ghosts. These phantoms are produced in various ways; the latest and most scientific method is as follows: The plain background screen, before which the sitter is placed in order to have his portrait taken, is to be painted with the form of the desired "spirit," the paint being composed of some solution of sulphate of quinine. When this painting dries on the screen it is invisible to the eye; but it sends out rays that have power to impress the photo. plate, and thus the image of the person, with the quinine, ghost, are simultaneously developed upon the negative. AN American correspondent writes to The Athenæum : "Of all the Englishmen who have lately been lecturing in this country, there are only two who seem likely to linger in the lap of spring, Mr. Charles Kingsley and Mr. Gerald Massey. The former has had large audiences and of the best quality, and nobody has been disappointed in his wisdom and manners, for all have been edified and delighted. With regard to the latter, he has not been as popular as those hoped who admired his earlier productions. The idea of having his name associated, on the street hand-bills, with a lecture entitled 'Why does not God kill the Devil?' has given pain to many a heart that was ready to receive him with enthusiasm and affection." It is known that John Talbot, first and greatest Earl of Shrewsbury, was buried, according to his own desire, at Whitchurch, in Shropshire, and that when the old church fell down, in 1711, a silver urn containing his heart was found among the ruins. Some workmen who have been engaged in removing the great warrior's recumbent effigy, have now brought to light his bones, which were probably interred after the burial of his heart. The wooden coffin in which they were enclosed perished on exposure to the air, but the bones themselves were perfect, and all of them were found to be encased in the cerements in which they had been placed when transported from France. The back part of the skull had been injured by some sharp instrument, and from its appearance the wound must have been inflicted when the gallant earl had fallen to the groundfighting, perhaps, as Shakespeare has it, "on his knee." The remains have been placed in a new oak coffin. A LETTER from Japan in the Cologne Gazette says that the religious question, which is an increasing topic of discussion among the Japanese, has again been brought before the public by a memorandum issued by two officials of the religious department. The memorandum begins by pointing out that Japan has made such immense progress that her civilization and commerce are equal to those of Europe, but that in religious matters she still hesitates between Buddhism and Christianity. It therefore proposes that public disputations should be organized between Buddhist and Shinto priests on one side, and Christian preachers on the other. Each of these disputations would take place on a specified subject, to be agreed upon beforehand by the contending parties. The speeches would be taken down by short-hand writers, and published in several languages; and an interval of ten days would elapse between one disputation and the next. By these means, the memorandum continues, the world would be able to decide which religion is the true one, and make its choice accordingly. The expenses of the proposed disputations would be covered by the proceeds of the sale of the short-hand reports. A SсотCH рauper lunatic, who believed himself to be a millionaire, used to describe with much gusto the costly viands daily prepared for him and served on gold plate, adding that he could not understand why they all tasted of oatmeal. A similar objection might be made to the confectionery of the present day, owing to the extent to which it is pervaded by a flavor of vanilla The propensity to give the public rather too much of this good thing will be increased by a discovery which, according to the Scotsman, has been made in Dr. Hoffmann's laboratory at Berlin, and is published by that journal as especially interesting to the possessors of fir-trees, of which there are many in Scotland. There is, it appears, in the juice of firtrees, between the wood and the bark, a crystalline substance called coniferin, a glucoside, as chemists call it, which when acted upon by oxidizing agencies is e converted to vanillin, the chemical principle of va As a few grains of this vanillin will flavor at least a d ice puddings, and the juice of an ordinary-sized fir contains enough coniferin to make five guineas' wor vanillin, it is evident that Scotland can supply al pastry cooks of the world with this article without g diminishing the forests of fir now about to clothe he with the most delicate of vernal green. HIGHLANDERS have the habit, when talking their lish, such as it is, of interjecting the personal pronoun where not required, such as “The King he has come stead of "The King has come." Often, in conseque sentence or an expression is rendered sufficiently ludi as the sequel will show. A gentleman says he has ha pleasure of listening to a clever man, the Rev. Mr. let his locality be a secret, and recently he began h course thus: "My friends, you will find the subj discourse this afternoon in the first Epistle general Apostle Peter, chapter 5th and verse 8th, in the 'The Devil he goeth about like a roaring lion, s whom he may devour.' Now, my friends, with your we will divide the