THE BLIND
GOD'S SPORT.
(A Tale from Australia.)
BY ETHEL MILLS.
“It is far shorter by the river
Dow that the kangaroo fence is up,
Miss Durie,’’ said the Irishman.
"One goes much more quickly
by the river paddock road, and it
is 12 by the clock now. Miss
Urace,” said the Scotchman.
"It's easier to get about
amongst the grass tussocks with
out a heavy habit on," said the
Irishman.
“Macaroni is spoiling for a can
ler, and 1 he bluebell plain was like
b garden when 1 came across it the
forenoon," said the Scotchman.
Grace Durie puckered her pret
ty brows over the 1 wo tempting of
fers. She was standing on the
low, level bridge—a narrow plank
affair almost flush with the water
—and her slim, white-clad figure
was reflected in t he st ream as in a
looking-glass, so that t on Selves
ter, rest ing on his oars in the skiff,
had no need to look upwards to
see her.
Straight in front of her
stretched the willow shaded, lily
flecked reach, further down it nar
rowed, and the willows met in a
green arch, and the boat would
glide through a carpet of golden
Just, shaken by every passing
breeze from the willow flowers.
And all the time the dark-faced,
blue-eyed Irishman would enter
tain her with the brightest of
stories, more or less true, gath
ered in the highways and byways
of the world through which he hud
tra veled.
On the other hand, it was one of
the most sunny spring days, when
one feels a pleasure in active
movements, and here was Maca
roni ready saddled on the hank,
with a scantily-clad black boy rid
ing “sidesaddle" on his back to
keep him exercised, dust beyond
the belt of myall trees the blue
bell plain began; Donald Henuie.
in all probability, would scarcely
talk to her at all; but she was not
at all sure that silence would not
suit her mood best.
“I think,” she be pan, reflective
ly, and then it was that Rennie
made a great mistake.
“Vou have a right to come with
me, Miss Grace,” lie said, eagerly,
‘‘because you told me to get tin
horse, otherwise 1 should have
gone long ago in the wagouet.”
“Really, Mr. Rennie—surely I
can change my mind if I wish to.
Bring the boat a little nearer, Mr.
Sylvester, if you please.”
With a sweep of the right oar
Con was alongside the bridge. He
was not the sort of man to lose an
opportunity, and he caught Miss
Durie's white hand in his own
brown ones and swung her into
the boat before she had time to
change her facile mind again.
Donald raised his hat and turned
on his heel abruptly. His honest
face was crimson with anger. Miss
I>urie had promised to t ide with
him, and now he would have to
countermand the order for the
horses, and also stand a good deal
of chaff from his fellow-jackaroos
at the bachelors' quarters that
evening, to say nothing of the im
pudent remarks of the black boy,
Bundi.
“Take the horses back to the
yard. Bundi,” lie said, quickly, as
he passed by; but Bundi, the son
of King .lackey, was not to be put
oil' so easily. “ Waf for you let t hat
fellow run off with missie? Nofel
low game to run off with my
lubra,” he said, genially, trotting
his horse in the young fellow's
wake.
‘‘Do as i tell you at om e, unless
vou want to be kicked,” said Don
.aid.
t “Got your hair off all right this
time.” said Bundie, with innocent
amazement, but he thought best
to obey orders, and turned down
the stable lane obediently.
There was a large picnic in the
river bends that afternoon, and
Donald had been looking forward
to it, but now he was determined
not to go; instead he would spend
the whole afternoon packing, for
he was sensible enough to see that
he was spoiling his whole life by
staying in the same place with
beautiful and apparently heart
less Grace Durie. If she was not
the only girl shevvas certainly the
only young and pretty one in the
district, and the name of her ad
mirers was legion, lie would catch
the northern coach next morning
before daybreak and would say
good by to her thut evening. She
would have the latest addition to
11 lie ranks of her slaves — Con
Sylvester—to console her, and the
fact that she was losing the oldest
friend sin* had would count for
it tic. It was with a sore heart,
indeed, that he was leaving I n
Jerbrae, for Donald loved Grace
! devotedly—once he had thought
j she eared for him—but that was
jiong ago when she was a school
girl, long before Con Sylvester's
dark blue eyes had looked the de
votion their owner seldom ex
pressed in any other way. for Con
was a tlirt, and the knowledge of
this added not a little to his grief,
lie never doubted t hat <'on was se
; rious, but he did doubt his suita
bility as a husband for any girl.
