, giving a magnificent view of the clouds sailing over the surrounding mountains.

Sunday in the park was like all other days, only the gentlemen did not go fishing. The head-waiter, Peter, who seemed to be the chief man of the hotel, said that last year on Sundays they had no lunch, but a service, while this year they had no service, but a lunch, and he thought the guests liked this way better.

We drove over in a one-horse phæton to call on our friends at Ferguson's Ranch, and were much amused at the primitive style in which they were living. A long, one-story, part log, part board house contained the dining and general sitting-room, the latter having a large fireplace, where an open fire is built every evening. In a line with that are built framed one-story houses, unpainted and unfinished inside, the framework and joists serving for shelves. But the novelty

and the invigorating atmosphere give all a


We found Mr. C. making a seat out of a beerbarrel; his health is greatly improved, and the three children are perfect pictures of health. The youngest was a fine specimen of a Colorado baby, a handsome, black-eyed, curly-haired, white-andpink-complexioned boy. A little girl of ten, a daughter of Dr. A., of Boston, who is also here for his health, sat astride of a horse, and rode as fearlessly as an Indian girl. Indeed, she did not look unlike one, with her red cape and dress, her striped stockings, and with her dark hair flying. She was racing up and down the park, waiting, she said, for her mother to join her.

In a few days one grows somewhat accustomed to the rarity of the atmosphere, though any unusual degree of exertion makes one puff and pant in the most unexpected manner. The park is seven thousand two hundred feet above the level of the sea, and the peaks around are seven thousand feet higher than the park. Magpies are chattering everywhere around; they reminded me of my childhood, when I was frequently told I chattered like a magpie. I realized for the first time the full meaning of the expression. They do chatter, chatter continually.

There is a good deal of game here, especially early in the season. A gentleman said that six weeks before we came he had seen fifty deer and twenty mountain-sheep just opposite the hotel. In July they go up into the mountains above the timber line.

These mountain-sheep are very large; their bodies are longer than those of deer, but their legs are not as long. They are about the same color, have hair instead of wool, are very much larger than ordinary sheep, and have enormous horns.

Trout are exceedingly plentiful. A. returned from one trip with seventy. Our days alternated between fishing and riding into the different cañons. One charming drive was to Lamb's Ranch. It was about seven miles through the park, over the mountains, in lovely cañons, around great boulders, and seemed nearly all the way like driving through a garden of flowers. Even between the track of the two horses at times there was an unbroken line of flowers, columbine, lobelia, larkspur, evening primroses, wild roses, and many other varieties. It seemed almost cruel when we were forced to turn out of the beaten road and drive over the sod to avoid a bad place, thus crushing such lovely flowers. I felt as Burns did when he ploughed up the daisy.

Godsville's Church and River. From Mrs. Leith Adams' "Aunt Hepsy's Foundling." (Lippincott.)

As to Godsville Church, there was only one thing to say to that, namely, to allow without more ado, that it was a perfect gem. It was one of the few stone buildings in the village, which gave it an air of greater staidness and gravity than its surroundings, and rejoiced in a stained glass window with three lights. In summer, the pale green of the Virginian creeper's deep-lobed leaves clothed its walls; and in the fall-oh, who could describe aright the beauty of the church in its fall dress? The glowing crimson of some of the graceful, drooping wreaths that garlanded it on every side, the exquisite pale rose-tints of others.

the young ladies of her type whom I, and doubtless, you, have met; a something that made her domineering cleverness seem naïve and charming, at least to me; and a something so subtle that I find I cannot put it into words. I was very happy that morning. At parting, Mrs. Corliss had said a few motherly words of admonition, and you cannot estimate how inspiriting it was for me to arrogate to myself, however groundlessly, a fraction of the concern she expressed for our safety and timely return. You see, it had been so long since any one had treated me so, that the simple act awakened memories "dear as remembered kisses after death”—of fugitive odors of lilac, honeysuckle, and new-mown hay; of sweet days in the woods, on carpets of yielding moss; of sands, under the soft light of the full moon, when the shadowy boom of a vessel far out on the satinlike surface of the sea was just dipping into the silvery sheen-I could hear the roar of the surf; and then the sonorous tap of a woodpecker; the sounds of many birds and insects; a confusion of old familiar voices-until suddenly, with a start, I became alive to a question repeated petulantly by Petrice.