subject of our text to-day int heads. Firstly. We shall endeavor to ascertain W Devil he was?' Secondly. We shall inquire in geographical position-namely, Where the D was; and Where the Devil he was going? And this of a personal character-Who the Devil seeking?' And fourthly and lastly. We shall en to solve a question which has never been solved 'What the Devil he was roaring about?'"' T "ANASTASIE," which in the popular Parisian designates the Censorship, deals respectfully with Hugo, but visits his sins upon the rank and file of 1 lowers. It has just prohibited the publication by L' of a cartoon called "Quatrevingt-Treize," by the ca ist André Gill. To people less skilled in the disco seditious allusions than the literary detectives of th sure, the drawing appears harmless enough. It rep Victor Hugo carving the busts of the three revolu Titans Danton, Robespierre, and Marat. Issuin the sculptor's pocket, Georgette, the baby her Quatrevingt-Treize," traces with her finger on the Marat's bust vague childish words: " Coco-pou In vain Victor Hugo wrote to the Censure affirmin the artist had faithfully interpreted the spirit of his "Anastasie" permitted the romance and suppress illustration. This is Victor Hugo's letter: "I hav the beautiful drawing of André Gill. It is not only tiful it is charming. The child's figure contrasti those severe and terrible faces expresses graceful gayly the spirit of the book 'Quatrevingt-Treize;' a seemly that there where human passions make us t innocence should make us smile." He AN audacious trick, says the Court Journal, was played by a "sneak thief" at a London club. the hall without attracting the notice of the port proceeded to empty the pockets of the great-coats h ranged in a corridor. While selecting a few of th he was interrupted by a member, who in astoni asked him what he was doing. "Oh, this is my business," he said. "I am employed to clean the men's coats in several clubs. I take all the greas their collars." "Indeed," said the gentleman, int thinking he had got hold of one he could turn to a "How long do you take?" Why, I will be bac these in an hour." "If so, you may as well take said the master, adding his coat to the heap, and es the "sneak thief" past the porter. "What great iences you have in London!" remarked this coun: tleman to a group of his friends. "I have just gi coat to a man I found in the corridor, who cleans c the club." "To whom do you say?" cried two or "The man I found carrying the coats out. Waithis card." But the knowing ones did not wait; the ried out to find the pockets of some great-coats emp other coats altogether gone. As we IN considering the boundaries of monthlies, weeklies, and dailies, we are regarding those which one man may be supposed to take in, not those which may be individually the only periodical reading chosen; thus our inquiry relates to the province which would be occupied by each without interference with the others. The strong point of a weekly, in our judgment, is its serial novel. intimated before, the monthly is at a disadvantage here, in spite of some slight considerations in its favor. The monthly intervals are so long that the interest slackens, the memory is confused, and the long instalment which one reads, so far from satisfying, gives one the opportunity to get his interest thoroughly aroused and then to have the anticipation of thirty days' waiting before he can continue, together with an excitement frequently that makes other reading or occupation tasteless. In the weekly the intervals are just long enough to allow one's interest to be continually renewed, yet never to grow dull, and the instalments of the story are of the right length to be read at a sitting and not to stir the mind beyond power to enter again upon other occupations. A novel in a daily paper, on the other hand, is out of place, because it demands a punctual reading every day, and it is only people who have nothing else to do who read their daily papers thoroughly. Besides, the space that could be given to the story each day would necessarily be provokingly small. There is another form of literature peculiarly adapted to the weekly, and that is the short essay, whether on social, literary, artistic, or scientific topics. No quality belongs to this class of writing so strongly as the quality of leisure. It is the result of leisurely thinking, and generally of leisurely writing; and the mood in which one reads it with most pleasure is a mood of leisure. The manner of the essay is so much; it must have somewhat to say, even if that something be trivial, but the air with which it is said is a special characteristic of this class of writing. Now one charm is in the slight demand which it makes on the thought of the reader, and on his time and attention; a great feast is not set before him, but a mere dish of pleasant fruit. This trifle is out of place in the monthly, except indeed it be sheltered in a department of its own, and the tendency to place such papers in a fictitious surrounding, as in the Easy Chair of Harper and the Old Cabinet of Scribner, indicates this; in a weekly it is the graceful paper to be read by the fireside, of an evening, in slippered comfort; in the daily it is in such a bustling company that it is very likely to fall under the eye hastening after important facts, and be felt to be an impertinence, as if a young man in a study gown and