on the following morning, to go he cared not where. Waverly Grange was crowded with summer guests. Mrs. Westring, the widowed aunt with whom Marcia lived, was fond of gay company, and in the warm season the old place was always bright with winsome girlish faces, to whose innocent smiles gallant, bearded men were hopeless captives. And so the next morning, when Marcia made her appearance paler than usual, and more distraite, a score of merry voices were solicitous for an explanation. Marcia turned her eyes dreamily away from the handsome face close to her own. The windows were open wide, and just then Rex Veintmere rode by, and a servant followed with his trunk. Marcia's heart gave a great throb. Rex was leaving home, then, without an effort to reconcile their first difference. He never even turned once towards the house. The woman's heart beat fiercely with mingled love and chagrin, but her fair face was serene. Cliff spoke again: "Marcia, I love you too well to give you Into the gay clamor Mrs. Westring came up. You do not love me now; I am wilfluttering up. Cliff Thornwell, her hus-ling to wait years if you will. I leave here band's nephew, stood near her, but he had to-morrow, but when the May-time tints the only eyes for Marcia's face. year I shall come again for my answer." "Such a lovely day the Grange rarely sees. It would be a downright shame to stay indoors when nature invites us so alluringly without. Have you no announcements for the day?" and hospitable Mrs. Westring looked around for an answer. He looked so noble and marly, standing in the sunlight, which just fell athwart his handsome face! A rush of pity checked Marcia's cold answer, and before she could speak again Cliff was gone. Marcia touched the keys again, and this time her voice was Zip Weeden, an arch brunette, spoke out more assured as she sang, "Scordati pur di in a quick tone : "You are right, dear Mrs. Westring, as you always are. Lets have a horseback ride by all means this morning, croquet this evening, and a moonlight sail after tea. A glorious programme now, ain't it? And I move that we leave Marcia and Cliff at home, for one looks as if she had seen a ghost, the other like a picture of well-bred despair." me," but the man who stood listening at the doorway sighed, whispering low, "I cannot forget you if I would, my queenly Marcia." The summer waned, the autumn grain waved golden, the berries dropped red, and the winter passed drearily along to Marcia Holmes. Rex Veintmere wandered no one knew precisely where, and Marcia, loving him as only a proud woman can love, suffered keenly as only such a nature does Did Rex remember her still, or had he lost recollection in a tenderer smile? Once she had heard that a dainty-faced girl, shy and lov And so saying, Zip gave a mischievous glance at the two, while the party separated for their ride. Marcia remained at home and sought the music room, a favorite resort with her. She was conscious of a terrible heart-ing, held his heart in her pretty hands, but ache as she opened the piano, and commenced singing a little Italian air which recalled Rex in his happiest guise. A few tender chords, and the liquid words, "Non ti scordar di me," when their came a pleading voice just at her ear. "Marcia, dearest, listen to me one moment. Long have I been true to you-am I to have no reward? Speak, darling, if only a word." It was no dream. There stood Cliff Thornwell, his eyes full of tender pleading, and a voice tremulous with a love she had all along knew he felt for her." she only smiled at the informant. Tears were for no stranger eyes, yet all alone she wept proud, bitter tears for her lost love. The blossomful May brought Cliff Thornwell, noble and devoted, to Waverly Grange, but Marcia was unmoved as before, and he left her to her grief and pride. 'Cliff, I am sorry for you, my friend, but cellence, and Mrs. Westring sunned her rufI do not, cannot love you." fled feelings in her darling's triumph. Scores of lovers came to Marcia, but her answer was the same to all, but it was such a gentle one that they were won to friendship who had hoped for more. None knew the story her constant heart held, but she was better, tenderer for the lost love she had flung from her in anger. But the summer waned, and the last night of their stay came at last. Ah! what a triumph it was! Mrs. Westring was sick in her room, but Marcia Holmes was queen of the revel, gloriously lovely in satin and rare old lace, while, strangely enough, there were turquoise forget-me-nots in the red gold of her hair. The heat grew oppressive at last, and weary of adulation, Marcia stole away from the glittering scene, to a lonely, shadowed gallery, where the music rippled faint and the hum of voices sounded like distant beesongs. Marcia stood alone, her eyes full of dreamy memories. An impulsive, changeful face was in her thoughts, a low voice in her ear. A slight noise startled her from her reverie. A form she new well was directly in her view, and an eager voice, in tones sweeter than even the olden tones was