Grace looked surprised, certain
ly, that evening, when he told her
that he was going. "Hut you will
be back again directly," she said,
airily; "anyway, you can't go to
| morrow because the coach has
had an accident, and has been
taken in to Clifton for repairs.
Hie mail will be a day late, and so
von simply can’t go. Turn that
light down a little, like a dear boy.
I think I’ve got something into my
eyes this afternoon—willow dust.
! probably—at any rate, it hurts.”
"You are looking very bonnie
this evening, Grace,” he said, as
he turned down the lamp.
“Thank you, I have been doing
my hair in the new way. Mr. Syl
vester showed me a photo of his
sister—the one who was present
ed the other day—and 1 copied my
‘hair’ from hers.”
■ “Con Sylvester! you must bring
everything around to his name,”
said Donald, irately. “You care
nothing that lam going—nothing
whatever.”
"You are so horribly bad tem
pered that I shall be distinctly re
lieved." said Miss Durie.
i ou really mean that?’
“1 really mean it.”
“Then 1 shall not see you again.”
and for the second time in one day
Donald Rennie lost his temper and
spoiled his cause.
< 'on Sylvester covered his re
treat for him with a request for
Miss Durie to play an aoeompani
ment. He sang well, and was
highly vexed because for some
reason or other the girl stumbled
over t lie notes and played several
wrong ones.
“I cannot think what is the mat
ter with me,” she said; “all the
notes look blurred.”
“Tears—idle tears,” suggested
! foil, with a provoking look toward
1 the door and Rennie's broad shoul
dered figure.
“No, I tint afraid not. Look!”
|
and she opened her big gray eyes
widely. There were certainly no
tears in them.
“They are worth looking at,”
said Con. admiringly, “if you will
forgive me for so bald a compli
ment.”
“There’s something the matter
with them, all the same,” said the
girl, anxiously. “I think I shall go
to bed and rest them, but they have
j always been so strong before.”
“You w ill not mind if I ask Mrs.
Lance to play my next song for
!me? 1 have promised to sing ‘If
Love Were--All.’ "
“O, dear no,” said Grace. Unfit
was annoying all the same.
Mrs. Lance was always trying
to attach herself to Con, with the
unmistakeable object of attach
ing him to her. In fact, she had
more than once hinted to Grace
that before her marriage to Mr.
Lance, Con Sylvester had been
something dearer than a friend to
her. She was spending a month
i with the Duries, and was a bright
faced, rather plain featured little
w oman, with an intense love of ad
miration.
The next morning Miss Durie’s
eyes were bad indeed, and she felt
too ill to SCO anyone—the dreaded
word “sandy blight” had been
whispered — and before evening
the symptoms had been eon firmed
and the girl was ordered toa dark
ened room, feeling as thoroughly
miserable as a person well could
Grace was an Orphan from child
hood. and* lived with an onlv
brother at Underbrae Station
and for the first time in her petted
life felt the real need of tender
motherly hands to bathe her
smarting eyes and find tin* hun
dred and one things she needed in
dressing herself, or in the daily
round of occupation.
Her brother Harry was unfor
tunately away at a district court
meeting giving evidence against
horse stealers, and the two serv
ants were raw. clumsy bush speci*
mens, and Mrs Lance—well—Mrs.
jaiice offered to do her hair for
when, after a week of total
solution and darkness, (trace <je
•ided to come in to dinner \, ,i,
bandaged eyes. She knew just
low Con would fuss over her, and
low he would delight in leading
ler about and guiding her steps
icross the narrow bridge if they
went for a stroll after tea. And
now that the worst of the pain was
nver and there was only the “dark
ness” left, she felt quite excited at
the idea.
Mrs. Lance was most sympa
tliet ie, of course, but <5 race had an
uneasy feeling that she had given
ner a tumbled fichu to wear and
was not sincere in her declaration
!hat 1 lie sa l in bows of her evening
shoes did not need renewal.
