It was soon all over town that Cyn Newell had spent nearly all her money and had to do her own washing. Many were spitefully glad of it. Dr. Deming did not call quite so frequently thereafter for a time; but as he saw no diminution in their outward appearance of style, he decided that it was all a mistake; they must have an income, and he would have the mother when sure that he could not marry the daughter. Probably the mother held the most property!

GLIMPSE XXXI —AFTER BURTON'S DEATH. THE sun has risen and set for two months upon the premature grave of Burton Meredith. In what might have been the flower of his manhood, the emaciated form of the wine-bibber was laid in a consumptive's grave.

Cyn thought that it was very hard upon her to lose her son and his support that she had depended upon; Amy felt that it was well for them all, and Gertie in particular, for if Burton would not do better, then he must surely sink lower daily; Gertie felt that the "heavens had fallen," and for her there could be no more earthly sunshine; daily, in sunshine or storm, could have been seen her tall, willowy form and her pale face seeking the greenest, freshest spot in all that cemetery, underneath the sod of which rested her idol. The tears she there wept might well have kept the grass green when other graves were dry and brown.

Her health, too, failed daily; her parents thought that it was her mourning so constantly; but her school-mates, though younger than they, more shrewdly said that she was "dying more in consequence of wet feet and bedraggled skirts, obtained in the dewy grave-yard, than of a broken heart."

Her parents thought it would be wise to take her away from the school so closely associated with all her remembrances of Burton, and they removed her to a private school for young ladies, where her sad face and sweet, grave manners soon completely won the heart of the widowed professor, and ere the graduation day her promise was won to return to the school after the long vacation, as his wife.

Gertie told herself philosophically and sadly that she should never love any one again, and she might as well marry the elderly professor whom she thoroughly respected, and perhaps in a home of her own and with its attendant duties she

would the sooner forget her useless regrets and mourning for the utterly lost.

The wedding was brilliant and long talked of. The bride was described as being as white as a marble statue, with large, luminous black eyes, that seemed forever startled, forever watching for something that they should never see, alas! nevermore.

Mrs. Gertie grew each month fairer and more frail, until the professor felt his heart faint within him at the thought of again mourning for a lost wife.

"Consumption," the doctors called it. "Hereditary, I believe," the professor sadly said to the friends who came to condole with him. "Broken-hearted," firmly believed Gertie and her family.

But her school friends clung to their earlier theory of careless exposure.

GLIMPSE XXXII.—AMY DEFIES HER MOTHER.

AMY defied her mother completely at last, and married Frank Mayo.

Her mother had finally ceased tormenting her about winning Dr. Deming, whom Amy persisted in considering an adventurer. Amy knew that their style of living was very deceptive, and she firmly believed that he thought them possessed of ample means.

She and Frank loved each other truly, and were willing to go West and grow up with the country. The little that was left of her inheritance would furnish a neat home for them, and Frank had enough to establish himself comfortably in busi

ness.

This was a terrible blow to Cyn's pride, for she had hoped until the last that Amy might be prevailed upon to marry well and then support her; she felt no pride about depending upon that unknown son-in-law, not the slightest. But Amy had disappointed her at the last. Cyn was more than half tempted to take Amy at her word, and marry Dr. Deming herself.

It would not be so very bad a match (so she argued) even as regarded age, for so well had Cyn cared for her beauty that she did not look much, if any, older than she represented herself to be, and she frankly "owned up" to thirty-eight, and it was so many years now since she had first told this as her age, that she had almost made herself (if no one else) Lelieve that it was really so, and

those that heard her repeat the story did not doubt but that she was at least as old as that despite her youthful looks. Dr. Deming was possibly thirtyfive, so the difference after all the talk was not so very great. And why shouldn't she marry him? A few days later Dr. Deming called upon the widow to condole with her upon her daughter's - marriage, and ere he left he and the widow had decided to forget all disparities, and to console each other for life. The doctor urged an early marriage upon account of the widow's extreme loneliness; and she accepted because her funds were so extremely lonely that she was afraid each time that she was forced to call upon that much-depleted bank account she should find it exhausted. When two persons are agreed upon anything, why delay? So thought the shrewd doctor and the equally astute widow; there was a well-matched pair this time-congenial spirits indeed.

Amy received the letter from her mother heralding her contemplated marriage and the paper announcing the consummation of her plans upon the same day.

The unpleasant and disgraceful news made her nearly ill; she was thankful that she should hardly be expected to meet them, that at least was some comfort; she would not visit her mother now, and it was scarcely probable that her rejected lover would care to visit her and bring her mother as his wife with him.

Surely there is "no fool like an old fool."

GLIMPSE XXXIII.—IN THE WEST.