whispering: "Marcia, darling, found at last, thank God! My own darling again! Not a word of welcome, cherie; but I forgive you," Rex said, tenderly, as her fair face radiated with welcoming smiles. Rex drew her to his breast with low, loving words, and Marcia, forgetful of her pride in their unlooked for happy reconciliation, murmured fondly "Rex-my Rex! I little knew what a glad awakening my little dream awhile ago should have! You have found your kingdom, Rex, and shall rule right royally-" Rex silenced her sweet confession with proud, fond kisses. From the rooms beyond music came floating to their happy hearts, and the burden of the song was "L'amour est eternel." Again Marcia and Rex sit in the grand old garden at Waverly Grange, and the luscious purple and amber fruitage of the arbors have never clustered over happier wedded pair. From Belgravia. DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE. have never been able to swallow with a positive relish, no doubt for want of persever I CONFESS to a liking for disagreeable peo- | human animal is marvellous in his faculty ple. An acquired taste, no doubt, for they for acquiring taste, but it takes time. Ediare not nice; but take them as you take ble earth is, I should fancy, hardly nice at olives, and they give a relish to the wine of | first. There are mineral waters which I life. Regard them as caviare, and, if not wholly to your palate, it is possible to get a flavor out of them. Remember, disagreea-ance. ble people you will always meet. They are as inevitable as the twang of garlic in Spanish cookery; and, as one must have them, I have long since come to the determination of acquiring a penchant for them. "Tis not so difficult: and a little preliminary nausea once overcome, you have your reward, just as the indescribable horror of that first cigar is compensated for by the appreciative enjoyment of your partaga or your cubana. The In the same way, some amount of culture, I should suppose, was necessary before one could have drunk with real enthusiasm that toast at the late banquet at the Langham, "The horse and meat at two and a halt pence per pound!" But these and similar tastes being possible of acquirement, so, believe me, it is quite practicable to likepositively like-disagreeable people. One reason why I like them is this, that they offer me a boundless field of specula tion; so many things about them excite my wonder. More especially I am constantly asking myself, "Do people know that they are disagreeable? Are the nettles in the social garden conscious that they sting? Is it patent to them that they are different from the rest of their kind? Do they live in the delusion that it is natural to man to be harsh, angular, selfish, snappish, overbearing, and unsympathetic? Does old Milky White feel that he is hard and cruel, exacting and unamiable? Is my aunt Trimmer as blind to the fact that she is disliked for her petty meannesses, her endless “nagging" and her vicious tattling, as she is to be the mendaciously open and shameless falsehood of her false front? There is old Colonel Grumpus again; surely he must feel himself a horror to his officers and a pest to his men! And yet I don't know; after long and close study of disagreeable people, I am quite at fault on this point. I meet men in business so vulgarly offensive of manner, that, if they struck me, spat at me, felled and trampled on me, I could not feel more utterly degraded than by my enforced contact with them; yet they appear serenely unconscious of being detestable. I find people at church uncompromising nuisances, who take the room of two in crowded pews, anticipate the responses, read the minister's part in audible undertone, howl in the singing utterly out of tune, snore through the sermon, and in a manner incense themselves by the sucking of peppermint or other nauseously odorous drops. Or I go to a theatre, and people about me whisper and titter or giggle while I try to listen; or a man who has seen the piece before explains the plot to the man who has not; or somebody else repeats all the jokes for the benefit of the deaf lady two seats off. Let us say that I return home by train. In the carriage I haply encounter the man who will smoke though the carriage be full of ladies; or the man who won't permit smoking, though none but gentlemen are present, and all are desirous of indulging in that luxury. Next in disagreeableness to these is the passenger who whistles, the lady with the unruly children, the cur who dictates as to the windows being up or down, and so forth. A railway-carriage I am constrained to regard as the paradise of the disagreeable; though an omnibus is not with out its attractions for them. But, I repeat my study of this class, wide and varied as it has been, leaves me quite at fault on the one great problem in connection with it-can one be disagreeable without knowing it? If one can, then the disagreeable are to be pitied; if not, then the question becomes, wherein lies the pleasure of being a nuisance? Where indeed? What satisfaction can Sir