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fluttering in her breast. “Old Monsieur more violently. What was coming next? Caron (your new tenant, you know) was Not poor old Dan Meagher's name, she talking to me. He says that Madame—his hoped and prayed. 'poor little one' he calls her”—with a laugh “O Tom, Tom !”-she cried within hernot purely spontaneous—“is very ill again. self, the question she dared not put aloud. And he says his windmill is broken, and he “Can I never, never interest myself in anybegs you will have it mended.”

body but you instantly see something wrong Neither did Bartmore give the slightest in it?" heed to these hasty sentences. Annetta Did Dan silently adore her? Even the had laid one round arm along his shoulders, faintest suspicion of such a state of affairs and was nervously picking at his thick, short brought exhilaration to a life that at best curls. He rose as if utterly oblivious of was very lonely. She always thought of any embrace.

He squared himself on his him as “poor old Dan.” Yet a mere boy, strong legs, either hand in either pocket, barely twenty-two, Dan was unique in her and studied her with glances momentarily eyes. So strong, so simple, so patient. harder. The muscles, twitching at the cor- She had been drawn toward him when ners of his mouth, gradually dragged his lips Johnny died. She had written the sorrowupward, causing the tips of a thick, reddish- ful news home for him to old Ireland. Betbrown mustache to bristle.

ter than any one else she realized his terrible “You've been out at the front gate, eh?” loneliness. To divert his mind, to waken

These words were uttered less as a query wholesome ambition in him, she had begun than as a conclusion. Then turning his to teach him of long evenings when Tom back upon her as upon a temptation to a

was away. quick outburst of temper yet unripe, Bart

But Bartmore had almost immediately more paced down the room.

continued: “Confess that you plant yourself Annetta gave herself heavily, for so buoy- at the front gate every morning—and at ant a creature, to the chair her brother had noon and at night, for aught I know—just just vacated.

to advertise your damned predilection. Dan Bartmore could not restrain his tongue to Meagher, indeed!” the end of his appointed track. He twisted And Dan Meagher in the garden that about suddenly, and facing his sister as he very instant by Annetta's open invitation! strode, “More than that,” said he, “it seems "O Tom!” to be a custom of yours to plant yourself She gasped this mechanically. Her mind at the gate between six and seven of was shaping actions, not words. mornings."

"I've heard what makes me want to cut “For heaven's sake, Tom!” cried Annetta, his dirty heart out." somewhat relieved by so trivial seeming an “You must tell me what you have heard, accusation, “even were what you say true, Tom.” Then with uplifted finger, “Wasn't need you stare at me, and sneer in this that the door-bell?” cruel fashion?”

Bartmore vouchsafing no answer, Annetta After the manner of splenetic folk, Bart- was willing apparently to consider herself more first carped at Annetta's phraseology. mistaken. She whirled half about on the

“O, yes!” he ejaculated, "sneer and office-chair, her right hand toward the desk stare, stare and sneer. Then why the devil” whereon were scattered business blanks, with -bringing out the objectionable word with “Thomas Bartmore, Street Contractor,” a criticism-defying force—"don't you confess printed across the top. Of these blanks that you are gone-dead gone on one of several had been irregularly scribbled over, my--my hired men. I tell you it's no the terms and figures used hinting at the secret.”

making up of a bid for street-work. Annetta's heart began to flutter again, and “After all the favor I have shown the VOL. I.-5.

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scoundrel”—so Bartmore—"paying him his that first mooted in his mind, his sister's day's wages again and again for twaddling accountability. his time away in your garden!"

“You must have given the 'boys' some Annetta was toying with a lead-pencil. reason to gossip?”-searching her through “I'll tell you this—” Bartmore began. with a pained glance.

He was staring at Annetta as if barely “How dare they gossip about me?” conscious of her identity.

“Ask yourself,” sneered Bartmore. “But” “That bell did ring, Tom!" she inter- -a disagreeable recollection stinging himrupted emphatically.

"you were at Flynn's last night?” She was twisting a corner torn from one “I spent last evening at Flynn's, nursing of the scattered blanks in her trembling little Joe.” fingers.

