strong body and an exceptionally Arrive Daily. an exceptionally Arrive Daily. Miss Robinson Pays fine nature. You could be a grand Her Private Secretary $500 per woman, Doris. There aren't so many Week. All Offers Declined. A Duke men and women in the world whose Scornfully'-that is in italics as well characters come up to the grand as capitals, you know-'Scornfully scale. It's worth trying for." rejected. Lord Chiquarmourouski' "Bravo, bravo," cried Nettie. "We didn't know you were such a philoopher." "No. People usually take me to be more of a fool than anything else," said Fred cheerfully. "It was a fine speech for a little boy like you, Freddie," said Doris, "and I feel flattered. But it doesn't change the fact that I want to go to England with Miladi and can't." "Then all I have to say," smiled Fred, "is that you should have accepted me that time I didn't ask you and then you would be going instead of June." "That wouldn't do at all." said Doris, with a horrified air. "It would take a grand man to be fit company for such a grand woman." "Now, I call that mean when I pay you such pretty compliments." "I'd rather have you pay my way to England." "Gracious, child, is England the only country on the map? But I'll tell you another thing, little cousin. Live as near right as you know how -honestly, I mean, no pretence and God will give you the good things of this life. If the trip to England, or Zulu-land, or the North Pole, is necessary to broaden you and make you more useful to Him, then the trip to England, or Zululand, or the North Pole, will come." "And how jolly that trip to the North Pole would be! And the notices I'd get!" And Doris held an imaginary newspaper in one hand and traced the capital letters with the forefinger of the other. "Miss Doris Robinson'-Robinson would look well in print, it is such an uncommon name 'the Famous Discoverer of the North Pole,is Besieged by Suitors. Letters and Photographs that is a good sounding name to think of all in a minute, isn't it? Notice the pronounciation. Chickor-moor-house, with the h left offsky-Pleading in Vain.' All this in the New York Sun and the Tribune and the Herald and the News and the Enquirer. Not to mention full page photographs in the Era and the Journal.” "The next time I talk sense to you, Miss Robinson, discoverer of the North Pole, I hope you'll have intellect enough to recognize the fact. Miladi, is there anything else I can do in the way of sitting on trunks or tying parcels?" "Nothing, thank you," answered Miladi. "Then, if you ladies can endure my absence, I'll go out for awhile." Doris gave us a quick look. We were used to those signals, so we all piped in concert: "Where?" Fred shook his fist at Doris. She gave us another look. "May I go, too?" we all chirped. "No, you may not. Doris, I don't want to be too truthful, but I wonder what you'd do if your family wasn't made up of as big geese as yourself." "I'd come and live with you," said Doris, shutting one eye and gazing solemnly at him with the other. "There," I said triumphantly. "You see what a clever girl she is. So like her mother!" Fred gave me a glance of utter disgust and turned towards the door. "The idea of calling upon a young lady at nine o'clock," sang Miladi. "And such a young lady," Doris joined in. "Won't she look a fright tomorrow, though! Her nose is sure to be red, and she'll tear her dress. on the carriage steps. Won't she, Miladi? Speak up sharp, Miladi. You're looking doubtful, and this is a subject on which there should be no doubt. This is a lofty and inspiring subject. Imagine the girl's taste, too, in having that!" And she turned up her nose at the young man. "The matter with you girls," said Fred patronizingly, "is that you're jealous because June has captured a splendid fellow like me. 'Here was such an a Caesar, whence comes other?"" "Mob in the distance: Pooh," said Miladi. ladi. one "It is an old song. The old ones seem to be the prettiest, don't they? Bert brought it down night and Fred and I liked it. My illustrious ancestor has slept peacefully through our nonsense, so I suppose it won't wake him if I show you how it goes." Drawing her chair close to mine and beckoning Doris nearer, she sang it very softly. "Flow, flow, oh, silver stream, westward gaily swelling. Low, low, murmuring low, to your banks my story telling. Flow, flow, oh, silver stream, past my little one's dwelling. · Flow, flow, merrily, merrily flow. Tell her, I love her so, I love her so. "And you've never had a chance "Say, say when she's away, life is sad yourselves and are doomed to be old maids!" "Ha," shrieked Doris. "Have I lived to have that vile oprob-oprob -goodness, I've forgotten that word. Where's the prompter?