The river-the lovely winding river-was one of Godsville's greatest natural beauties. When you had lived near it a whole year through, you began to look back and wonder was it most beautiful in summer-when the giant trees overhanging it mingled their graceful branches in the rippling waters and the beds of tall river-grass bent to the soft rush of the stream; or in the fallwhen fading leaves richly dight in their deathrobes of crimson and gold floated on its surface, when its ripples grew to waves, and its impetuous rush drew the river grass almost level with its breast; in winter-when, like a white ribbon, here and there bluely transparent where the ice was glare, it seemed to wind its way among trees from fairy-land or out of the realms of the Winter King in some gorgeous Christmas pantomime-nights on the river-of a wonderful night on the trees clothed to the tips of their slenderest branches with ice-jewels; when the sweet chimes of the sleigh-bells startled the cross-bill in his woodland haunts, and willing, sturdy steeds flew along the beautiful river's ice-bound depths; or in spring-when the breath of the south wind began to loosen its fetters and the hummocks floating staidly on its surface let the deep blue water show its face to an awakening world; when the snow dript in gentle rain from the trees on its banks, and birds that had flown away for the winter came back to twitter in the branches and peer flutteringly about for the first signs of the tiny, swelling buds.

Petrice and Ogden.

From Melville Philips' "The Devil's Hat." (Ticknor.) Then Petrice stood before me, drawing on her gloves, an operation in which I became profoundly interested, for it was one I had not witnessed for a long time. Her head was half buried beneath the great chip hat in which I had first seen her, but the abundance of silky, golden hair could not all be confined, and it straggled out on her white forehead and hung about the graceful neck. Her cheeks were aglow with health, even lightly freckled below the blue eyes, which sparkled as brilliantly as the brooch at her throat. Yet I confess to you that then and often afterwards my gaze lingered upon the red lips, hiding and revealing the shiny white teeth.

"Schlau and the Major are too engrossed in business to be gallant, Mr. Ogden," she said, handing me a large blue-and-white parasol. Nothing but mammon, mammon, mammon; until I am beginning to fear the contagion may catch me. Mamma is already a victim." Her mother's eyes filled at the playful words, and Petrice saw and clasped her impulsively to her breast. And as I stood there a witness of the pretty tableau, those words of the Major came back to me"Schlau's black cat and kitten." They were both dressed in half-mourning, and Mrs. Corliss had on a white lace head-dress, that rimmed her dark hair to great advantage. Pointing to this, Petrice said:

"How could you be worldly in that halo!" "Petrice, darling, hush! Mr. Ogden, I am fearful that the freedom of her life here is making her too free of speech."

I do not know that I am a trustworthy judge of human character, but I felt at this moment that I fairly understood the temper and worth of this girl. Perhaps by this time I have presented her truthfully enough for you to form your own opinion. But there was a redeeming something in her manner that quite removed her from all

"Have you ever heard it, Mr. Ogden ?"

I had been vaguely conscious that she was talking; but whether to Schlau and the Major, who were just ahead, or to me, I was too absorbed to know. However, rather than confess my inattention, I boldly hazarded the statement:

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She laughed musically.

There is no mistaking that sepulchral tone or far-away look. Now, I beg of you, don't develop any idiosyncrasy while we are together. But it is my customary luck-I believe I know more eccentric people than any one else in the world! Half my girl friends had marked peculiarities. At Lausanne there was one who used to ask me every day if I didn't think she looked like Madame Récamier, until I told her she was the very picture of Madame de Staël, and almost broke her heart."

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'Why, what have I done?"

"You have permitted me to ask you in vain three questions, tell you one anecdote, and squander one excellent pun and numberless pleasantries upon you, without notice. Now let me ask one favor of you-if you can remain unpreoccupied of mind so long-please tell me candidly if you are like all the other people about here. I could find out for myself, I suppose, if I chose to wait; but I don't want to. This first symptom is

a shock to me."