“That you went is quite enough for me. “I must call Maggy-no; she is probably And you asked Dan to walk with you?” dishing up breakfast."

A less guarded listener might have been She herself ran, dreading to hear Tom betrayed into an inconsiderate assent. following. The front door key moved ob- Annetta answered with an explicit air: stinately in the lock. The door stuck. It “You know how lonely the road is. I seemed an age before she could pull it open, asked Dan to walk behind me.” yet thrusting forth her head, there was Dan “And that low-lived dog took advantage still weeding the border.

of the lonely road to-kiss you, eh?” His back was towards her. She dared Annetta was instantly on her feet, raging not go to him. She dared not utter his with a silent indignation that became her name, though never so softly. She called, mightily. Bartmore could not but be “Refugio!" No quicker of ear than of eye, pleased. He began to laugh, at first delithe old Mexicano neither heard nor an- cately, then with deepening and broadening swered. But Dan glanced sharply around. good humor. What more complete denial Annetta threw the twisted bit of paper at could he desire than the quick scorn of him, and then, pale as a ghost, pointed to it those red lips? lying in the walk.

Annetta deigned none. She turned her Getting back to the office, she found her back upon him, and stamped out of the brother just where she had left him, star- room. ing still, but ready to say, with flaring Standing in the middle of the floor, his nostrils:

head held high to show the curve of a fine “I intend to search this matter down to white throat, his whole nature pouring itself bed-rock.”

forth in rich, hearty chuckles, Tom Bart“You must, indeed!” assented Annetta. more was an undeniably handsome fellow. She was listening intently for some sound Nor was he less engaging when he followed from without

his sister with an unconcealed intention of “There's been a darn sight of pretty free making up with her. talk in 'camp? Let me find that Dan's He found her gazing out of a window concerned in it, and I'll——”

having no prospect worth gazing at, her atti“You'll give him the punishment he will tude eloquent of a desire fierily to redress richly deserve,” said Annetta, her utterance all wrong. Kissing her cheek, he dragged

. slow and thick.

her gayly to the breakfast table. Suddenly the color rushed into her

One ignorant of Bartmore's peculiarities cheeks. Her spirit sprung up like a flame. might now have fancied the obnoxious topic She had heard the side gate slam.

of the morning tacitly dropped, or even for“Am I not to know what has been said, gotten. Annetta knew better. The meal Tom?"

ended and her brother gone, she approached This query brought Bartmore back to Maggy cautiously, then confidentially.

a

"No, Miss Bairtmore!" exclaimed Maggy, Swinging softly in her brother's chair, the torbearing the “Miss Annetta” of less se- bright dress she wore glowing under the rious occasions. “I'll be to gi' ivery wan fair concentrated rays of the shaded drop-light, play an' shpake the trewt. I niver hear Annetta grew pensive rather than fearful. mortal man nor spicter breathin' a bad She scouted the merest mental suggestion Hurrud anent yez.”

that Dan had said anything presumptuous. And the evening and the morning were the But alas! this broil would be quite effectual first day of Annetta Bartmore's latest trouble. in one way. Her enjoyable efforts on Dan's

Shortly before six o'clock the whiz of behalf were surely ended. That she had light, reckless wheels around the corner of made such would inevitably come out, and the house told her that Tom was near at Tom would peremptorily forbid their conInd.

With him rising early to breakfast, tinuance. t'i returning home promptly to dinner, a Thinking thus, the circumstances of her ito x order of things seemed begun. Whether life were unhappily present to Annetta, as to

greater freedom or added restraint, the caged bird, between two liquid bursts of wicther for joy or sorrow, who could tell? song, the bars that imprison.