-flung at me? I don't mean the prompter flung at me, but the oproboprob. Well, we'll get us to a nunnery. In the meantime, cruel monster, gloat." Here Miladi took Doris by the hand and they knelt at his feet crying despairingly: "Gloat, glo-at, glo-o-at!" "Oh, you two idiots," said Fred. "I pity the man that gets you." "The same man won't get us both, you know," reminded Doris, gently. "Either of you would be enough to drive a sane man to drink." "Or to love," said Miladi, waving him towards the door. "And if you are the aforesaid sane man, you will haste thee to where thy lady fair awaits or you will find the doors barred." He went whistling down the street. Miladi watched him lovingly and half sadly. "To think he'll be married morrow!" she said. to and lonely; Bright and fair when she is near, for 'tis she is the sunshine only. Flow, flow, oh, silver stream, she is my love, mine only. Flow, flow, merrily, merrily flow, Tell her I love her so, I love her so!" "Now, when you hear that again, you must think of me and remember that it is my message to each of you, I love her so.' "We won't need the song to make us think of you, Miladi. Somehow, I dread to see you go." "Why?" asked Miladi. I did not answer. I did not know myself. We sat silently gazing out through the open window on the great trees glistening in the white moonlight. Then Miladi said: "I know why. You are afraid that when I see the great, beautiful world, I shall never want to come back to you and this poky little Provo. But, you know, I can always move up to the huge metropolis north of us." "Gladys, you don't understand. Your grandmother gave up the love of father and mother, brothers and sisters and friends to tramp across a great desert to a barren valley. She pushed a handcart all the way. She "What is that tune?" I asked, who was delicately nurtured and as the last notes were lost in the had never done an hour's work in distance. her life! Your grandfather was "Don't you know it?" asked Mi- taken ill of what they called moun tain fever. She pushed him in that cart. When they started, they had two little ones. When they reached their journey's end, two little graves had been left behind, covered with sagebrush instead of lilies. How your grandparents ever reached the valley, only those whose faith is strong can comprehend. But by the grace of God they lived and prospered. Another little one came. That was your mother, Miladi. I cannot tell you how she loved these mountains, nor how she thanked our Father that her children were born here. Miladi, your mother is in heaven, but it would break her heart even there if either of her children left her home or her people." Miladi's eyes were full of tears. Doris moved a little impatiently. "I can't see what difference any thing makes so long as you're good," she said. "That is because you are young, dear," I answered gently. "Youth is so sure, and so insecure." "But you talk as if Miladi were going away for years instead of three or four months." "We never know what may happen." "Miladi might be as good as her mother, but I'm quite sure that I'll never be as good as mine," said impulsive Doris. "If I were going to England, I'd be willing to take lots of good advice, too, but it isn't so interesting when you're staying home." Miladi turned to me and said softly: "I'm not very much, Aunt May. But such a mother as mine couldn't help but put some good into her child, could she? I may not make her proud of me, but I'll do my best not to make her ashamed of me. It's a great blessing to have had a good mother, isn't it, Aunt May?" "Yes. And it's a great blessing to have good children, too." sinking lower and lower in his chair, gave a terrific snore. "Them's my sentiments, tew," " said Doris irreverently. It was impossible to prevent the burst of laughter that followed. Mr. Melrose opened his eyes and said: "Gladys, aren't you going to bed?" "Oh, my prophetic soul, my uncle,'" laughed Doris. "I suppose that is a cordial invitation for to stand not upon the order of our going, but go at once!" us "I really didn't mean it that way, Doris," said Mr. Melrose apologetically. "You know what an old dunce I am for saying things." "Ay, ay, sir," assented Doris. "For graceful remarks refer us to you and my father. He's just the same. One night two of the boys called. We had a rather pleasant chat, and they stayed a little late. Pa came in and listened to the pro's and con's. What do you say, Mr. Robinson?' asked one of the young men. And pa answered slowly: I? Oh, I don't know what I could say, unless I said, "There's no place like home.' That was his way of being nice and neighborly," said Doris convulsively. "He couldn't understand why they went immediately. Never mind, uncle. Weddings are tiresome things, aren't they? Good night, Miladi, dear old chum. I'll be over in the morning." "I'll go to the gate with you," said Miladi. "It is time for Fred to be back." As we turned the corner. I looked back. A tall young man had joined Miladi at the gate. "That isn't Fred, is it?" I asked. "No," answered Doris. "It is Bert Howland. He has been walking up and down on the opposite side of the street for the last hour. He was waiting for us to go, I suppose." "Oh, Doris, why didn't you say something?" "I thought it wouldn't hurt him to Here Mr. Melrose, who had been wait," she answered. "It is a love ly night and communion with nature will do him good." "He seems rather fond of Miladi," I went on. "I suppose he is," said Doris. "How could he help it?" "Is he good enough for her?" "He is the finest fellow I know," said Doris warmly. "Quite worthy of Miladi even." "Do you think she cares for him?" "Oh, I don't know." Doris spoke as if the subject wearied her "Let's hurry, mammy, I'm awfully tired." (To be Continued.) A VISIT TO LONGFELLOW'S HOME. In these days of hero worship, one is considered fortunate indeed who can visit the former home or the grave of one who has made himself famous in story or in