'Like what people, and in what respect ?"
"Why, are you of the oil oily? Did you come
here fired simply with the noble resolve to wild-
cat or die? Is petroleum your highest aspira-

"Are you at all serious?"
Certainly, I am!"

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Then, in the same spirit, let me say that my coming here was purely accidental; that I am not in love with wildcating or any other speculative business; that I am by profession a lawyer, but that I do not love the law; that I greatly fear I am a trifler in the world; that I have no settled plans, or even views, save certain valueless ones in the impracticable world of sentiment; that, to tell the whole truth, I am somewhat ashamed of my connection with the Devil's Hat affair; and that my ultimate intention, if I have any at all, is presently to realize what falls to me

from this venture, and execute a long-cherished desire of travelling indefinitely abroad."

"Very good! Now, for your confidence, I will try you again. While you were so ungallantly communing with your own thoughts, I was thinking of the romantic aspect of petroleum; of these 'dry-holes' which mark, many of them, the graves of buried hopes; and I asked you if you had ever heard the story of well 'No. 5,' sunk over there on the side of that ravine."

"To which I replied ?—"



I unwittingly told a lie, and crave your pardon. But won't you heap coals of fire on my head?"

"I'm sorry now I mentioned it, for I can't tell the story as the Doctor does. He has a charm of voice and language all his own, and it gives the story nearly all its interest."

Below us the brook, because of the recent rain, rushed turgidly through the narrow valley, and swept in a long, muddy curve around the distant bend in the road, which Schlau aud the Major, evidently tired of the leisurely pace that we had adopted, were turning with lengthy strides. The sun here shining hotly upon us, Petrice drew closer to me under the shade of the parasol, and, lowering a little the front of the chip hat, began, in a soft, steady voice, the following story of well "No. 5."

Mr. Van Riper at War with Progress. From H. C. Bunner's "Story of a New York House." (Scribner.)

Mr. Van Riper had more cause for his petulancy than he would have acknowledged even to himself. He was a man who had kept his shop open all through Clinton's occupancy, and who had no trouble with the English. And when they were gone he had had to do enough to clear his skirts of any smirch of Toryism, and to implant in his own breast a settled feeling of militant Americanism. He did not like it that the order of things should change-and the order of things was changing. The town was growing out of all knowledge of itself. Here they had their Orphan Asylum, and their Botanical Garden, and their Historical Society; and the Jews were having it all their own way; and now people were talking of free schools, and of laying out a map for the upper end of the town to grow on, in the "system" of straight streets and avenues. To the devil with systems and avenues! said he. That was all the doing of those cursed Frenchmen. He knew how it would be when they brought their plaguy frigate here in the first fever year-'93-and the fools marched up from Peck's Slip after a red nightcap, and howled their cutthroat song all night long.

It began to hum itself in his head as he walked toward Water Street—Ça ira—ça ira―les aristocrates à la lanterne. A whiff of the wind that blew through Paris streets in the terrible times had come across the Atlantic and tickled his dull old Dutch nostrils.

But something worse than this vexed the conservative spirit of Abram Van Riper. He could forgive John Pintard-whose inspiration, I think, foreran the twentieth century-his fancy for free schools and historical societies, as he had forgiven him his sidewalk-building fifteen years before; he could proudly overlook the fact that the women were busying themselves with all manner of wild charities; he could be contented though

he knew that the Hebrew Hart was president of that merchant's club at Baker's, of which he himself would fain have been a member. But there was something in the air that he could neither forgive nor overlook, nor be contented with.

There was a change coming over the town-a change which he could not clearly define, even in his own mind. There was a great keeping of carriages, he knew. A dozen men had bought carriages, or were likely to buy them at any time. The women were forming societies for the improvement of this and that. And he, who had moved up-town from Dock Street, was now in an old-fashioned quarter. All this he knew, but the something which made him uneasy was more sudtile.