smoking cap, with book in hand, were to saunter into the stock exchange at midday. Again, there are articles touching upon subjects discussed day by day in the journals which appear to adThe writer has the adwantage in the weekly papers. vantage of sifting facts and rumors and writing deliber ately, expressing opinions which carry weight by the care with which they are made up, and are not past the time of service. A week is a long enough time to allow some topics to go by and pass out of mind; they can be found discussed in the daily newspaper, which must catch upon its sails each whiff of wind, but the weekly can spare them, or dispatch them in a brief paragraph. A monthly, on the other hand, supposes still more careful deliberation on the part of the writer and deep interest on the part of the reader, so that many subjects really interesting and really important are out of place in it, because they shift so much from week to week that the chances are against their being at the same angle to the reader when he opens his monthly that they were to the writer when he prepared his article a fortnight or possibly a month earlier. Mr. Ruskin, in the preface to one of his books, explains that he has thought slowly though he has written rapidly on the subject in hand, and that is most commonly the experience, we suspect, of the best writers for the weekly press. A selection of topics is made from day to day in their minds, each is turned over, all but one are eliminated, and that is seized upon at the last moment, and the accumulation of thought pours itself out rapidly through this narrow channel. The daily paper has its stronghold in news and in such comments as a busy man may write and a busy man read, stans in uno pede. Its field is wide, but the length in which it may follow any one subject brief. Whatever is uppermost, that must be considered, but it may not be uppermost to-morrow, and no time can be taken for deliberation. The paper is read by each for his own special needs, but most people merely skim the surface of the paper, just as the paper itself skims the surface of things. It is impossible, with the conditions of life here in America, that the daily paper should become the vast receptacle for all literature. It will give many all they care to read, but it is too perishable a form for the best literature. Time is required for good literature, and the daily paper does its best to abolish time and substitute moments. We were just about entering on a profound philological disquisition upon the cut-off which lies behind the word time and the moving which lies behind the word moment, when our sandglass, we found, needed to be turned. NOTES. We print in full in this number a charming novelette entitled "The White Cap," from the pen of Miss Thackeray, the author of "The Story of Elizabeth," "The Village on the Cliff" (first given to the American reader in the pages of EVERY SATURDAY), and other delightful pictures of English and Continental life. Though Miss Thackeray has inherited her genius from the greatest novelist of his time, her method and her manner are purely her own; she has not her father's breadth and strength, but she excels him in grace and delicacy of touch. Miss Thackeray is always at her best when dealing with provincial French life and scenery. No one has caught and rendered into words the picturesque aspects of Southern France with so much art and fidelity. The present sketch is an excellent illustration of the gracious skill and quick penetration which she brings to the telling of stories in this sort. The scene of "The White Cap" is laid in that part of France which Miss Thackeray has aptly christened "The White Cotton Nightcap Country," from which Mr. Browning took the title of his last poem, "The Red Cotton Nightcap Country," to the everlasting confusion of posterity. By an odd blunder we came near to giving this story the title of "The White Cat." The advance sheets of Cornhill, from which the story is taken, so name it, and advertisements in the London papers call attention to the story by that title. But Miss Thackeray is not Artemas Ward or Mark Twain; there is no cat of any color in the story, but there is a bewitching white cap, as the reader will discover when it is taken off. We can imagine Miss Thackeray's consternation when she sees the advertisements. It is to be hoped that she saw proofs of the Cornhill in season to exorcise that cat. - The first chapter of Mr. Howells's new story, "A Forlorn Hope," will be begun in the Atlantic Monthly for July. The scene of the story is laid chiefly in Venice, while the characters are mainly Americans; thus the author will be able to use a background familiar to him and of romantic interest, against which to paint characters that in their nationality will be familiar to his readers. A story of Italian life by an American might be remote from general interest, but a story of American life in Italy can hardly fail to present most excellent opportunities to the novelist, especially to one like Mr. Howells, who has sketched Venetian life so delightfully, and has introduced such real people to us as the characters in "Their Wedding Journey," and "A Chance Acquaintance." : opportunity to put their studies to practical use. are two aspects in which this or any survey regarded the economic and the educational. can be no question that a thorough survey not onl