John and his lady find in living a “cat-anddog" life? Why does Podgers enjoy the torture he inflicts on me with his long stories? What is the subtle pleasure derived by Jones from the cynical remarks, couched in friendly tones, whereby he contrives to make me dissatisfied with my house, my horses, my pictures, my books, and myself? The whole thing is inscrutable, like so much else pertaining to humanity. I can no more understand it than I can enter into the feelings of the inhabitants of the Azores, of whom a recent traveler says: "The donkeys and the men, women, and children of a family all eat and sleep in the same room. They are unclean, ravaged by vermin, and are truly happy!" But stronger than the interest or the pity they inspire is the amusement disagreeable people afford me. I cannot help it, any more than I can help laughing at a joke. They always seem to me like people in farces, who, we all know, are quite different from people out of farces. There is in all their proceedings an eccentricity that borders on the humorous. They fly into passions; and a man in a passion is always funny. They say disagreeable things, which at least have the sting of epigrams. They constitute a perpetual Opposition; and we know that the greatest fun is always away from the Treasury benches. They take such pains to outrage the proprieties-the very thing in these monotonous days. With Mawworm, they seem to "like to be despised;" and, as in his case, one laughs at the oddity of their taste. Of course they are a little trying at times; but so are agreeable people. Indeed, honey cloys sooner than vinegar. The great thing is to acquire the habit of looking at them solely from the comic point of view. In play-writing it is a point to let the audience into the secret of that which is hidden from the characters in the piece. The same principal applies to getting fun out of the disagreeable. You must see more than they see. When Bouncer fumes and flusters, upsets the club by his presence, and is ready to snap at anybody or take offense at anything, to "quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because he has hazel eyes," as Mercutio puts it, he, no doubt, thinks great things of himself. Knowing this, it is pleasant to read the contempt he inspires, and to address him mentally in Mr. Venus's memorable words, "Ah, my boy, you've no idea how small you'd come out if I had the articulating of you" So, when Snobson acts as a brute, just to gain a few petty advantages not worth the gaining, it is fun to watch and see how he stamps himself as a low cad without having any idea that he is doing so. As for disagreeable women who set up for ladies, and placidly believe they are regarded in that light-well, I need not enlarge on the amusement they are calculated to afford. A disagreeable woman is like a vacuum; there is no place for her in nature. She is a parody upon herself. If there is a touch of beauty about her, she gives those she meets the sort of shock one would feel on taking what appears to be wine, and is in reality vinegar. Fortunately she very seldom is beautiful, in the true sense of the word. Nature does not lend itself to shams. It is pitilessly exacting. Sweetness of face must result from sweetness of disposition. The face is not a mask, but a mirror. It reveals everything with terrible ingenuousness. Amiability is not to be simulated to the observant eye. You cannot stamp the marks, the lines, the flowing curves of the agreeable on your face, unless you have the quality in your breast. For this reason the disagreeable woman is never really beautiful. She defies Rachel and all her arts. Her features at their best remind you of etchings: the effects have been "bit in" by acids. The forms of the disagreeable in woman are infinite, but the effects of all are the same. In place of attraction there is repulsion. In place of love, pity-if not scorn. In place of happiness, sour discontent. The disagreeable woman is irksome to every created thing, including herself. There is positively only one way to deal with her-turn her into a joke. In that way she may be made tolerable, like the Frenchman's slippers; useless as slippers, but just available as the basis of a ragout. I have not quite made up my mind on one important point in connection with this subject, and that is, as to the advantages of being disagreeable. At first sight it seems to have much to recommend it. Certainly, disagreeable people push their way in the world; but I am not quite certain but what this “pushing" involves a deal of needless exertion. It is just possible, I think, to get along as well without it. Not with so much show of progress, I admit. The great hectoring bully appears to make "all the running." His loud voice and obstreperous bearing are potent in flunkeydom. The persistent grumbler, too, gets attention: the man with a grievance is often listened to; the vapıd joker has his influence; and so on with the thousand-and-one varieties of the disagreeable. But, after all, I am inclined to think that the agreeable gain the