“1 will do your hair in quite the
latest fashion,” she said, and, in
spite of Grace's protestations,
she worked her will, and the girl
knew from the “feel” of her hair
that the coiffure was an unbecom
ing one. Somehow or other she
knew it even more certainly by the
one of Con’s voice when he greet
'd her. He was sorry, very sorry,
for her, but above all he admired
beauty, combined with good dress
ing, and when Mary, the house
maid, said to her in tones of heart
felt admiration which could not
l«* suppressed: “Itut it’s beauti
ful you are looking. Miss Grace, in
that swate yellow fichu.” she knew
what card six* had put into her
rival’s hands.
That yellow fichu was a dread
ful unhemmed, coarse muslin mon
strosity, which had been mad»*
originally for the station chil
dren's theatricals How it har
monized with her cherry red satin
fi ock she could well imagine, and
she thought with sorrow of the
dainty white Brussels net one 1
tucked away in her ribbon box.
Perhaps tin* bandage round her
eyes was a crumpled and unlovely
affair, too, though Mrs. Lance bad
assured her that it was all right.
No wonder ('on had received a
shock, for even a pretty girl can
look “ordinary” in unfiecoming
colors and hair dressed uusuit
ablv. So that when Con politely
offered her his arm, with the ad
vice that a stroll would do her
go-a. she as politely declined, and
let ,'Irs. Lance go instead. She
felt her way into the drawing
room •. and told the servants not to
disti; !> her—it was so terrible to
be 1 d, even with the knowledge
that ; was only a temporary af
flict -a. ('rash! ('rash! There,
she old knocked over the little
gyp- - table that held her pre
dion • pieces of Venetian glass and
the a ter from a bowl of roses was
so] t ing though her thin shoes.
I iw stupid she had been not to
be ceni Tit to receive Mr. Svlves
'apathetic messages at the
hands of Mary or Mrs. Lance, in
dead of giving way to her feeling
of loneliness and coining out such
a guy! SIh* could hear the voices
if her guests in animated conver
sation in the vine walk. A week
igo she had been the moving
pirt of everything. If only Jack
would come back—dear Jack who,
was always so sensible, and who
had advised her over and over
(gain not to trust Mrs. Lance, and
vho was prolonging his visit from
home on that lady’s account. And
lien her thoughts drifted to her
old friend, Donald Rennie—even
he had deserted her.
There were hurried footsteps on
the veranda to interrupt her
thoughts, and a sudden openingo
doors Home one was actually
coming into the drawing-room un
announced and she had been too
miserable to take off that awful
fichu.
“Oracle, my lassie, can you no
see, mv poor wecGracie.
“O. Donald, is it you? O, I am so
glad. You don’t care how I look.
What made you come back ? M ho
told you?” cried Grace, incoherent
in her sudden joy.
“The mailman it was who told
them down at Parson's Rest that
you were having a bad attack of
sandy blight. 1 was nearly blind
ed with it myself once, and so I
came back to tell you to be sure
not to take the bandage off too
soon, or else your eyes might be
bad a long while, and 1 brought
you all the new magazines from
Mrs. West with her love,” an
nounced Donald, gravely.
“What eartlily use are new mag
azines to me? A re you going to be
heartless, too, Donald? Goa\\n\
again. 1 hate you and that cat, Mrs.
Lance—and—and—Mr. Sylvester
_and every one.” There was a
hysterical ring in Grace’s voice,
wli.m practical Donald did not
fail to note.
“Peace, Grace Durie,” he said,
a little sternly, “and rest on the
sofa. 1 will get Mary to bring in
the reading lamp with the big
shade, and I will read you all the
stories. 1 won’t la- Scotch.”
“O, Donald, will you really?
And you only become ‘Scotch’
when you feel things deeply.
After all, I think 1 really like the
accent. I must, or else 1 would
never have been so pleased when
you spoke to me to-night.”
“And you really mean that,
Grace Durie?”
“I really mean it, Donald Ken
nie,” answered the girl, a mis
chievons little note in her voice.
