r

r

The Bells of Portknockier|

| It'* tel on him. She's but a trail thins, end •he'll be wild. Mart* ahe baa

a herael'

Into the i

a efter him."

AN IDYLL OF THE NORTH SEA. By DAVID LYALL.

skin,

a "Ye may go down ye like. Annie Doon; but one thing ye will Vot see. an' that's the Bonnie Ann weather the Beaobn. Kor she'll never i-ome Into Portknookle again. in. that 1

on my

She was an old woman, upon whose face many sorrows had set their seal. Have you ever looked at the faces of seafaring folk who live clo the great deep, and whose Uvea depend on its mercy from the cradle grave? If you have, you do not need

hos. the

look, which yed Intrust.

the greatest tragedy of all. It was an October night

The l

patient, hungry, waiting speaks of hearts not stay*

but rather prepared for the worst.

all.

the shores

of the North Sea. The sun had gone down In red wrath, leaving a long yellow glare on the hcrrlion.which the Inky blackness of the storm speedily swept Into the sea. It was hard to aay which month of the year gave the atomiieet record; but perhaps If yoo had asked the weather-wise, they would have said that the gale to be

i that traa-

was the gale of the Equinox In the late autumn. It was a wild, magnificent, awfu^ coast, with many beautifui but few kindly spots. The cliffs rose sheer from the stony beaches, and were torn by great gullies and wonderful caves, which people came from distant parts to see whet, the weather was fine and there was nothing to frighten or frown at

them.

Here and there in the clefts of the rocks a handful of red roofs or a little

Here. too. there would be a strip of shingly bench, and a natural harbor, affording even at the best of times a precarious shelter. And here they lived and moved and had their being, wept and loved and suffered, those who strove to wrest a scanty living

from the great deep/

On that wild night two women stood by an open cottage door, with shawls

tied about thehfhe

strained

heh^heads, their i

eyes peering TOt into the blackness of the night The noise of the mighty lag wind and the boom of the sea ast the rocks where the salt spray

It difficult 's voices. !gh ‘and

raahli agalnsi

dashed Into the ttir made for them to hear one another’s which were shrill ant striking the note of pain. ' that, auntie." said the

mother great bll•r onTheyshore.

“Go back Into the house, and 1 will run to the harbor and hear if there's

any news.''

She put her arm about the elder woman's figure, and gently pushed her back Into the house. She did not demur. She was oid. and tho wind buffeted ber; she was no longer able to »-Cbc< and fight It. So she crept back io the desolate hearth, and aat down by the red embers to watch and pray. The girl dosed the door, wrapped her Shawl more dosely about her. and turned to face the blast. It was only s few steps to the harbor mouth, but » than once she wavered, feeling E the next gust must sweep her

,“Dinna say £

‘ girl, and shivered as anot low broke In thunder

as if t Into th

ichlng

L At their mothers' skirts were huddled ! under the frail shelter of the harbor I wall. There Is untold patboe always | *bout the watchers when there Is peril , on the sea? the women and children And the old men. who wait at home for the safe return of the bread-winners. The harbor lights gleamed fitfully upon anxious faces and appealing eyes turned. ever turned, to the angry sea. Scarce a word was spoken, and when Annie Doon joined them ahe became

t of the allei

a part a little

one of the

laid a klndl

apart :. and

r hand w that

r feared for the man ^'•talwart skipper of the Bonnie Ann. “There's little use to stand here, neebors." said one of the old ioen at length. “Until the wind (a's tie open i aea's their safest bit." I “But auntie saw the Bonnie Ann off the Beacon. Davie Duffus," said the j .girl feverishly; “just on the back o' 1 ah o'clock." L “She dreamed it. lassie. Francle Scott wad never come near the Beacon I In a nor'-caster dike this, that la. unlesc he took leave-o' his aeevln tenses. i^Vhlch Is not likely." “But I think I saw her myael'. Davie. .the rain

“O" •*'»

L.

jockle

Wheessht!- What's that?"