AMY lived very happily in her Western home; business prospered with her husband, and they gained not only the comforts of life, but many of the luxuries also. Two children were born, as charming and winsome as one would care to see. But the drop of bitter was even there; Frank's health was surely failing, and it was but a question of months at most as to the time when they must part. Her little ones-ah! there, too, was an ever-present sorrow; the children were never well, seemed ever dying of some hidden disease, and Amy questioned if it were not the fatal alcoholic taint that had run such riot in Burton's life. Were it so, she felt that perhaps it were better to see them fade thus in their childhood than to live until the horror developed its worst forms.

Yet Amy was sometimes sad and tearful as she thought of her possibly lonely future. She tried to look upon it all with cheerful resignation, and not darken her husband's few remaining months by making conspicuous her sorrow. There would be time enough to mourn when it was all over. When "it was all over' !-who does not know the bitterness of those terrible words?

Amy heard unpleasant reports of her mother's third marriage. It proved as was prophesied-an even match, and for once both were cheated.

A few months proved to Cyn's satisfaction that she was married to a poor man, and of course she always knew that he did not care for her; indeed, how could he? He found that his wife was as poor as himself. What a happy couple they must have been! Yet, for a few months, shame for what they had done caused them cautiously to conceal from the world their mutual disgust, and they kept up for a time the amusing farce of a pair of devoted lovers, incongruous as it appeared to observers.

This was too foreign from the reality to be lasting, and soon there were rumors of bickerings, of uncongeniality, of jealousy upon her part, and "wars and rumors of wars."

Amy was much distressed as these rumors from the distant East reached her, and when she heard there was a mutual understanding between them, that he should go away and remain awhile, and thus give her the chance to apply for a divorce upon the plea of "neglect and non-support," and then he should trade upon his handsome whiskers and fine figure and try to win a rich wife, and thereafter allow Cyn a handsome annuity in consideration of her consenting to make him a free man again, Amy thought that the family disgrace was complete.

The death of her husband and one child, the mortal illness of the second, the sacrificing of household treasures and the business to raise the necessary money for a trip to Europe, now the only hope for her one remaining treasure; the struggle there for her baby's life and her own subsistence by giving music lessons, filled her mind and life to the exclusion of Cyn and her disgraceful affairs.

Her struggle was all in vain; her babe sank away from her clinging arms, and with the pittance of money left her she embarked for America, bringing with her the precious casket containing

all that was left of her bonny boy, that she might place it beside her husband and other babe. Poor and ill she landed in this country, her husband dead, her mother worse than dead to her; she had no home to go to, no spot in this wide world to which she was welcome.

Her mother had imposed herself upon a cousin. Even had Cyn possessed a home, Amy felt that it would have been impossible for her to live with her mother again.

So, il in health as she was, without seeing her mother, she sought for pupils, and once again resumed, as well as she could, her old habits of labor. The old story was repeated: the innocent must suffer for the sins of the guilty.

GLIMPSE XXXIV.-FRED BELL'S WEDDING. FRED BELL and his now quite elderly sister (though still to him Baby Bell) were awaiting in the common waiting-room of a small country station for the next train, as a familiar figure in black garments quietly passed them; there was but one such in the world, thought Fred, so he quickly followed it, and his heart "stood still" as he heard the hollow hack, hack, with her every movement. As she turned to sit down, Fred clasped both hands in his with such warmth that the sad eyes filled with tears at the unexpected kindness.

Baby also recognized Amy, and gave her a warm greeting; the "Where are you going?" brought out the whole story.

She was forced at last to put her pride aside, and seek a home with an uncle; it was of no use, she told them, with a sob, for her to struggle any longer, she was now too weak to work. She betrayed the bitterness to her of asking this of her uncle, and Fred impulsively said:

"Amy, do not be angry with me for speaking thus before Baby; she has long known my secret. Will you marry me, if for no other reason than to give me the right to take you to my home; I do not ask you to love me, that question was asked and answered long ago; but will you let me love you and care for you? Baby will gladly give you a sister's love and a sister's care if you will come with us; tell her so, Baby, please."

Baby told her so in such a tender, motherly way that Amy accepted their offer with sobbing joy. Was there ever such a wooing, such a betrothal as this in a wayside railroad station?

To Amy it was the sweetest of all wooings, though she did not profess even to herself that she was suddenly in love; yet she felt that a life-time could not repay Fred's kindness, and if her life were spared he should not regret this day.

GLIMPSE XXXV.-DEATH OF MRS. BEll.

BUT life was not spared. Ere the sun had sunk behind the western hills on that memorable night Amy was the tenderly, truly loved wife of Fred Bell. "Mrs. Bell!"-she could scarcely believe it; but it was very welcome to her, this pleasant home feeling, instead of the cold charity she had anticipated from her uncle's family.

For a few days she appeared to improve, and from that time sank very rapidly. The fell destroyer, Consumption, had held an iron though partially concealed sway over her system for a long time, and now, as if delighted to show his power, the hectic fever pulsed rapidly, as it ran its madly riotous course through her delicate veins.

All that love could suggest, or money procure, was now at hand for her comfort; but the decree was passed, and it could not be averted.

