BY ELLA F. MOSBY, AUTHOR OF DR. CLOUGH'S DAUGHTER,"

AT THE WINDOW," &c.

ILLUSTRATED BY W. L. SHEPPARD. CHAPTER V.

One morning in May, St. Armand entered Morley Court to give his usual lesson in Latin. His pupils were not in the small sittingroom. Presently Katherine came in, her still gentle countenance a little flushed, and traces of tears-or St. Armand thought so-upon her cheeks. A grossly-exaggerated version of the difficulty at the ale-house with Crewse had been repeated before her that morning, and aroused her keenest indignation by the slander which she was yet unable to disprove.

But a slower perception than St. Armand's would scarcely have remarked any sign of agitation. She explained, quietly, that her sister was not well, and she would take her lesson alone. Her volume of Tacitus was mislaid, and they read together. She went through the Latin successfully, with only now and then a slight tremor in her voice, but when the translation came, she hesitated slightly. He repeated the sentence in Latin, although it began to seem to him as if the old book was throbbing with life through all its yellow and crumpled leaves. Her fingers touched his by chance, and set all the pulses tingling and hot through his whole body. She tried and failed; tried again, and broke down, with a quick sob. Then, half-frightened at her own emotion-at this new and strange feeling that seemed to blind her to the print before her eyes she looked up into his face as if for aid, with her lovely lips quivering, and her tender eyes full of tears. He could not help it-a sudden, fiery impulse seized him. Dazzled by the golden hair

and sweet face so near his own, the bewildered, passionate yearning overcame him, and he stooped down and kissed the soft, red mouth.

"What? Eh? Katherine?" And, starting, he turned and saw her father, with dismayed face, standing in the doorway! Katherine crimsoned painfully, but looked at her father with such a pure face, such innocent entreaty, that the angry words died on his lips. "My daughter, I think you had better leave us," he said, at last, and she arose, without a word, and went out.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Until to-day, sir, I never betrayed the love, the ardent love, I undoubtedly felt. I was wrong, but it was a mad impulse I could

not resist."

There was so much of nobility about St. Armand's manner-deprecating, yet firm-so much of beauty and grace in his countenance and figure, that Mr. Morley found himself, unconsciously, admiring the very person he had resolved to be in a rage with.

"Has my daughter?" he asked, and paused, uncertain how to frame his inquiry.

"Miss Morley has said nothing, but I believe she loves me." Truly, Mr. Morley believed so too, and an uneasy fear of grieving this favorite child undermined all his attempts at sternness. St. Armand saw it, and, with sudden hope, exclaimed: "You know already my rank and birth. If I can, by my own efforts, earn a competence-or if you ask affluence, and I could offer that you would not forbid me to hope?"

"There certainly can be no engagement at present," said Mr. Morley, bewildered by the young man's impetuosity, and this intercourse of teacher and scholar must stop immediately."

"But you will let me write to her, then? I must explain my feelings (that is due to your daughter), and the letter shall be placed in your hands."

"This cannot go any further," repeated Mr. Morley, but, somewhat dazzled by a possibility that St. Armand might recover his estates and title, he did not absolutely prohibit the letter. St. Armand wrote it with all the fervor and enthusiasm of his soul, and placed it in the father's hands; then left, so radiant with joy that he entirely forgot on what a slender thread of encouragement, on how many contingencies and chances, his hopes hung.

Did Katherine love him indeed? How could he tell? And a sudden fear possessed him, numbering over the very few words and looks he had ever had from her, and then a recollection of her sweet, tearful face sent him again into a paradise of hopes and dreams.

D'Hérincourt met him on the street, and walked with him home. He was a little more bitter than usual, St. Armand thought, sneering at women and their weaknesses, until Emilie declared she would not listen to him, but ran away, laughing, with her hands over her

ears.

"There, at least, is one true little heart," he said, looking after her, with a softer expression; "not very wise, except in the art to be loved; but as for all other women, they are a mass of cunning and deceit. I despise them."

"D'Hérincourt!" said St. Armand, suddenly, with an imploring, and half-reproachful glance, " D'Hérincourt!" and paused again. "Well?" he answered, impatiently, "What do you want with 'D'Hérincourt! D'Hérincourt!' as if it were some magic exorcism or spell ?"