to light material resources, but also performs the tant function of preventing fruitless investments results of the appointment of Fish Commissioners illustrate the value of scientific examination. T cational value, however, ought to be held paramou no one who stops to consider can fail to see ho timable to young and old would be a survey wh bled them to acquire a precise and thorough k of Nature as manifested in the familiar objec them. Is it that the rage for celebrating centenn recent madness, or was the world a hundred y chiefly occupied in providing great men? It that the needs of popular magazines in search of were kindly considered, but it is a little difficult struct an enthusiasm which is based on such an a cal foundation. We are glad to have the chanc ing to Parker Memorial Hall in Boston and se exhibition of Turner's pictures which Mr. Norto generously gathered, and of hearing Mr. Norton on Turner; but shall we experience an additional pleasure when we consider that we are listening lecture just ninety years after Turner was born? moreover disturbed in the enjoyment of venera versaries by the doubt whether we are keeping Old Style or New Style dates. It is like the make to realize to ourselves what a friend is doi moment in Europe. Is he doing it now, or was it a few hours ago? English journals of the better class hav facility in blundering when they speak of America Here is The Academy, for instance, which regard a tolerable substitute for an organized academy, of one of our celebrated authors in this style: " noteworthy point in the Report for February la Superintendent of the American Public Librar popularity of Mrs. Southworth's novels. They -An important measure has been introduced in the Massachusetts Legislature in the form of a petition presented by the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, Charles Francis Adams, President, and Prof. Josiah P. Cooke, Secretary, asking for a new and thorough scientific survey of the State. Forty years ago or more a survey was projected and carried out at intervals, reports being published, as Harris on Insects Injurious to Vegetation, Emerson on Trees and Shrubs, Hitchcock on Geology, and the demand for copies has led in some cases to the reprinting of special reports. The question has been raised whether the time has not come for a new survey, planned more in accordance with the advance made in scientific method and knowledge. Other States have done and are doing this, and the Academy accordingly asks that a survey should be ordered and the results recorded in a series of reports, embracing a detailed topo-parently in greater demand than those of any ot graphical map, on a scale of about an inch to a mile, maps colored to show the distribution of rock formations and economic minerals, with charts on a large scale of particular localities having special interest or importance; sections and explanatory text to accompany these maps, embracing descriptions and analyses of the rocks and ores and of the waters; investigations into the strength and durability of building-stones; full descriptions and truthful illustrations of the animals and plants, including their natural history, transformations, and relations to man and his requirements. - In carrying out such a survey the State would have of prose fiction; and out of 409 volumes of her the advantage of the provision made by Congress, by glad he did not try to write again the name of which any State undertaking a topographical survey of its territory is empowered to call upon the United States Coast Survey to make the preliminary triangulations. It would be a wise course also to call into requisition the teachers and pupils of local institutions. Indeed, the Coast Survey is in the habit of utilizing the experience and service of these persons, and the Topographical Survey which followed could easily and well employ them still, so that the survey would become at once a most valuable auxiliary to scientific education, by giving the younger men in the schools of science and technology an in question, or he might have had some vague no he had stumbled on Joanna Southcote. -The May Galaxy copies from School an ing article by Professor W. J. Beal, of the Agricultural College, concerning Agassiz's method ing. Professor Beal was a pupil of Agassiz account corresponds curiously with that given by of Agassiz's pupils in a recent number of EVERY DAY. The principle involved in it is at the b all sound study, whether in science, literature, art tory. EVERY SATURDAY. A FOURNAL OF CHOICE READING. VOL. I.] SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1874. TARNSTONE PINNACLE. "MY! Mister Cyril, how you've growed!" This was the first exclamation of the new-comer, as with arms a kimbo she halted half-way to contemplate Cyril before coming up to shake hands with him. "Yes, Evelyn, I've grown bigger and older, but you haven't an atom." "No, I reckon not," with a bright, approving glance at Agnes. "Mrs. King, Mrs. Dare. Agnes, this is the good friend you have heard me speak of so often. Evelyn, I am going to turn Mrs. King over to you entirely, for the next four weeks. I believe that your care, and your cooking, and your company, will do more for her than all the doctoring in creation." "I shouldn't wonder. I've lost faith in doctors myself since poor Mimy died. But has Mister King told you what an awful lonesome place I live in? Reckon 'twill be too dumb fur ye if you're city-bred. 