Devotedly Fred Bell hovered about the bedside of his dying wife, and, whenever conscious, sweetly did she reward his solicitude by the tenderest of thanks.

How changed were her feelings. If she could live, how gladly would she now do so, for the sake of proving her gratitude to him; yt a few weeks ago and she had not cared for her health, even as she might have done, thinking that she would willingly anticipate the time of her going home.

Yet, when unconscious, her heart spake as if the events of the past few days had not been; she murmured only of Frank and her children. Baby tried to coax Fred away then, thinking that it was needlessly paining him to listen to her incoherent wanderings.

Fred refused to leave, saying that this created for him no additional pain, for he had known it all before. If she had lived, she might some day have learned to say Fred, instead of Frank; but if she had not, he should never have blamed her. He took all the chances when he married her in that off-hand manner.

His chief thought then and now was to make her comfortable, so he stayed by her until the very last. Four weeks later she died, wholly

unconscious, her hand lying in his, her eyes looking up fondly at him, her precious lips calling him "dear Frank."

Cyn was invited to the funeral of the daughter she had not seen since her first wedding-day. Amy was dead; regrets were useless now. Fred and Baby live quietly as of old.

GLIMPSE XXXVI.-CYN SOLILOQUIZES..

WHETHER it was because the deserving are always rewarded, or that the brave deserve the fair, we know not, but after much praiseworthy attention and assiduity, and bravery of public opinion, Dr. Deming was married again, and this time to an heiress indeed. He trusted to no hearsay evidence this time, but satisfied himself that the cash was there before committing himself, and then hastened to throw himself at her feet.

Cyn now lives in aristocratic idleness and welldressed comfort in a distant State; any one that cares to inquire whence comes the income that thus supports her may, but most people are fully satisfied whose gold she is using.

Stately, beautiful as ever, she walks the street, clothed in the most becoming of mourning suits; the bands of heavy English crape about her bonnet bring into beautiful relief her rich masses of wavy,

silvery hair that surround her yet fair forehead with a beauty not less becoming than its earlier darkness was to her girlish face. A woman like Cyn grows old gracefully.

She still bears herself complacently, and fancies she wears with grace her gift from the Legislature -Mrs. Cyn H. Meredith. The country people stared wildly when upon reading their weekly paper they discovered among the "Acts" one granting "Cyn Hathaway, Meredith, Newell, Deming" permission to write her name henceforth Cyn Hathaway Meredith. With superb coolness she asserted that Burton Meredith was the only man she had ever loved, and consequently his name was the only name she was willing to wear.

Doubtless she is saying to herself this day: "I've managed pretty well in this world. I've made my beauty pay; to be sure, there was a time once when things looked very dark, and I had to work, but now that seems only like some bad dream; it is past, and I'll forget it as soon as possible."

And with this heartless speech we gain the last glimpse of the beautiful and selfish Cyn, whose character and life have been portrayed with loathing, not loving.

Dipped one fair foot, and drew back with a start and a shiver, Then with the other plunged in, and pushed out toward the lilies.

But in the terrible slime her deliverer faltered.
Fast were his feet, and he struggled in vain to remove them.
Round him the water was white with his furious beatings.
See! with the fierce, final might of his matchless devotion,
Bending far forward, he's wrenched his right foot from the
quagmire;

And he is free to return to the shore, unto sweet life! Wildly he looked at the pale, lovely face of the maiden, Saw the black index of death cross the curve of her mute lips, Measuring life by the space of the tide from her nostrils. Laughed the fierce water as oft as her quick breathings stirred it!

Straightway he knelt, and, extending his strong arms around her,

Sank in the slime, as he mightily raised her above him,
Sank till his shoulders beneath the black water were hidden,
Sank till his neck and his face by the foulness were circled.
But the fair maiden arose like a nymph from the ocean!
Murmured the lips of the drowning man, half under water;
But the faint words gave no sign, save an up-gurgling

bubble!

So he sank down, the grand lover, too noble for woman; Deep in the slime he found rest, and his soul burst the darkness. (To be continued).

will provide themselves with so convenient an article.

Fig. 1 shows the bag closed, and Fig. 2 open. When open, it is sixty-two inches long and twentysix inches wide. Fig. 3 gives the design for the embroidery, and Fig. 4 shows a portion of this embroidery in the exact size. The work is executed with crewel wool, in different colors and shades. The material may be linen, flannel, woolen reps, etc. For those who do not care to execute the elaborate embroidery, a very neat and sufficiently pretty bag can be made of coarse gray or écru linen, or white duck, trimmed with two rows of black, red, or blue braid, stitched on the fabric, and one row of feather-stitching worked with single zephyr wool, the color of the braid, between. Add one or more initials in ordinary cross-stitch embroidery in the centre of the bag.

FELT CARPET WITH COLORED EMBROIDERY.

The rage for embroidery has long since included rugs of every size, and the design for ornamenting a felt carpet, illustrated in Fig. 5, will afford many