"I wish it were," said St. Armand, sadly; “I wish it were a spell by which some tender remembrances could be called back."

"St. Armand!" exclaimed the Chevalier, in uncontrollable rage, "take care!"

Emilie appeared at the door, and looked, doubtfully, from one troubled face to the other.

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Come on, my darling!" said St. Armand, and held her down close in his arms, and smoothed her dark hair tenderly. "If, when we were little children, and knew each other so little, Emilie, if some shadow or distrust had crept up between us, and I, being sorry, had asked you to love me again, would you, even then, have refused me?"

"Oh, no! no!" said Emilie, wonderingly, and clasping closer the loving hand that was near her.

"And if we quarrelled now, Emilie-little sister-now that we have been so much to each other, so dear-when no one else remained of our old home, or country-if I wronged you now, would you not forgive me still?"

Emilie could not reply for weeping, but she kissed him again and again. St. Armand, glancing at D'Hérincourt's face, saw it looking, dark and stern, into the dead ashes of the hearth.

"My tender-hearted Emilie, I did not mean to grieve you so; but let me ask you but once again, darling, if not you or I, but two lovers, nearer than even the most loving brother and sister, if, dearer still, a husband wife, had ever (oh, most miserable hour!) doubted-been angry with each other, even wounded the one they still loved best, with unkindest words, and came again, saying, 'Forgive ?"

"Oh, Louis! Louis! it breaks my heart to think that any one could be so cold, so hard; but oh no: they would be forgiven."

St. Armand looked at D'Hérincourt silently, and kissed Emilie again. She presently arose, still weeping, and went out.

'So this is what you are aiming at? But what if I ask you about Katherine Morley? I can see, also," and, as if goaded by some devil of bitterness, he went on in a strain of satire and insinuation that stung his hearer to the quick.

"You shall not speak of her in that tone! Say what you will of me, D'Hérincourt, but there you shall keep silence." He sang, in a scornful and light tone,

"But Katherine is young, Katherine is fair!"

St. Armand started up. "I can control myself no longer! D'Hérincourt, you are no longer my friend!" He then rushed from the

room.

The Chevalier leaned back in his chair with a satirical smile on his lips, but as time passed, and St. Armand did not return, an expression of inexpressible yearning and melancholy stole over his face. He felt something drop, warm, upon his hand; it was a tear, and he started impatiently from his seat. But in the dim silence of the empty room he could summon back no worldly skepticism or pride to shake off the gloom and sense of desolation that moment after moment weighed more heavily upon him.

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, "why need I have wounded the boy so? Have not I, too, been in Arcadia? To-morrow I will make it up." Even as he said it, a vague fear seized him, lest to-morrow should not be his to use at his will. A sudden cry rent the air. He waited, listened, and heard no more, He rose to go out, but Emilie's slight figure stopped him on the landing,

Chevalier, what was it I heard?"

so brightly, kindling white lights in every way-side pool and stream, that, except for the deep shadows of the rocks and bushes along this mountain road, you could see every object as if in broad day. He noticed that his footsteps had frightened a bird that flew, suddenly, from the reeds below, and left them swaying to and fro with its light motion in taking wing. Then he heard a horse's hoofs on the road below dash off, as if alarmed. He walked toward the place, fancying there was the sound of a struggle and groans, but the last were so faint that he doubted if his excited imagination was not playing him false.

But as he approached nearer, he saw a body lying, limp and helpless, in the road. He stooped over it, and raised the head. The moonlight fell, pallid and cold, upon it, and he saw it was Mr. Crewse, his features distorted and rigid. He put his hand to the heart to ascertain if any life remained, thinking, still, it was only an accidental death by a fall from his horse, and the red blood flowed over his fingers. Still looking, half-stunned with horror, he, for the first time, heard a man's footsteps close by him.

"Help me!" he said, "for mercy's sake, help! He may not be dead!" But, looking up, he was struck dumb by the expression of Donaldson's face (for it was he), as he gazed at him.

"I arrest you as the murderer!" he said. "I heard you threaten him in the ale-house, and now you have murdered him," and he uttered the cry for help that had startled the sleeping village. "Murdered him!-I? But I know nothing of it!" exclaimed St. Armand. "I might as well accuse you!"