Within the last few years he had observed an introduction of certain strange distinctions in the social code of the town. It had been vaguely intimated to him—perhaps by his wife, he could not remember-that there was a difference between his trade and, Jacob Dolph's trade. He was a ship-chandler. Jacob Dolph sold timber. Their shops were side by side; Jacob Dolph's rafts lay in the river in front of Abram Van Riper's shop, and Abram Van Riper had gone on Jacob Dolph's note, only a few years ago. Yet, it seemed that it was genteel of Jacob Dolph to sell timber, and it was not genteel of Abram Van Riper-to be a ship-chandler. There was, then, a difference between Jacob Dolph and Abram Van Riper-a difference which, in forty years, Abram Van Riper had never conceived of. There were folks who held thus. For himself, he did not understand it. What difference there was between selling the wood to make a ship, and selling the stores to go inside of her, he could not understand.

The town was changing for the worse; he saw that. He did not wish-God forbid !—that his son John should go running about to pleasuregardens. But it would be no more than neighborly if these young bucks who went out every night should ask him to go with them. Were William Irving's boys and Harry Brevoort and those young Kembles too fine to be friends with his boy? Not that he'd go with them a-rollicking-no, not that-but 'twould be neighborly. It was all wrong, he thought; they were going whither they knew not, and wherefore they knew not; and with that he cursed their airs and their graces, and pounded down to the Tontine, to put his name at the head of the list of those who subscribed for a testimonial service of plate, to be presented to our esteemed fellow-citizen and valued associate, Jacob Dolph, on his retirement from active business.

The Lesson of the Leaf. From Margaret J. Preston's "Colonial Sonnets." (Houghton, M. & Co.)

Behold this blade of grass-its lightest sway

Owns Nature's touch-the worldling's name for God: It does not hold itself erect, nor nod Before the breeze, nor turn to meet the day, Nor catch the dew-drop dripping from the spray Of yonder overarching golden-rod, Nor drop a wilted stem upon the sod, Save with one instinct only-to obey. But man, supreme of God's creation, dares Deny His Being's law, and overpass All his clear intuitions. Not to him Belongs such meed of merit as compares Even with the inarticulate praise-the dim Dumb nature-worship of the blade of grass !



From Chas. Dudley Warner's "Their Pilgrimage." (Harper.)

The morning after this conversation, there was an excursion to Cooperstown. The early start of the tally-ho coach for this trip is one of the chief sensations of the quiet village. The bustle to collect the laggards, the importance of the conductors and drivers, the scramble up the ladders, the rush to get congenial seat-neighbors, the fine spirits of everybody evoked by the fresh morning air, and the elevation on top of the coaches, give the start an air of jolly adventure. Away they go, the big red and yellow arks, swinging over the hills and along the well-watered valleys, past the twin lakes to Otsego, over which hangs the romance of Cooper's tales, where a steamer waits. This is one of the most charming of the little lakes that dot the interior of New York; without bold shores or anything sensational in its scenery, it is a poetic element in a refined and lovely landscape. There are a few fishing lodges and summer cottages on its banks (one of them distinguished as "Sinners' Rest"), and a hotel or two, famous for dinners, but the traveller would be repaid if there were nothing except the lovely village of Cooperstown, embowered in maples at the foot. The town rises gently from the lake, and is very picturesque, with its church spires and trees and handsome mansions, and nothing could be prettier than the foreground, the gardens, the allées of willows, the long boat-wharves with hundreds of row-boats and sail-boats, and the exit of the Susquehannah River, which here whirls away under drooping foliage, and begins its long journey to the sea. The whole village has an air of leisure and refinement. For our tourists the place was pervaded by the spirit of the necromancer who has woven about it the spell of romance; but to the ordinary inhabitants the long residence of the novelist here was not half so important as that of the very distinguished citizen who had made a great fortune out of some patent, built here a fine house, and adorned his native town. It is not so very many years since Cooper died, and yet the boatmen and loungers about the lake had only the faintest impression of the man-there was a writer by that name, one of them said, and some of his family lived near the house of the great man already referred to. The magician who created Cooperstown sleeps in the old Englishlooking churchyard of the Episcopal church, in the midst of the graves of his relations, and there is a well-worn path to his headstone. Whatever the common people of the town may think, it is that grave that draws most pilgrims to the village. Where the hill-side cemetery now is, on the bank of the lake, was his farm, which he visited always once and sometimes twice a day. He commonly wrote only from ten to twelve in the morning, giving the rest of the time to his farm and the society of his family. During the period of his libel suits, when the newspapers represented him as morose and sullen in his retirement, he was on the contrary in the highest spirits and the most genial mood. Deerslayer" was written while this contest was at its height. Driving one day from his farm with his daughter, he stopped and looked long over his favorite prospect on the lake, and said, "I must write one more story, dear, about our little lake." At that moment the Deerslayer was born. He was silent the rest of the way home, and went immediately to his library and began the story.