Her revSeated at the piano, Annetta was filling erie was broken off by a knocking at the the parlor with the crispest, gayest notes, outer door. when all of a sudden there was Maggy's face No instinct warned her whom to expect hot from the kitchen. The girl had run in when she called, “Come in!” hurriedly to whisper:

The cheeks above Dan's full black beard “The boss!”

as pale as her own had been that An accompanying laugh, good-humored morning while fearing her brother would yet deprecatory, Annetta understood too find Dan in the garden. He stood dewell. So Tom had come home out of sorts. jectedly before her, saying in a muffled

She found him already seated at table. voice: He ate his dinner silently, with the air of a “The boss has sent me, for you know man hard pressed for time. His third cup what.” of tea emptied, he rose. Annetta's troubled Annetta did not know. She could not glance was with him, silently questioning his ask. She looked at Dan with a visible intentions.

shrinking away from him. She motioned “Annetta,” he said curtly, when he had him to a seat. She found herself forced to taken his hat, “light up the office and sit believe that he had been using her name there."

lightly. He had never before given her just such "Dan, Dan!” she hazarded presently, an order. Obeying, she wondered what he driven to speech by the torture of this had on his mind. Was there going to be any thought, and a terror of Tom's wrath. trouble? Nothing serious, surely; for Tom's “How could you?” first outburst of rage was all she really Dan's chin dropped slowly to his breast. dreaded. And his first outburst of rage over “It's not safe for the likes o’yez, miss,” this affair was safely past.

said he, "to shpake to the likes o' me."

Evelyn M. Ludlum. CONTINUED IN NEXT NUMBER.]

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UNATTAINED.

In winter time one steadfast hope I had:

When rains should cease to fall,

And earth resummoned all
Her blossom-guests, I should again be glad.

And then, my heart unlifted still, I said,

“Too pallid and too chill

These skies; wait yet until
The summer's serene blue smiles overhead.”

Its red the rose surrenders to the leaves;

The orchard branches yield

Their fruit, and far a-field
The reapers sing amid their gathered sheaves.

The circle of the year is all complete:

And in her wintry hour,

In fruitage or in flower,
I know the world is very fair and sweet.

Yet, O, not here the peace I long for dwells :

But past the restful night

Of death, within the light
Of God, amid unfading asphodels.

Ina D. Coolbrith.

FRANCIS BRET HARTE.

I.

as now presented to us, the actual Harte

who broke upon us so suddenly but little A Few American authors have sprung to more than fourteen years ago ? immediate popularity. With each of these The shallow intellect of popular sentiis linked some association of aptness or strik- ment judges blindly of that which pleases ing originality, some instance of felicitous it; the voice of popular sentiment is lifted characterization, by which he holds atten- to indiscriminate praise or blame of everytion and forces our special approval. The thing by which it is moved. Day by day leap of none among these few has been the judgments grow more blind, the uttermore sudden and expansive than that of ances are more colored with eulogy or conFrancis Bret Harte. But as I now set him demnation. The threads that first snared in this class, and now would pass judgment attention are made the warp through which on the man and his works, the query at the sympathetic, the wise, the thoughtless, once arises, Is the author, as now estimated, the foolish, weaves each his own passion or

1 Bret Harte's Complete Works. Five-volume Edition. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 1882. San Francisco : Billings, Harbourne & Co.

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for the job; and nobody has the headachea Macaulay died it was generally felt or will have, till Bret Harte reads the article. the English-reading world had lost its

What the emotions of that gifted being may Cascinating essayist, its. most subtle,

be when he ascertains that Poe, Lowell, and #., and eloquent literary critic. Since

himself are one and the same person may, -13 they say, every week or two, in the

perhaps, best be left to conjecture. One thing ectus for starting a new theatrical paper is sure. He will reverence Cheney. ile want has long been felt” of

such a

Mr. Stedman's essay on Poe appeared in Wer; of a writer who should combine, as

Scribner's Monthly, for May, 1880; his essay id, the learning of Bentley with even more on Lowell, in The Contury, for May, 1882. - the brilliancy of Sheridan. At last, how-Cheney goes a-Maying for them in The Oerthat want bas been supplied.

Our new land Monthly for January, 1883, and some exulay bursts forth upon the Pacific slope, tracts are reprinted from his production on he name of him is Warren Cbeney. another page. It is a perfectly clear case, and it 3 new Macaulay, to be sure, differs from will make Cheney famous. He ought to be. Such ld one. He is great-but his greatness men are rare, and they should not be allowed to

a special direction. He has a field of work in obscurity. We have read Cheney's esI owu. His illustrious prototype was cre- say with great edification; and we can testify hive, and had the faculty of writing out of that it not only discloses a splendid method

iwn head. Cheney's way is simpler and for making every man his own inagazinist, but
more expeditious; he writes out of the will adjust every literary student's impressions
s of others. This is the age of the mag- to the spiritual qualities that
c telegraph, and Cheney has no time to derlie Lowell's wonderful poem of
The old way in literature, like the old Raven,” Bret

Harte's magnificent Comin everything else, must go to the wall. memoration Ode, and Poe's droll verses | Bacon worked very hard to write on

Heathen Chinee."