Might you? But have I not found you by him, with your hands covered with his blood?"

The people were already around; two or three were already at the spot, which was, indeed, just above the village. St. Armand had but an indistinct recollection of what followed, except seeing the ghastly horror of the corpse carried by, and being himself guarded closely by suspicious and angry men.

In the street he met D'Hérincourt, who, in his passionate remorse, would have thrown himself in his arms, but they were separated by force.

"Only take care of Emilie," was all he could say, as he was hur ried off in custody to the jail.

It is not necessary to tell of the misery of the lonely nights and days that followed. No one, not even his sister, was allowed to see him. Day by day new exaggerations swelled the story of the murder, until no horror or atrocity was too great for the infuriated mob to believe. No money had been found on him-"well, he had murdered him from cold-blooded revenge for a few hasty words." Mr. Crewse had been no favorite while alive, but when young Donaldson reported that the large sum which could not be accounted for in the final settlement of his estate had been expended in anonymous charities, the people knew no bounds to their praises. Donaldson, also, who had been a sort of secretary to him for the last two months, received his share of honor for the zeal with which he had tracked the riderless horse back to the fatal spot, and the promptitude with which he had arrested the murderer. Rumor said he had offered bribes to be allowed to escape, and had then threatened to accuse him of the murder, but Donaldson had firmly resisted both.

The Chevalier had been untiring. Mr. Melvin Spencer was retained for the defence, and the best counsel money could employ, but no one doubted the result.

Emilie had been very ill, and the Morleys did not escape censure for their ill-judged benevolence in taking her to their house; nor the Reverend Robert McIntyre for refusing to be released from his engagement. Miss Cornelia mourned over his obduracy, long and loudly, and excited great commiseration for her wooer amongst her sister spinsters. Of Katherine no one said anything except that she looked whiter and stiller than ever. "But all the sons had died with consumption; the hereditary disease was just appearing, it was plain;" and the old women shook their heads solemnly.

At last, it was the day of the trial. The court was crowded, and even outside an eager crowd waited, wrought up to the highest stage of excited interest. Distinctly St. Armand (trying to retain his composure) saw the faces of common acquaintances looking coldly and with dislike toward him; he saw the judge, pompous and heavy; the astute-looking lawyer who led the prosecution; Donaldson, low-browed and dark, imperturbably stolid; Mr. Melvin Spencer, as calm as if no human life hung upon his efforts. There were also ladies there: Katherine Morley had been called to certify where the prisoner had spent the morning of the day of the murder; Emilie was there. Mr. Melvin Spencer had caused her to come, hoping her presence might touch the court. He almost cursed himself for his stupidity afterwards, for as she fainted and was carried out, it touched the prisoner so, that he visibly drooped, and would have given way, but for the sight of one pure, loving face, that seemed to set, cameo-wise, betwixt him and the dark-not smiling, nor despairing, but confronting, as it were, every fate, with a courage that held the worst in abeyance. The old line he had quoted flashed into his mind

And save poor souls from perishing sometimes."

He listened again. The testimony was going against him; the jury looked darker; Mr. Spencer's mouth closed itself in a long, hard line. But as he looked toward that face, he saw that at every new accusation, or suspicion, the eyes seemed to fill with deeper and stronger tenderness, and to turn more constantly to meet his "I shall not die disgraced," he thought, "if believed innocent by her; I shall not die in pain, being loved so tenderly!" So, always, it strengthened, and comforted, and upheld him, until at last there

own.

was a stir. She went out, and the jury retired for consultation. Then, with sudden revulsion, the long strain gave way, and merciful insensibility, in which he lay as one long lost in death, ensued. When he came to himself, in a narrow room, with water poured upon his face, and his hands chafed roughly, he caught D'Hérincourt's voice saying, "Don't tell him-not now!"

"I know what it is," he said, moving feebly, as if half numbed by the long swoon. "I know it-they have found me 'guilty. At the time he said this, he felt sorry, as if for some poor youth, so happy, so struck down by misery in one day's fleeting hours; but that it was himself he would not feel.

D'Hérincourt turned away his face; but the dead, heavy silence answered him more horribly than any words.