* Through the boom of the storm -Tame the distant clangor of a bell. "HI the bell of Portknockie! She's on the Beacon.” said the girl, in a low. Vigulabed voice, and her fingers workid convulsively with the fringes of her

i liuLw '-

“Then there' may be a chance. The ! coast-guard's oot afore the bell rings. | Lord help them aT” said the old-man. and the crowd began to separate, as If their suspense sad watching' had I It had only, however, entered on L * —r phrase, and those who s

gan to climb the Bleep a summit of the cliff, i

fbe seen the core at Portknockie. and the light on the dreaded Beacon Rocks. The Beacon was * sharp, sheer ledge of rode, which ran far out into the sea, fad was always submerged, though at

low water Its black, cruel outline could be defined by the troubled the waves above 1L Upon this treach-

erous reef many a burqi any a life destroyed,

deed been the grave of i

i- had founder-

d goodly hope, knhld Doon pam

[ many a fair

paused ouuide the door

of her aunt's cottage, the home that had sheltered her'Since she bod been cast orphaned on the sea of life. Through the unshuttered window she could'see the dropping figure in its hopeless attitude by the fire; ahe o even catch the expression on her I

It Indicated "I wlnna go In." she said to herself, with a sob. "She canna hear the bell, and It may be that they'll be saved

yet."

Then she sped up the brae with foot so fleet that she overtook them long before they reached the summit. Even from that point of vantage there was

little to be seen.

The night was of inky blackness, and the light of the Beacon only served to show the- whereabouts of* the treacherous rocks, but sent no beam afar. Quite suddenly, however, the clouds were swept aside as by an unseen hand, and a fitful moon shone out very clear and bright, revealing the boat in distress and also the rescuers on the harbor at Portknockie. The lifeboat was launched with a ringlus cheer, and ploughed Its way through the terrible sea tumult to the distressed men on the wreck. It was an hour of terrible suspense, but at last the survlvere. three men and a boy. were taken off. and the boat leap-

ed In the trough of t

i the trougl

i again as

this time there v ong the watchers i -ding the boat or somehow t

with

Ardbuckle. the skipper, on board, and Frank Scott, whom Annie Doon loved. Now Ardbuckle was Annie’s cousin, and loved her as his own soul. He was a big. slow, dour man, of few words and forbidding aspect; but the young.

who had grown up as a sister

become a part of his

slim

girl w

ds side, hi

and being, ant ad again, that i

»ve her to wife.- But Annie had ughed at him. and said nobody ever larricd a brother, which was what

ho was to her. Thei

up I Jeah

there.

in his soul a fierce, slow, terrible

with him of the Bonnie Ann, and had been his constant companion ail his life, l And When some one outside, at Portknockie. had told him Annie and Scott were to be married at the New Year If the "drave” was good, he had. ‘ ig no'' lOUid (Under cover of the darkness Annie Doon slid down the face of the brae to Portknockie nimbly as a young deer, and came upon the harbor mouth aa the lifeboat grated against the steps. Then she stood, with the shswl dropirg from her shoulders and the wet rrind In her hair, until they came up, Ibucklc saw her first.

"Ye kind

ter been at hame."

"Where's Frank. John? Where's my lad? Hare ye left him behind?" ahe asked, in a voice shrill with pain. "We had to. lassie. A wave washed him ciean'into the sea befera our very e'en. An' what could man do for him then, puir cbield? Come awa- hame.” But she would not let him touch her. "Lot me a be!" she said, and turning from him disapptared in the darkness. And none saw which way the turned. They talked in low. regretful murmurs of their comrade whom the sea

was one beloved of

all for his high courage, his sunny

disposition, and

e are there. Annie." he said, with a id of gruff gentleness. "Ye had bei-

all

widowed before she was a bride. Ardbuckle had little to say. at which, how-

ls position, t Annie I

Ide.

hich.he

ever, none wondered, knowing him to be a still, silent man. who refrained from all verbal expression even when ho felt most. As there was nothing to be done until the dawning, when It would be their melancholy task to seek their comrade's body among the drift cast by the Storm, they began to disperse slowly to their homes. It wap close midnight, and that had been an anxious, weary day. Ardbuckle. still keeping bima?l' opart from lift fellows, strode borne to his mother's cottage on 'Jhe lee shore, under the shadow of

the cliff.

No light burned there. The solitary figure crouching in despair by the fire had forgotten the flight of time. Shfe sat so motionless, she might have been asleep or dead. • The atep on the shingle outside aroused her; It was the atep she loved, and had scarcely hoped to hear again on earth. Bhe sprang up with a low. ahjfll cry. and met her

a at tha opening of the door.

“Eh. my laddie, are ye safe after s'?” ahe cried, beginning to weep now 1 strain was loosed and rejlef come; "whsrs’s Annie an’ Frank Scott and wee Willie an' tha rest!" “We are s' safe but Francte, mother. A wave swept .him Into tha sea. It waa like a mighty chum, an’ be dis-

appeared In a moment"

Although her Joy nt her son's re-

overwhelming, her face cloud-

thrown

“She walked I'll seek her n<

“But

laddie.