“Ring for Mary and the lamp:
whatever you do, don’t leave me.
I am so tired of being alone.”
“Sweetheart, let toe have the
right to be always with you.” and
Donald took the girl's hands in his
own. “You know that 1 have al
ways loved vou, lassie.”
Oraco was silent for a moment.
Then she said: "Von used to, I
know, and 1 think 1 believe you,
but let Mary bring in the light and
turn the lamp ftill upon me and
ask me again if you wish to, and
then 1 will answer you.”
Donald rang the little bronze
bell, which lie found by the light
which came dimly through the
open door to the hall, and retired
to a discreet distance while Mary
brought in the light, and when she
had departed lie stood again lie
side the sofa and took G rune's
hand in his once more.
“('an you love me a little in re
turn, my bonnie Oracie?” he vvhis
pered.
“Bonnie! (). Donald, in this aw
ful fichu, and this frightful hair—
and no eyes to speak of!”
ou are always bonnie to me,
Gracie. and 1 love you all the
more because you are suffering,
and because you don't look so
bright and independent, and—
Bhall I say it—as hard as you usu
ally do when every one is bowing
to you and—and—”
“Now, now. do not spoil all the
nice things by saying something
uncomfortably true,” said Grace.
"\es. 1 do believe you, really, bon
est 1 do. and if you want me you
shall have me.”
“I want more than you,” said
Donald. "I want you to care for
me. It must not be pity, heart’s
dearest it ,nust j)e ]ove»
"I- riendship, pity,” cried Grace,
scorn hilly. ••< i von dear old stu
pid. « an t you see that love is
blind.'’ Chicago Tribune.
Boston Man’s Dream.
A well known instructor in
mathematics in a Boston prepara
tory school awoke himself and his
wit'1 the other night with a fearful
groan. When asked vvliat the
trouble was he said:
“I dreamed that our little Tom
my was a minus quantity under a
radh-al 'dun and 1 couldn’t get him
out.”—Boston Record.
City Directory,
municipal offickks
Mayor, J. H. Holderby,
llecorder. C). F. Craig,
Marshal, Walter Pascoe,
Treasurer, E. J. Magness,
Aldermen:- Fred. I). Whiting, W. T.
Mag ness, Morg Drennen, W. C. Mims*
and C. M. Edwards.
Council meets first Monday night in
each month.
CHUKCHKS
Methodist church, services at 11, a.
m and 7:30 p. m. fourth Sunday in
each month. Rev. C. H. Newman,
Pastor.
Baptist church, services at 3 p. ru.
Saturday before tliird Sunday, and 11
a. m. third Sunday in each month,
llev. J. L. Brown, pastor.
Christian church, services first and
third Sundays in each month at 11 a.
m. and <:30 p. in. Rev. W. W. Young,
Pastor.
KRATKRNITIKB
Dannelly Chapter K. A. M. meets
third Saturday night. I. C. Nuckolls,
K. IL P.;T. 11. Hearing, Sec.
Newark Lodge F. & A. M. No. 248
meets secend Saturday night. T. J.
Haney, W. M.; J. IK Jiraerson, Sec.
Newark Encampment 1. O. O F. lti.s
meets second and fourth Thursday
nights, G. A. Ashley, C. I'; F. C. Hoyt
Scribe.
Newark Lodge I. O. O. F. No. 2<>3
meets the tirst and third Wednesday
nights. T. J. lianej, N.G:0. F. Craig
Secretary.
Newark Camp W.O.W. No.288 meets
second and fourth Tuesday nights in
each month. E. II. Magness, C. C.;
(). F. Craig, Clerk.
Independence Lodge No. 2379 Iv. <fc
L. of 11. meets first and tnird Monday
nights in each month. O. F. Craig,
Protector; Zed Griffith, Secretary.
Railroad Time Card,
WHITE RIVER BRANCH
St. L. I, M. & S. Ry.
' Trains pas* Newark as follows;
GO(NO WRST.
No.127.12.50 p. m.
No, 125.8.00 a. nr.
I No. 128
No. 128
GOING HAST.
..^.10 a. m.
.It,02 p. m.
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