"When is it to be??-still feeling as if so long dead that no pain touched him; but when the jailer told him-not very harshly, for it was so near that the public thirst for retribution was as if gratified-a mighty wave of recollection overpowered him, and he covered his face with his hands to hide the mortal agony there. "My poor Emilie!"

When he went out, D'Hérincourt threw himself in the way. "Tell me, St. Armand-think-try to remember-have you no enemy? Has no one a grudge against you? Do you suspect no one of this murder?"

"No one," said St. Armand. "No, I suspect no one."

"This is not allowed, sir," said the jailer, "you must stand aside."

And so they parted.

CHAPTER VII.

The jailer would have told you that a great many criminals sleep "the sleep of the just" even the night before their execution. He was not surprised-believing Louis St. Armand guilty of the attrocious murder of an Englishman of his own parish-to find him in one or two hours unconscious of any earthly change, slumbering in undisturbed repose. Why, sir, they mostly get tired-like they don't feel it, sir. It is in the day they break down, and sometimes they have too much pluck for that."

But at once St. Armand became sleepily and uneasily conscious that some one was in the cell. Awakening a little more, he sees Melvin Spencer by the dim light which he holds before him, so as to keep the slightest ray from any eyes but his own.

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"Do not speak yet. Wait. Are you sure you are fully awake?" St. Armand made a sign of assent. 'Sure that you understand what I say? That there is no hope-none--and you must fly for your life."

"And confess myself guilty by flight," said he, bitterly.
"And gain time to prove yourself innocent. Not a word."
"Will you not go?"

An awful apathy clogged the prisoner's brain; a sudden sinking about his heart bore him down.

"I should only be arrested, and brought back."

"If you stay you are a dead man. For your sister's sake, will you not go?"

Again the same hopeless apathy, stealing over every limb and feature.

"For the sake, then, of one dearer," and his muscles twitched as if in pain, as he spoke, and he breathed hard. "I received this today," and he handed him a narrow slip of paper with these words: "There is only one life between me and death.-K. M." "You will go?" Yes, he would go now; the fresh blood had started back to the hands and face. He would listen now to the details of disguise, concealment. One of the jailers was bribed, and besides, his faithful devotion to the Spencer family would secure his silence. "There shall be no search made until to-morrow afternoon; I will arrange that. By that time you will be near the shore. A vessel starts from there for the continent, and once on board, you are safe."

The next day, the second jailer reported the prisoner ill, and not wishing to speak; the third-at night-examining the cell, finds a stuffed figure in bed, and the prisoner gone; and before midnight the whole town rings with his escape.

But it has now been six months-a year-nearly two years, since then. People have ceased to talk about it, and even look with kindness and pity on the slight figure of little Emilie-now the wife of the young English clergyman. She does not look very happy; she has not yet recovered the great shock, and continually grieves for her brother; but every one else has, or seems to have, forgotten him.

Even the Chevalier, by some strange whim, has contracted an intimacy with the most unlikely person of all-his accuser, William Donaldson. The latter received a legacy from Mr. Crewse, added to his will, which abounded in codicils, a few days before his death. He has taken lodgings in town, attends the Chevalier's lectures, studies hard. And the Chevalier, in seeming oblivion of the past, lends him books, advises him, walks with him often. Nay, and even goes to the Rev. Robert McIntyre's house, with kinds words to Donaldson fresh on his lips. He is going there now. "Frivolous and heartless," says an old woman, looking after him. "Like all of his race!" The Chevalier hears, apparently, and smiles a very unpleasant smile to see.

Coming in the narrow little sitting-room. Emilie's quarters have not been greatly improved, for her husband is poor. He sees that Emilie has been weeping. There are red circles about her eyes; her childishly small hands tremble visibly; she does not seem well.

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Gradually she discloses a part of her trouble. Miss Cornelia has been there, bemoaning her brother's difficulties; she knows well there has always been opposition to him since-well, since he married. He has lost his influence. She does not wish to hurt Emilie's feelings, especially as a certain person may be dead; she will not say more now. The Chevalier hears this, and rages silently. "I do not believe it," says Emilie. "They are all kind to me now. I would not mind it if I were strong;" the big tears stealing down her cheeks. "But I wish"-with a little smile that soon fades"I wish Cornelia were happily married; and perhaps she would not trouble herself so much about Robert and me."