Come to the fire. Annie will be here ihe'll come to nae harm.”

test

mod on his heel out Into the nl

ek her now If ye like." t ye are soakin' to 1 , an' jlst saved frae

1 come to nae h

But Ardbuckle pould nc

Is heel out

again, and Just at the head of the sloping shingle met the girl walking with slow, disconsolate step. He took her by the arm, and his

ness Itself.

“Come, my dear. It will do nae good to be wanderin' here In the nlcht T ~ are wet an' cauld. Annie. Come hami She suffered him to lead her; but spoke never a word. Once or her eyes turned to the angry sea. which had wrought such woo In rife^hcart and lift. They came together to the house, and old Jean Ardbuckle, whom the ms had robbed of three sons and their father, took the girl to her motherly heart. If there-had been any bltter-

Ye

me.” but she r twice

night; driftwi

spent by t and at the

was

twood fire, and at the grey

Ing some peace came to the troubled sea. mayhap to their hearts. Annie Doon crept to her bed In the attic room

ibbcd herself to sleep. Next day, what they would say. she he searchers on the drift-

strewn beach; but not on that day nor

ody i

:t recovered. Nor would be until

In spite of was with t

strewn beach;

on any other was the body of Frank

Scot I

channels, even though hearts are at the breaking. The dally duty then becomes the merciful healer. The gaps closed up In Portknockie year by year; a few white hairs, a line about the mouth, a quietness and stillness of speech—these perhaps were accentuated by the Increasing sorrow. But the boats put to sea as usual, and the same hours of anxiety and heart sickness • endured by women on the shore. Out ^f It there grows a quiet courage, a dumb patience, a still, uumunnering railing on the will of God. Annie Doon did not weep where she could be seen, nor did she give up a ■Ingle Item of her dally task. The only mother she! had ever known was

.But out of the girl's heart the singing bird had gone. In the Spring of the next year, when the wonderful

of an April a

ed on a sea which always smiled, Jean Ardbuckle laid her down to die. She was noither sad nor glad to go. She would die as she had lived, acquiescing

In the trill of God.

"Annie.” she said one day. as the girl, who had been twice a daughl to her. bent over her bed. "he has lo'

> had

her. bent over her 1

ag. my 3c i ye tat? rould see

o'ed

rhat will ye

i an’ wife afore

If I could see ye i

I dee I would shut my e'en In peace.’ ”1 can never be wife to ony man, untie; my heart la died." the girl an-

irered, simply.

"But It wad come to lift again, Annie. Listen. When I was young I thocht os you do; hut I married a man that had loved me true for years, and when I was his wife and his bairn lay upon my knee I knew he was the man God meant for me. John has lo’ed ye a' his life.’’ The girl's face flushed a little, and er eyes were troubled. In the soft calm of the spring night she went out i the brae to commune with her heart, and to ponder on what had ed between her, aunt and herself. She thought ot all the years ahe had been sheltered' In that humble home, of John’s tender if undemonstrative care, and a strange humbleness and -earning towards him came over her. Vnd somehow Ip. was no surprise to her when she turned and met him on the brae face, guessing he hai^ollowed her from the house. "Isabel Broon Is beside auntie,” she said quietly, to explain her absence. “I ken.” he answered. ’Tve come

frae the &oose.”

They held upwards side by side until icy came to a place where the brae as cleft into a' sheltered hollow, where the pink sea daisies blew. And there they stood atll. she leaning against a boulder, with her eyes to sea. She was very frail and slight, and her face was one*' of uncommon s’eetness. with that touch of sadness hick, set her apart. Ho was stalwart and strong, and the salt sea had tanned bis cheek, and his eye was os blue as the ware where the sun bad kissed it. But his face wes sad also, and there was silence between them. •'Auntie’s failin’, John.” aald Annie. “She will not live long noo.” "I see that. An’ you an’ I will be left. Annie. We hae that to think

cm.”

“Aunt Jean has been ipeakin’ to e, John,’’ sold Annie, and there waa a faraway note In her voice. “If It will mak’ hap hannlpr aa aha aava ][

turn was ovs

’ An’ where's Aabls? Does aha ken? Have ya no' see* hsrT • “Bhe kens. I thocht I should find

*r bars.”

"Har heart will be broken, John;

mak’ ber happier, as she cays it will, I am willin', an' I'll dae my , best to be a good wife to you for a' your

goodness to me.”