'Twas fur Mis' Dickens. She was from Bostin. Jes' cum out a day with her husband. He wanted to fish in the pond. She was dressed so fine, and had on sech long flounced skirts and sech thin kid shoes she couldn't tech the ground, an' didn't want to, in my opinion. "Twa'n't strange she couldn't feel to hum in my little place. She jerked on the little rocking-chair by the winder as if she thought the seat was hard, and bobbed her head when she stood up as if she thought the rafters would strike her topknot off - never seed such a topknot in my life, except in the pictur's at Squire Monteith's, an' I told her so, an' she didn't seem to like it. She flushed up red, though I meant it for a compliment. I told her every interesting thing I knowed about all the folks around. Of course I had to talk of what I knowed; I never could make up talk out of what I don't know. She wa'n't interested a mite, not even in Isabella Monteith, and she's jest as good as a novel, any day. "Twa'n't no use! I can't make no company of no sech folks. My! Mister Cyril, jest you think she actelly stuck up her nose at my dinner! though I'd cooked many a dinner for quality at Squire Monteith's sech as she could never think of bein'. 'Twas the forks the steel forks - that turned her stomic. 6 She couldn't tech steel to her lips,' she said, and of course a steel knife was wuss. 'Horrible! horrible!' she said. I made up my mind I'd have no more 'horribles' from nobody, so I worked like a bounden slave at the Corners to get some silver forks, silver-coated, I mean; they are jest as good till the 1 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by H. O. HoυGHrox & Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. [No. 19. coatin' washes off. I guess Mis' Dickens was glad enough when night cum, but she warn't no gladder than I was, I can tell ye." "You don't look a mite like Mis' Dickens, my dear," in an assuring tone to Agnes. "I am glad enough of that," said Agnes, the tears rolling down her cheeks from laughter, evoked less by Evelyn's words than by her dramatic delivery, her dancing eyes, and wild, graceful gestures. The combination was more inimitably comical than anything Agnes had ever seen before in her life. "You see that I am short," she said, "so I can never strike your rafters. I've no fine clothes to spoil. I wear thick boots out of doors, where I mean to stay all day when it don't rain, and I think I shall be hungry enough to eat whatever you set before me, with whatever forks you choose to give me. And as for nice stories about people I don't know, and never saw, I can't tell you how much I enjoy them," enthusiastically; "they're better than tiring one's eyes reading a story book." "That's what I call sensible," said Evelyn, in intensely approving tones. "But I knowed you was sensible the minnit I sot my eye on you-and sensible wimen-folks, city-bred, are mighty scarce, accordin' to my experience and thinkin'. But then I knowed, afore I saw you, that Mister Cyril would never marry none of sech simperin' sozzle-tails as I see here at the Lake every summer, and even over to the Corners." "I think we had better be starting," said Cyril, who had just touched the cork and fish-hooks in his pocket, and felt as if he could not wait another minute. "I want Agues to see the country by daylight, and we must reach the Pinnacle before sunset. It would be too chilly for Agnes in the woods afterwards." "Well, I done jest as you told me," said Evelyn, "stopped at the Corners and got Hi's old chaise. 'Tain't to be compared with my spring wagon, for my ridin', but I reckon the back seat will be easier for Mis' King. The top's down, and you can view the landscape o'er to yer heart's content." The payment of bill, and gathering of "traps," as Evelyn called Cyril's and Agnes' two stout valises, occupied but a very few moments. Then the old chaise sallied forth- Cyril and Agnes on the back seat, Evelyn on an improvised seat before, jerking the reins of her nag with one hand, and brandishing a long branch with a few quivering leaves on the end, in the other. The landscape gave to Agnes the pleasure of perpetual surprise. She had never seen anything like the great hop-fields before, save the pictures of vineyards in Southern France. In nature she had never beheld any such combination as the broad rolling plains, blue scintillant lakes, and ev en mountains. The road ran through fruitful fiel most ripe for harvest, through groves of sugar maples which seemed to say, "How is our little Agnes!" they were so like the maples of old Ulm, under which she played, a little girl. Then there were wonderful woody passes, where the road narrowed into a lane, its high banks interlaced from tree to tree with wild honeysuckle and woodbine, the latter waving little pennons of vivid crimson set amid its green. Here and there a scarlet leaf fluttered like a beckoning hand far up in the emerald tree boughs, while below by some roadside brook the gentian was weaving its pale purple fringes for the near August days, and hosts of golden-rod, marshalled by the way, tossed their green lances, and dipped their yellowing plumes in deeper sunshine. They crossed a wild river rushing with impetuous speed through cliff and fell, and ascending a hill came out upon a high, broad plain, and into a wide, straight street at least