The Chevalier clenches his hands, as if desiring a severer punish

ment.

Suddenly, Emilie's face clouds with a new remembrance, and she bursts into hysterical sobs. "And oh, Chevalier, the worst of all is, they say now, that you-even you-believe Louis guilty!" The Chevalier groans.

There is a soft footstep at the door, and Katherine enters, in deep mourning for her father, who died last year. She does not ask what is the matter; she only kneels down by Emilie, and draws her head upon her shoulder, soothing her by every tender word, every loving caress, until the passionate burst of grief has had its way, and

ceases.

She has brought her books and pictures, and flowers, and under her gentle touches the whole room is brightened. The fire burns more cheerfully, D'Hérincourt thinks; he has long lost his unreasonable prejudice against Katherine, and watches her with almost reverence, as she moves softly here and there.

She is so tender with Emilie; she has so many sweet, womanly ways, so loving a voice and touch, that the little wife at last looks up and smiles faintly, and talks to them both.

But when Katherine arises to leave, D'Hérincourt sees Emilie hold her imploringly-with a mute entreaty clasp her hand. They are standing in the shadow of the curtained window, and he hears Emilie say:

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Katherine, have you not heard yet? The first year Mr. Spencer said we could not; that every letter, every package would be watched; but oh, Katherine, it has been so long! Not one wordnot one sign or token yet?" The earnest, pleading eyes look wistfully to the beautiful face, to the lips that quiver as they answer, "Oh, Emilie, Emilie! Oh, my poor darling!-none."

CHAPTER VIII.

Between me and death!" These words returned often to the mind of St. Armand during his gloomy voyage from England. When, depressed in body and mind, he saw with melancholy foreboding only an unknown grave in a land no longer home, these rose up before him with new comfort and strength. Repeated so continually that they lost their first meaning, they came back again and again in "the still watches of the night," in the long darkness before dawn when the silence of the lonely sea was deepest, and saved his tired heart and brain from madness and despair.

He landed on the coast of France. It was at the risk of his life; for immediate death would have followed the detection of his true name and rank; but he had in Marseilles one friend, who would at least be glad to see him. It was the Chevalier D'Hérincourt's young wife, with whose sad history he had become familiar by chance, and for whom he had so vainly attempted to intercede with her husband. This marriage had been suspected by few, even of his most intimate friends. It had been contracted in secret, on account of family opposition, and before three years had passed, they were separated, with bitter and wounded feeling on each side. St. Armand believed that this had been caused for the most part by the misrepresentations and falsehoods of others; but both were high-spirited and proud, and in the first heat of passion and indignation, many things had been said by the Chevalier's wife which he had never forgotten nor forgiven. She was now living under her maiden name with some relatives at Marseilles.

It was to her that St. Armand went, and by her aid he gained employment in the town sufficient to support him. Mr. Spencer had taken the address to which news might be sent him-if there were any-but had absolutely prohibited all communication with England, for fear of the consequences it might entail. So month after month passed in silence and disappointed expectations. At last his failing energies gave way, and the crisis, quickened by constant work and exposure, came in a long and exhausting fever, which threatened his life. He was nursed through it all, with the patience and tenderness which rarely any save the unfortunate show to each other, and which Valerie D'Hérincourt and her friends gave without stint or lack to one who had already excited their quick sympathies and won their warmest personal love. And he was now in the first stages of convalescence; half weary of the struggling efforts of returning vitality, half wondering at the exclamations of delighted surprise with which Valerie greeted his first entrance into her sitting-room down stairs.

He was so feeble still, that as he leaned back in the large cushioned chair, which she had quickly drawn forward to the window for him, the sudden color of excitement had begun to ebb away, and show how white and thin his face was. He looked down at his weak hands, with the strange kind of comparison which an invalid always feels for himself, and sighed, Valerie began to talk to him. She rarely spoke of her own troubles; but to-day somesubtle perception showed her that it was better by any means to chase his thoughts away from his own past.