There waa a look of high raaolve. rather than of tenderneea. lr. her face, sad he knew In his heart that If ahe had loved him’ M he loved her the words could not have fallen so glibly from her tongue. HU ruddy color paled, and the strong hand which had fought the water* since Ua boyhood trembled aa it touched tha stoua where her slender fingers lay. "Annie! Annie!** ha said hoaraelr. T canna. I am no’ worthy, though God abrifti kens that I loe ya.” She turned to him with a smile of inexpressible sweetness. "Y* needna any that to me, John. Have I no' kent ye s’ my deysr ~

“Ay. but——" He too* two slept away from her. and the struggle in bli soul was terrible. For hU nature waa deep and slow, ana he loved this woman with the passions of a lift. When he came back bla face had cleared of 1U agitation, and there was a look

of Betticd sadness about It.

"Listen. Annie, and I will lay down

that has been on my soul Jonnle Ann was wrecked.

I saw the wave cornin' that washed pulr Frank away, and had I been quick enough I micht have saved him, though

the expense o' my aln life.

nough I ml taybe at t

him best.’ Her face paled, and the smile grew wan about the mouth. "It was the will of God that Frank should be drowned. John. It waa his weird—his time had come." "But there was as guld as murder In my heart. Annie. I hated him because you liked him best Am I no' a

murderer In God's slcht?” "I dlnna believe what you aay. John —you that never wad hurt the smallest beast or bird. It’s the horror o' that nlcht upon ye yet," she said, and there was no reproach in her voice. "Frank aye said wo should never be man an' wife because the sea would tak' him first. An' If—an' If It be true that there was sic a thocht In your heart. God Is merciful. He kens an’ sees the heart.’ John Ardbuckle turned away, and bla bosom heaved, while a stinging moisture, salter than tho sea, was in bis eyes.

the first pe;

debt, ur 11;

thy o’ ye afi wheesht: I

Join your be worthy

"Oh. v

that ken

speal

1 hae had since that if It be that ye can mine I pray that I

iwful nlcht. An’ If It be that

pra;

afore I dee."

am but a puir lassie

naethlng. and a' Partknockie

kens what you are." she said, as she laid her hand with the women's courage and tenderness upon his arm. “Come, let us go back to Auntie Jean."

—British Weekly.

OUAINT AND CURIOUS.

Eton, f other day was remarried Just two weeks after his first wife's death, and when the boys came to charivari him he went out and told them that they ought to be ashamed of themselves for making such an uproar around a house where a funeral had been held so recently. i Toklo has been destroying rats wholesale as a preventive measure against the plague. This disturbed the religious scruples of Umatario Nega] of Akasaka-ken and he began to see rats at night. To get rid of tho dreams he has spent $1000 in bnlldlng a stone pillar twelve feet high and six feet thick. In honor of the spirits of the killed rats. An ingenious method of obtaining a reputation for patriotism cheaply has been invented by certain Berlin publicans. On their shop fronts they hang legions to this effect; “So long as the war In South Africa lasts I forbid any Englishman to enter my premises." The use of this placard Is, It is said, entirely confined to houses of a class that never entertained an Englishman In the course of their existence. The American oppoasum Is one of most curious animals living in the Ited States. It la the only one that carries Us young in a pouch like the kangaroo. It la the only animal that can feign death perfectly. It la reable for hanging by Its tall like a monkey. It has hands resembling those of a human being. -Its snout Is like a hog’s, while Us mouth is liberally furnished with teeth. It's eyes

A. O. Webster reported to the American Physical society In New York City recently the results of experiifienta on a singular difference In the audibility of sound when passing over water and over grass. Under similar conditions of quietness It was found that a given sound could be heard almost exactly four times as far over water as over grass. The assumption that water Is a perfect reflector and grass a complete absorber of soundres Is not, Mr. Webster says, suf-

’lenomenon.

knowing

the m Unite

waves Is not, Mr. Webster i flclent to explsin the phei The practical Importance of

this pectrilarity, where sound may have to be sent across a grassy plain,

la evident.

Sarah Fisher, a character of tho euntry-side, of Hampshire, Eng., has just died at the age of SO years. She lived in a cottage by herself, and spent' nearly all her time In the open air. Every day. no matter what the weather was, she tramped about the country, wandering miles away from her

Robe

Parte, where she received a basin

le. Twice a week ahe called at Sir

Robert Wright's house

•*, where she rece:

soup and plenty of "victuals” to take awayjMUi her. She called at a neighbor's'house the evening before she died to get a loaf which the baker had brought, and left to go home across the fields. Missing her way ahe fell into a ditch, and there her body was found the next morning.