two miles in length. It looked like one long town street left alone with nature. It was lined with pretty cottages half buried in trees and flowers, with here and there a church, mostly old and mossy; but one stately, and of stone, rose up proud as a minster. It had its handsome mansions standing amid "grounds," its "business part," and ended at last in Evelyn's famous "Corners," from whence four roads diverged, and where stood Hi' Sanderson's famous hostel. Back of this populous street the great plain stretched away into the silence of remote farms, to the sheen of lakes set like shields between the hills, and to the proud mountain range which bound its horizon, and rose like an outermost wall between it and the sky. ""Tain't likely you realize that you have left your own country, but you have," said Evelyn, sententiously. "You left it in the middle of the Jimphoby River. You are in the Dominion. In the municipality of Dufferin, in Dufferin Street, and in the Province of Quebec. There! I've said all that over often enough to myself to get it straight this time." "I can't realize it, that we are in any country but our own," said Agnes. your own. "Well, you are. I am in my own, but you ain't in You're in Queen Victory's. I know how you feel. I did jes' the same when I cum to live in the Dominion. I was born jes' t'other side of the line; far enough in, though, to be a Yankee through and through. My Thomas was born this side, and my boys-I can't go agin their country, so I'm divided like in my feelin's. I'm not dead agin the queen. All I have agin her is that it should take so much more to support her and her children than it does any other woman and her family. If good things could be divided more ekally, it 'ud be a good deal more satisfyin'; but I suppose they can't. An' I'm sure our queen is a good woman accordin' to her bringin' up. Somehow I've got it in my head that she's a feelin' heart for poor folks. She oughter. Mercy knows, her own father was poor enough. She couldn't pay his debts in a minute. An' when I go over to Montreal, and see her stan' in Victory Square large as life and made of marble, holdin' a sceptre and wearin' a crown, it makes me feel good-I kinder like it, to know that one woman is a queen, seein' so many wimen have to dig and scrub, and be beasts of burden, as they do in Austrey. My! to think of bein' yoked to a cow! A woman!" and in the dire vehemence of such a thought Evelyn brought her birch bough down with such violence that she broke it, and frightened her horse into a frantic gallop. "Come, now, Johnny, you needn't take it so to ef I did hit you a lick when I didn't know it. shall have an extra pint of oats for that, Jo Come, now!" and standing up, Evelyn essaye tween jerks and cajoling to bring the refractory back to peace, and his original jog-trot. Between laughter and fright Agnes was high cited, but finally tranquillity was restored, whe asked, "How are you so well acquainted with won Austria, Evelyn? You have never been there! 'Hevn't I though! I've been there more'n o take the weekly Tribune, and mean to take long as I live. Besides, I've read heaps abo ferent countries out of books-them's the books That's the way I travel. Miss Isabella taught read, an' I had all the books I wanted when I Squire Monteith's. I borrow round now. The willin' to lend me books, for they all know I wo 'em double, and I'll send 'em back clean as whe 'em. That's sumthin' to folks as care fur their nowadays, when people hain't no more con about borrowed books than they have about bo umberills." "It seems to me, Evelyn, the Castle begins dilapidated," said Cyril. "It has run down sad I saw it four years ago." "Dear suz me, that's so," answered Evelyn, deep sigh. "But there's nuthin' else to be 'spect Miss Isabella dead, an' the place waitin' for ex to sell it for debts. It's enough to make her b coffin-lid off, ef she knows how they're puttin paint on her beautiful gimcrack work in natur as she used to say in her soft, lady voice. D It seems as if I heard her sayin' it now. The d the years that she spent on that gimcrack Makin' designs, and drawin's, and dia- son Why, she'd spend a year on jest the top of a only jest to have it all daubed over now with paint as thick as molasses." The eyes of the three were turned toward building on a high plateau of ground above commanding a view of the entire street, and, sides and rear, of the magnificent sweep of wood, and river, with the great blue lake flashin distance through the open hills, and of mountain ing into the sky above and beyond. It was mo a villa and less than a castle, a poetic, Gothic nation of both. There was a fountain whos mouthed dolphin in the uplifted hands of a Nereid no longer tossed spray on the elm-shad which stretched up from the road, and great p of flowers on its southern side which seemed blooming in untrained and uncared-for luxurian "She made and built it all out of her own he Miss Isabella! To think on't, an' what has cu jes' makes me sick every time I go by," ex Evelyn. "Did a lady design and build this house? Agnes, her eyes filled with sympathy and i "this Miss Isabella? Who was she? Do te her, please." 66 There! I knowed you wa'n't a mite li Dickens! No more you ain't!" exclaimed triumphantly. "An' to think of sech as her up her nose at my forks and at me! when I growed up with real quality, an' if not in that h the one afore it ! |