She opened again the little casket in her lap, and took from it a few articles of an infant's dress, perfumed with the faint, sweet fragrance of dead flowers, and a golden curl, on which a tear glistened still.

"These were my baby's," she said, softly. "But my grief for him was never bitter, because I knew the little one loved me always. You may show a child the fairest, the loveliest faces of the earth, but he has only one mother.”

St. Armand's eyes turned from the shore without--with its gray sky and cold waters, and the flying sea-birds-to the earnest, womanly face near him, and there was a quick sympathy and pity in his look.

She went on, through her tears. "No; the loss was not so hard as change. But when time, with cruel irony, makes the one that vowed" others may change to you, but I never will"—grow so cold that if you passed him on the street, he would not turn, that is hard-when love comes back like a ghost, saying in the saddest pathos: 'Am I then forgotten?"

St. Armand's lips contracted with a sudden pain. Often and often had he thought, when most desponding and weary, how it might be that Emilie, a happy wife and mother, in her safe, quiet English household, shut in by tenderest care and love, and surrounded by the blooming faces of her children, might at last grow to forget him; that D'Hérincourt, when the popular madness had spent its last fury, might return, even in France, to fame and wealth and honor, and remember his old friend no more; that another lover-but noin the features that arose before his memory, there was no forgetfulness-no change: only faithful love to the end.

Yet Valerie saw, though a faint smile rested now on the pale lips, that she had touched too tender a chord.

"Friend," she said, “I have drawn too dark a picture. I sometimes believe if I were near my husband again, if the old sight and familiar presence could be once more, all would be well."

St. Armand looked at her noble features, so full of sensibility and fire at the gentler expression, the softer smile.

"God grant it might be!" he answered, earnestly.

There was a knock at the door, and Valerie's servant-a boy of ten-appeared. "It is a letter for the citizen who has been so ill." Valerie uttered a cry of joy, as if her own desire had been fulfilled, and sprang up to give it to him.

"It is from England."

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK.

THE ART OF COOKERY.

BY PIERRE BLOT,

NO. 2.-BREAKFAST.

BREAKFAST BEVERAGES.-The habit that Americans have of breakfasting earlier than their ancestors of Europe, has come from necessity. The first settlers of this country had to contend with an untilled and newly-tilled soil, producing miasma. They soon found out that those who were going out early in the day with an empty stomach were more subject to sickness-fevers especially-than those who partook of food before.

Warm

Among the divers warm drinks for breakfast is tea, which should be made according to the English way, which is the best. the tea-pot by turning boiling water into it, and then pour it off; put the tea leaves into it, and wet them with about a gill of boiling water, one minute after which, pour on all the boiling water necessary; allow five or six minutes for steeping, and then draw and serve. If allowed to steep longer, it makes the tea bitter, and destroys part of its flavor.

Tea is too astringent for a breakfast drink; acting directly on the nervous system, it gives it an artificial activity which is generally followed by prostration.

Tea is excellent in damp weather, and in a low, marshy country, as a preventive against fevers; but taken warm while eating, it causes the food to pass too quickly through the system to allow it to get assimilated. A cup taken after a meal, the same as café noir, helps digestion.

Green tea excites the nervous system more than black tea, containing, as it does, more essential oil.

Chocolate is more nutritious than either tea or coffee, and does not act on the nerves as the former, or on the blood as the latter; it agrees with almost everybody, young or old, male or female, the well and the invalid alike. In cases requiring a speedy nutrition, it is the best thing that can be given; its liquid state allowing it to be felt instantaneously, and making its assimilation easy and prompt.

It takes from one to two ounces to a cup, according to taste, be it sweet or not. After having broken four ounces of chocolate in small pieces, put it in a tin-pan with about a gill of water; set it on a slow fire, and stir with a wooden spoon until melted, and for about ten minutes afterward. Give one boil to a pint of milk or cream, and turn it into the chocolate, little by little, stirring briskly the while; boil for about one minute, beating briskly with a wire eggbeater, and serve. It is sweetened to taste when in the cup. It can be made with one pint of boiling water instead of milk, according to taste.