Hey I of

Captain—Bergeant, note down Prtw te Grasgrum—three days on bread »d water for slovenly turnout on par-

ade.

Sergeant—-Bog pardon, captain, that on't make the' slightest difference to hint—he’s a vegetarian. Captain—Then give Mm three days i meat mad aoup.—Pick-Me-Up.

New York City.—This stylish blouse Is made of Russian green Venetian, wfth white peau de sole trlpiming. It Is adjusted with shoulder and uo

der-arm teams tends from shoulder to belt tapering toward the waist in V-she] outline. The same pleat appears in front giving a becoming breadth to the

L deep pleat exbelt In tbe back. taped

Ing and lace to conform with the yoke,

id line

' e-genet

lered at the low

providing 1 that add c

considerably (

effect. They are gat here edge, and adjusted on fitted

over which they droop stylishly. To make the gown In medium sire will require five and one-half yards of

forty-four-lncb material. The Stylish ••Kewport."

The new jacket called tbe "Newport” Is made of fawn colored glace taffeta. It Is long and tight fitting, pleats giving the needed fnlnes*. and Is strapped with bands of satin In a darker shade. On tbe collar there are

medallions of ecru lace.

i bands of satin In s

Black stockings with a vertical atripe consisting bf a small floral design in two shades of pale blue are among the novelties in hosiery. One of the Late Fanciet, One of fashion’s latest fancies is the Gibson waist, which Is especially ef fectlve when developed in white or colored moire. Plain waists of this kind show tbe fabric to splendid ad

vantage

The 0

of oyster white, moln

velvet buttons for decoration. The

atage.

“he Gibson waist Illustrated is make jyster white, moire, with tiny black

Is a glove-; ag which clos

foundation

boned lining v

tre front.

Broad pleats extend from shoulder

pleats *

to belt back and front tapering ward tbe belt. These pleats arc the essential feature of the Gibson waist

LADIES’ EMPIRE GOWN.

shoulders. This effect Is especially appropriate for slender girlish figures. Tbe fronts are deeply underfaced with silk and rolled back to form revers which meet the turn-down collar in notches. Several rows of machine atltcMng are used to finish the edges of collar and revers. The jacket is provided with a circular skirt portion, which may. however, be omitted if preferred, and the waist finished with a narrow belt The sleeves are shaped with upper and under portions to fit the arm closely and flare In bell effect at the wrists. They have slight fulness on the shonldeyt. Smart garments In this mode may I made of the same material as the ski for outdoor suits. They may also I developed In broad or ladies' cloth, melton or cheviot with silk or velvet trimmings, and worn og separate jackets. To make the Jacket for a miss of fourteen years will require one and one-half yards of forty-four-inch n rial with one-half yard of control material for trimming. Graceful Empire Gown. Soft clinging fabrics, such ss liberty satin, crepe de chine, Loulslne or silk veiling are used for the graceful Empire gowns, which are constantly gaining favor In the fasMon world. The toilet ID astro tod In the Urge drawing Is msde of msave silk crepe with ecru Chantilly lace for.trimming. The upper portion of the deep fitted yoke la tucked and a broad band of lace forms the lower part. The neck Is cut square and finished with narrow lace beading ran through with violet velvet ribbon. Tbe toll skirt Is gathered at the upper edge and arranged on tbe yoke, a

under tbe arms.

The crape falls In long, graceful folds to the floor and the skirt trains slightly In the back. An elaborate lace trimming adorns the hem of the gown and forms a deep ;.olot In front {The sleeves ire trimmed with tuck-

and give a broad effect to the shoulders that is very becoming to slender figures. The back 1* fitted smoothly across the shoulders and has slight fulness at the waist arranged in tiny pleats. A perfect adjustment Is maintained under the arms. The fronts are plain and fasten Invisibly In the centre. Bo vs of black velvet buttons are placed directly on the edges of the fronts. The -machine stitching and buttons are extended on the collar In an uninterrupted line, the collar closing in the hack. The bishop sleeves are fitted with in-ilde seams and have comfortable fulness on the shoulders. They are gathered at the lower edge gnd arranged on deep, fitted cuffs. A narrow velvet belt completes the blouse.

for the mode.

d. m■‘China l t&usoal

To make the waist In the medium lae will require two yards of thlrty-slx-lncb material. . ..