In the Palace of the Grimaldis at Monaco.

From "Miss Bayle's Romance." (Holt.) When Mr. Wentworth proposed to visit the palace the ladies were delighted. They had never entered a palace and they entertained very exaggerated notions about the residences of royal personages. However, after walking through the Palace of the Grimaldis, they expressed their disappointment. They had seen many hotels in America in which the rooms were as large and as sumptuously furnished; indeed, both Mrs. Bayle and her daughter expressed their own preference for the Palmer House in Chicago over the Prince's Palace in Monaco. Certainly the Palmer House is a much newer building and decorated in a more gorgeous, though not a more artistic style than the palace.

It was in vain that Mr. Wentworth called Mrs. Bayle's attention to the frescos in the courtyard and told her that they were the work of a great Italian artist. Mrs. Bayle saw nothing to admire, and she gave it as her opinion that these famous frescos were in want of a fresh coat of paint. When assured that the "Triumph of Bacchus," which was one of the subjects represented, was a work of high art, she made uncomplimentary remarks about the principal figures, and said that, if they were coated with whitewash, it would be all the better. The truth is that neither Mrs. Bayle nor her daughter were capable of appreciating a work of art. Besides, they had not been long enough in Europe to have acquired the hypocrisy of the tourists who praise or blame the artist, not because they really like or dislike his works, but because they have learned certain phrases in guide-books. As Mrs. Bayle took the light of nature for her guide, she often went astray, going into raptures over the pictures which no one would buy and being very anxious to acquire pictures which no one praised.


The York room was the only one in the palace which both ladies admired without reserve. is a triumph of gorgeous ornamentation. The painted ceiling is really an artistic production, but there is more ostentation than artistic merit in the gilded walls. The attendant who showed them over the palace spoke with bated breath when he said, "This is the York room." Mr. Wentworth knew that the Duke of York, a brother of George the Third, had died there in 1767; but neither his countrywomen nor Lord Plowden Eton had any knowledge of this historical fact. When told of it they expressed interest, thinking perhaps that the room in which the brother of a king dies must have undergone a sort of consecration. They listened with polite attention while he told them the story as recorded by Horace Walpole. They went to the verge of hypocrisy in remarking, Oh! how interesting!' and like children they wished to hear more of the story. In order to please them and also to display his knowledge, Mr. Wentworth gave them a condensed account of the rock on which Monaco stands, being most copious when he spoke about its latest history, in which he was more intimately versed than in that of its origin as a stronghold. When he said that he had no more to narrate, his hearers were unfeignedly grateful that his tale was at an end, and they almost wished him at the bottom of the blue water at the base of the rock when he added, "I ought not to have omitted to mention the ingenious tyrant Honoré the Fifth, and the stupid tyrant Florestan the First, whose foolish conduct was the main cause of the


revolt of the greater portion of his subjects, which was followed by the secession of Roccabruna and Mentone." While this useful but unappreciated knowledge was flowing from the lips of Mr. Wentworth, the carriage was conveying the party back to Monte Carlo.

They got down in the square in front of the Casino. Each was ready to question the other, "What shall we do next?" Mr. Wentworth anticipated the question by saying that the afternoon concert would begin in the course of a few minutes. The party went to the concert-room, and heard the performance of an instrumental band which is one of the best in Europe, and, possibly, in America also. Between the pieces Lord Plowden was subjected to an examination by Miss Bayle. She was as much pleased as surprised to find that Mr. Wentworth had displayed far more intimate acquaintance with the persons and facts of modern English history than Lord Plowden. She could not understand why he should be both ignorant of his country's history and apparently indifferent about it.

"Well! Lord Plowden," she began, "were you taught history at school?"

I believe I was," he cautiously replied, adding, "but I was taught so much that I cannot now remember anything."