Cocoa is made in two ways, one of which is simply to put one or two spoonfuls of ground cocoa in a cup; pour boiling milk or cream over, little by little, stirring the while; sweeten and serve. The other way is to put four ounces of ground cocoa in a pan, with half a pint of water, and boil for twenty minutes, stirring constantly with

a wooden spoon; then milk or cream to taste is added, and it is ready to serve.

Like chocolate, cocoa is nutritious, and agrees with every one. It can be made with water instead of milk.

Another good drink is made by mixing a cup of coffee and milk with a cup of chocolate; it is called Choca in Europe; it is said to have been devised by Voltaire, while he was the guest of Frederick II.

BEEFSTEAK. The best parts of beef for steaks are: the tenderloin, the sirloin, the rump, and a part of the chuck piece; but the demand for steaks is so great, that butchers are obliged to have recourse to expedients to supply that demand, and accordingly cut steaks out of other pieces. The so-called "porter-house steak," which seems to be the favorite with the majority of people, is composed of both the tenderloin and the sirloin; it is really a double steak in itself. A rib piece, after the removal of the bone, makes an excellent steak.

Let our readers bear in mind that a good steak does not need any pounding; no matter how long you pound a tough steak, you will not make it tender, except you keep up the process until it is tainted. Pounding merely breaks some of the fibres, but does not change the nature of the meat.

It is a great mistake to order steaks to be cut thin, because to broil a steak properly, requires a sharp fire, and if it be thin, it is dried up before being cooked.

It is also a mistake to broil a large piece and then cut it up when on the table, because the juice runs out of it in cutting. If cut before broiling, every one has the juice of the piece on the plate, the steak besides is more handy and better cut.

A steak should be from one to one and a half inches thick, and never less than three quarters of an inch. It should be of a length and width according to the shape of the piece from which it is cut off, say from two to three inches wide and from four to five inches long.

TO PROPERLY BROIL A STEAK.-Have a sharp fire and a good draft; spread a little melted butter on a plate, and dip both sides (the top and under part when served) of the steak in it; salt slightly both sides, also, place on or in the gridiron, and set on the fire. When one side of the steak is broiled, which will take from three to four minutes, according to the intensity of the fire and the quality and thickness of the meat, turn over and broil the other side; keep the dish on which the steaks are to be served warm while it is broiling. Knead or mix butter and chopped parsley together (a piece of butter the size of a walnut, and a piece of chopped parsley for two persons). Spread a little of the moisture on the bottom of the dish, and when the steaks are on it, spread the rest of the butter and parsley all over; squeeze lemon juice all over, also, and serve hot. If lemon juice cannot be had, substitute vinegar for it. Fried potatoes are served around the steaks, also watercress with a little salt and vinegar, or potatoes baked or salted, according to taste.

Mushrooms and truffles may also be served with steaks. Slice the mushrooms; put a piece of butter the size of a walnut into a pan, and when melted stir half a table-spoonful of flour into it until it turns yellow, when you add a little broth, about half a tumblerful, with about half as much gravy; give two or three boils, add the mushrooms, and boil two minutes. Turn the whole on the steaks when dished; serve warm. Prepare and serve truffles in the same

way.

STEAK WITH ONIONS.-Cut the onions in small pieces, and put them in a pan with a little butter and on a good fire; salt and pepper them, stir occasionally, and when of a yellowish color add one or two table-spoonfuls of broth, and finish the cooking. Dish the steaks as above directed; turn the onions over and serve warm.

STEAK WITH A TOMATO-SAUCE.—Throw a pint of fresh tomatoes in boiling water for two minutes; take off and drop them into cold water for a minute, and then skin them. If you use canned tomatoes, take about half a quart can, rub them through a cullender fine enough to retain the seeds, then put what has passed through, that is the pulp and juice, into a pan with two or three stalks of peppergrass, the same of thyme, a bay-leaf, and a dozen whole peppers (the above spices you wrap up in a linen rag); add, also, two onions and one or two cloves of garlic, both sliced, and two gills of broth; set on the fire and boil gently for half an hour. Turn everything, except the rag of seasonings, into a cullender, and rub gently through by means of a potato-masher. Put the mixture into a pan and back on the fire again; salt and pepper it to taste, stirring occasionally, and when it begins to turn somewhat thick, add two or three tablespoonfuls of water and an ounce of butter; stir and mix the whole well. Add, also, a pinch of Cayenne pepper, if agreeable, and the sauce is ready. Cook and serve the steaks as directed above, then turn the tomato-sauce all over, and serve warm.