The great 8 essays of his.

The original Ma- career and complex mind of this poet, indeed, ay,who died

at fifty-nine, exhausted were never fully understood till now. Who i toil, was surely a prodigious worker. ¡could imagine, when Lowell

was writu: much easier and better,—if you want liter." The Fall of the House of Usher” for Thompreputation, and the power of doing good son's Overland Southern Monthly Literary itse he world with your pen,-to tear out one senger, that Bret Harte would live to contribhe old essays, put your name to the end of ute the “ Biglow Papers” to Burton's Alagaind publish it as your magazine article! zine, and Poe wind up his career as American + dead author won't miss it, and, ten to one, Minister to the Court of St. James ! “For} living reader won't know it, even by sight. tune hath freaks, but n ne so strange as that." eney is not quite up to this yet. He still

GAY & WOLF, Photograph Albums, tes a little time. But Cheney is young,

Berlin and Boston. has room to grow.

BENZIGER BROS., Catholic Cioada present the method of this new Macaulay

New Vaula
araphrase, and his genius shines forth in The

FLAGRANT PLAGIARISM,
rland Monthly, of San Francisco. The Over-
1 Monthly is a magazine started in that city

A MODERN METHOD OF ESSAY-WRITING.
21868, subsequently put to bed, and just now

The article on Bret Harte by Warren Che11 ised, after a long sleep. The Edi or says noy, in The Overland Monthly for January, 1883, has he “bas picked up the thread which had evidently been paraphrased from articles by Mr.

E. C. Stedman on Poe and Lowell, the besa dropped, and hopes to weave it into fome

printed in Scribner's Monthly for May, 1880, and the cloth of gold"; and he has got Cheney to help latter in The Century for May, 1982. The extracts be

low will show the methods of composition adopted ri · Cheney's cloth is a hirteen-page article by the Overla d writor :

Bret Harte; and, viewed as expert weaving, From Mr. Stedman's Essay on; Prom Warren Cheney's Essay
Pertainly is a master-piece, and ought to
the editorial breast with joy. Harte Unon the rorror American A few Anerican authors

author's a few games are uave sprang to imediate the first Editor of The Overland

written apart from tue rest. popularity. 1: nthly.

Hence Cheney's choice of him with each of those is assotuese is linked somo assoa subject. But life is short,-particu- dieted some accident of conciation of aptners or strik

dition,

of ing priginality, 80104 y in the Sogth west,--and it is one thing to original or eccentric genius, suance ot solicitous charac

through which it arrests at-terizatiou by which he boida to ose your subject, and another thing to tention and claims our attention and forces our

The light special approval. The rte about it. Here was Cheney's chance, special wonder.

of none among these few has leap of none of these few :1 we are proud to say that be rose to the been more tervid and recur- has been more sudden and

rent than that of Edgar Al- expansive than that of Fran# asion. Another man might bave tried to lan Poe. But as I in turn CIB Bret Harto. w sometbing out of bis owu brain. Foolish, prouounce his name, aod in set him in this olass, and

iny turn would estinato tuo now would pass judgmeut •fashioned writers still live, who think that man and his writings, 1 am on the man and his works, i is a good thing to do. What Cheney did at com.co .confronted by the che query at oneo a:ises: 1:

question: le tils poet, as beautior, as low enti7:ss to take two old essays written by Edmund 110w remembered, as now mated, as now presented to

portrayed to us, the reallus, the actual Hare who Stedman, the one on Poe and the other on Poe who lived and sung an bruke upou 18 60 suddeuly .. well, and paraphrase both into an essay, liltio more than a quarter teen years ago 9

suffered, and who died but but little more thau fourBret Harte. The result is in the Overland Dontwy 250!

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