"But what have you read since leaving school? What are your favorite books?"

His favorite book was his betting book, but he was in doubt whether he should say so. He had read a few story-books in his younger days; he had a vivid recollection of "Robinson Crusoe" and "Gulliver's Travels;" he had skimmed the pages of a few sensational novels when he had nothing else to occupy him; but he was so much in doubt as to how to answer the question without exposing himself to ridicule that he said: "I have generally so much to do that I have had no time for a systematic course of reading since I left school." And, without pausing for a reply which it might be inconvenient to satisfy, he put this question in turn:

"Mr. Wentworth has assured me that all American ladies are great readers. Perhaps you will tell me whether that is true."

"Yes, sir, I guess that's so : some of us do read a mighty heap of books. Mother is an exception. She never opens a book, as she prefers the papers and the magazines. I don't care much for the papers and I never read anything in the magazines but the novels."

"Then what works do you prefer?"

"It is difficult to say, I like so many. Don't you think those of James Payn, William Black, and Blackmore are first-class?"


Lord Plowden was again in a difficulty, being one of the very few educated Englishmen to whom the names of these contemporaries conveyed no pleasant associations. He was ready to make an avowal which, he feared, would lower him in Miss Bayle's eyes, so he said a few words to the effect that he was glad to hear that these writers were appreciated in America. The remark did not have the expected effect, because Miss Bayle at once exclaimed, "Surely you ought to know that all these writers are far better understood and appreciated in America than in England. When William Black visited Chicago we made more fuss about him than if he had been the President. If James Payn and Blackmore would visit Chicago our citizens would let them know what it is to be popular. You English people do not seem to care

half enough about your best men." Lord Plowden could not understand or reply to this tirade and he felt relieved when Miss Bayle went off at a tangent, as he thought, and said, "Are you fond of yachting?"

He was glad to be able to answer emphatically in the affirmative, adding, "Why do you ask?” "Because," she replied, "you should read Mr. Black's yachting stories; they make one in love with the sea. If you have not read them you can. not tell me whether they give a picture of yachting in your country. In these stories everybody is able to eat, drink, and sing in all weathers, while in America some people always get sick on a yacht when the weather is bad." Lord Plowden was about to tell her that he often had sea-sick companions, when the concert ended and the party moved away.

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Again, planters are very circumspect about bestowing freedom upon their slaves, because freedom given to one makes others discontented. The race from which Juanita had sprung had been haughty and overbearing, for they knew they were emancipados, and a strong hand had always been required to keep them in subjection. The mother and grandmother of Juanita had demanded their freedom as a right, a demand which had been sternly resisted, for its admission might have necesitated its application to many other individuals entitled to it on the same ground, all unwitting as they might be of the fact."

Neither the Marchioness nor Helen knew the secret fire that burned in Juanita's heart. She had carefully guarded the knowledge her mother had imparted. As she grew older and shared in Ludovico's knowledge, and knew what freedom meant, she had lost her vivacity and fallen into a deep melancholy. The Marchioness acounted for it easily on the common principles of human nature, and had often felt that to her ignorance would indeed have been bliss. She now allowed her to occupy herself very much as she pleased. Her tastes were decidedly artistic, and she soon surpassed Ludovico in both execution and conception. She could not only imitate flowers with her brush, but with her needle, and the exquisite decorations of curtains, towelling, table-linen, etc., that made the palace of the Marquis celebrated, were the work and inspiration of her hands, to say nothing of the walls that constantly brought strangers there. It is a national custom to paint the walls both inside and outside of houses, and it is generally the work of the tutors who are hired to teach the children, and these are often cultivated men, but their position in the family is little above that of an upper servant. Juanita's decorations were not so exceptional therefore, except in quality, but that made them sufficiently famous to attract much attention.

While busied in the creation of beauty around her, the smouldering fires of Juanita's inward being were restrained from bursting into flame. Every day the family board was arranged like a work of art. Every flowering vine and tree appeared in its season upon the tables. All was performed in the spirit of a service of love. When not with her mistress, her home was the nursery, where she assisted Mrs. Warwick in the care of the younger children, whose taste she formed unconsciously by the exercise of her own, while the good Mrs. Warwick serenely presided

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