THE RIVER FLOWETH ON.

A spot where all things earthly seem
To make a tarrying-place for love,
Where bright and gay the lingering stream
Reflects the summer sky above;

Two lovers by the river stand;

And while they speak of day-tides gone,
Heart strained to heart, hand clasped in hand,
The river floweth on.

And now the winter tide hath come,
One standeth by the water-side-
"O river, river, take me home;
My life, my life, farewell!" she cried.
The moonbeams shine upon a face,
Upon a dead, cold face and wan;
While softly by the trysting-place
The river floweth on:

AN ASCENSION FROM LAFAYETTE, INDIANA.

BY PROF. JOHN WISE.

A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF GRAND PRAIRIE.

On the 16th of August, 1859, the "Jupiter" balloon was inflated near the gas works, in the city of Lafayette, and at 2 P. M. she was moored under an escort of Capt. Fonda's military company and Sunday-school excursionists, and visitors generally, in all not less than 15,000 persons, within the Court House square. When we reached Main street, it became necessary to cross the telegraph wires. In the midst of this dense crowd of orderly persons, and a contracted area of high buildings, the balloon got away from her ropes by an accident not provided for, i. e., extra guy ropes. The ascent was very rapid, and I was without my barometer, compass and chart. Knowing that the time for starting had not arrived by nearly an hour, and the balloon not yet photographed in the Square, as mentioned in the programme, I pulled a full valve, which checked her, after attaining a height of 3000 to 4000 feet. In coming down I discovered that something had happened to the valve. I landed in the middle of a street half a mile from the starting-point, and was soon in the hands of the military, under an escort back to the Square. Here there were not less than 20,000 people gathered, and in their midst the "Jupiter" was photographed by three different artists. Finding that the gas was escaping fast, and feeling desirous of getting the balloon out of the midst of this dense mass of people, I requested my son to step into the car and sail her out of town. He ascended several thousand feet, and in half-an-hour he was on the outskirts of the city. From this point Mr. Carleton had the balloon towed back to the gas works. Here I had the top of her hauled down, and discovered that one of the three india-rubber springs had snapped, and was fixed in under the valve-clapper, causing leakage. This defect we repaired, and with the gas remaining in her-some 8,000 cubic feet-she was left standing until next

day. It was then announced that the voyage and experiments should be made next day at 2 o'clock P. M.

SECOND DAY'S PROCEEDINGS.-At noon on the 17th the "Jupiter" was again ready. Inflated about three-fourths full, she carried me with 350 pounds of sand ballast, besides instruments and provisions. With a good Smithsonian barometer, thermometer, and with paper prepared to test the ozone of the upper air, provided by Chas. M. Wetherill, analytical chemist, I started under a very calm atmosphere at 2 P.M. precisely. When I reached the clouds and passed up above them a short distance, I smelled what I inferred was ozone. The barometer stood at 22, and as the thermometer hung in the sun, I omitted its notings, though it ranged from 94 deg. at starting to 66 deg. for the first two hours. After scanning the country round as well as I could, through the vast defiles in the clouds below, and remaining poised-fixed in space-for more than an hour, all the while over the city of Lafayette, I made the following notes in my log-book. As I have never followed my log literally heretofore in my narratives, I will in this quote a portion of it as written above, and will designate those portions by quotation marks.

"While up in the lonely, heavenly regions of the clouds, feeling pious and gladdened, the thought occurred to me that my friends below wondered why I was not going on my voyage east. I thought so myself, but what can I do-"Jupiter" as full as a drum-no windnot a breath. How gracefully the distended globe swings to and fro! I am hungry-food tastes delicious."

Below-between the white fleecy clouds-true emblems of God's pure works-brilliant drapery of heaven's vast gallery-all of a sudden I hear the roar of artillery. What is it something like distant thunder. Again. It comes from below, one of those peculiar noises that puzzles the discrimination of the aeronaut. Looking over my car, I found myself still over the city of Lafayette." Oh, it is only the distension of a slight fold in the balloon that caused the strange sound!

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