solid advantages, A pleasant, genial, good-hearted fellow is welcome wherever he goes. He has no occasion to storm or whine; ready service is accorded to him almost without the asking. Hearts warm towards him; eyes-ay, the brightest eyes in the world-brighten at his approach. In youth he is idolized; as he mixes in the world he finds his popularity an ever-widening circle; and when he quits its active duties he experiences the delights of "Honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, And all that should accompany old age." These are solid advantages, it must be owned. And the case with regard to the agreeable woman is yet stronger. She is obviously the gainer in every way. And yet how many cling to their disagreeableness as their strong point! Poor dears! It is almost a shame even to smile at their folly. All things considered, then, I am afraid my disagreeable people play a losing as well as an uncomfortable game. Many cannot help it, for with them it is a question of temperament: some err through mistaken views, others from want of thought. But in most cases vanity and selfishness are at the bottom of it all; and as those qualities are undying, there is little doubt but that I shall have my pets, the disagreeable, to wonder over, laugh at, and interest myself in generally to the end of the chapter. COUNTRY LIFE SINCE THE WAR. NO. III. This idea has been gaining ground in your mind for some time-not that you are a simpleton or a fool, but that other people consider you something of the kind. It is very astonishing, but various things have occurred recently which have impressed it upon you. It is not at all flattering to one's selflove, but nevertheless you are obliged to acknowledge its existence, and one little incident occurred some time ago which was really ridiculous. There were some cattle on the place which I wished to dispose of, and one morning when walking in the yard, looking after the chickens and ducks, a countryman came up and said he wanted to buy some of them, and inquired: THE pleasant revery with which the last | do not wish to dispute the account-it the number of these imperfect sketches closed charges are too high, in future the work must was interrupted by a knock on the door, and go to another shop; to which he replies, the blacksmith comes in and says he has "Just as you please," and goes out with fixed that plough right this time, and he what he intends for a great deal of dignity, don't think it will give any more trouble, expressing in every step that he thinks you and hands you a bill of $12. You have nev- a simpleton-a perfect fool. er seen a blacksmith's bill before, and don't know whether it is reasonable or not; but he assures you he works very cheap, that if the work he has done had been carried to any other shop they would have charged $20. But it is not the amount you are looking at, it is at the idea of being asked for money. Hitherto you have always had it at your command, and paid your mantua-maker's, and milliner's, and dry goods bills on the instant, but here is a man handing you a small account who says he is a colored man recently thrown on his own resources, and has a large family to support, and would like to have the money, and-you havn't it to pay him. You hesitate before replying, and look at the bill, but don't see it, for Poverty has sprung up before you, and grins a ghastly, horrible grin, in your face, but you move her aside and get your purse and pull out the last greenback ten cents and give it all to him, and tell him you will send the remainder in a few days, and he goes out trying to appear very grateful and happy, but only looks sheepish. Simpkins comes in soon afterwards to know what Bob wanted; reads the bill and declares that it is perfectly outrageous! He never saw such charges for work before, and he would not pay any such a bill. Bob knew better than to hand it to him he was a judge of such things, but every workman was willing to take advantage of a woman's ignorance. So ho! you see the point of his argument now. The money ought to have been handed to him with a polite request to settle it; but you prefer handling your own purse strings, though there is very little use in drawing them now, for it "looks as if an elephant had tramped upon it;" and you tell him you "When's your pap coming up?" "Then who's coming to tend to your business and sich ?" "No one." "Then, how's these cattle to be sold? I want to buy." "I am going to sell them myself." "What! you?" raising his brows in astonishment. "Yes, I, myself. Have you looked at them?" He stared at me a moment, as if he thought I was demented, then ran his eyes over my external encasements, from the scarf on my head to the tip of my skirts. It is a short road, and took but a short time to make the survey, and when it was finished, without another word, not even so much as "good morning," he turned on his heel and left as fast as his feet could conveniently carry him, and was in such a hurry to get away he wouldn't go through the gate, but struck across the lawn, |