song. But "thrice blessed is he" whose privilege it has been to visit the man of genius during his lifetime. Such an honor was mine in the summer of 1881, when it was my pleasure to have a short conversation with America's best beloved poet-Longfellow. There are events in one's lifetime which are so deeply impressed upon the mind, that they seem to grow stronger with the passing years; and when illuminated by the sunlight of recollection, they form the brightest spots on memory's page. Such an event has my visit with Longfellow ever appeared to me. It was one afternoon in the month of June. I had driven over from Boston to Cambridge, and must confess to a feeling of trepidation at the thought of meeting so great a man. I boldly entered the yard, however, and found him in the garden among the flowers and trees. Before in troducing you to the poet himself, let me give you a brief history and description of the home where he lived. It was known as the old Craigie house and is but a short distance from the Harvard Universi ty. "Tis a spacious frame mansion, yellow in color and surrounded by velvety lawns, flowers, and beautiful trees. The house is almost square, having two stories, with porches on both sides, but none in front. entrance door is heavy and still has the huge knocker, whose frozen clangor can still be heard. The The house faces the south, and overlooks the beautiful valley of the Charles River, which rises somewhere in the central part of the State and empties into Boston harbor, about three miles below the city. This is the stream supposed to have been entered by the boats of the Northmen when they came to New England about 1000 A. D. Some say that Leif Ericsen built a house on its banks, just below the place where the Cambridge hospital now stands. Longfellow has made the river famous by his exquisite little poem, the first two stanzas of which run thus: "River! that in silence windest, Through the meadows bright and free, Till at length thy rest thou findest In the bosom of the Sea! "Four long years of mingled feeling, I Half in rest and half in strife, have seen thy waters stealing Onward like the stream of life!" The house is historically interesting from the fact of its having been built in 1759 by Col. John Vassal, who became a staunch loyalist in revolutionary times, and upon his vacating the house it became the headquarters of Gen. George Washington, who moved into it in July, 1776, and occupied it for about eight months. Of this event Longfellow many years afterwards wrote: "Once, ah, once, within these walls -From "To a Child." But to return to my visit: I announced my name to the poet, who stood amidst his flowers, and was cordially invited to "come in.” He led the way to a room just to the right of the entrance, which one could readily recognize as the poet's study. How distinctly I remember the old fire place, the round rosewood table, and the tall desk at which he used to write. My attention was divided between the host and the contents of the room. He was so cordial and his manners so unassuming that I was at once put at my ease and found myself telling him with all freedom who I was and from whence "Mormon girl;" and although he had shaken hands when I first met him, upon my stating how far from home I was and how greatly I had desired to see one whom we all honored so much, he came and shook both my hands and spoke so kindly that I was quite overcome. He appeared anxious to learn something of our people, and I spent some time telling him of Utah, her people, and the Territory's things, and I had a good opportunity of noting his general characteristics. He was quiet and unassuming, yet genial, and as tender as a woman. He is said to have been very sympathetic and ever ready to extend to the needy a hand of charity. His love of praise, we are told, amounted almost to a fault, but if he loved to receive it, the world loved to bestow it, and perhaps neither was harmed. As I sat looking into his kindly countenance, when his life's work was so nearly completed, there flitted through my mind the remembrance of many incidents in the life of this beautiful character of which we had heard. He had buried the wife of his youth away off in Holland, and some twenty years previous to my visit death entered his home again and carried away a second wife who had been the beautiful Frances Appleton. She was one day in the library, making seals for the enter tainment of her children, when her dress caught fire from the wax taper, and before assistance could be obtained she was so badly burned that she soon afterward died. My thoughts wandered again to the room! There upon the table stood the ink-stand presented to him by his friend Carlyle; and beside the fireplace was the chair made from the wood of the "spreading chestnut tree," which had shaded the village smithy. It had been presented to him by the children of Cambridge on the occasion of his seventy-second birthday-two years previous to my visit. This occasion the poet has vividly described to us in his poem, "To My Arm Chair." The scene from the windows of this apartment was indeed charming, overlooking the meadows and the beautiful river. One instinctively recalled the poet's lines: "Thou hast taught me, silent river, Many a lesson deep and long. Thou hast been a generous giver, I can give thee but a song. |