And there she was, surely enough, and they had a ing gloomy and depressed, and not a little irritable, full view of her, geranium-colored bows and all. She as he did, now and then. He had good reason, he seemed to be a trifle partial to the geranium-colored bows. Not too partial, however, for they were very nicely put on. Here and there, down the front of her white morning dress, one prettily adjusted on the side of her hair, one on each trim, slim, black kid slipper. If they were a weakness of hers, they were by no means an inartistic one. And as she came down the garden-walk, with a little flower-pot in her hands a little earthen-pot, with some fresh glossleaved little plant in it-she was pleasant to look at, pretty Polly P.-very pleasant; and Gaston Framleigh was conscious of the fact.

It was only a small place, the house opposite and the garden was the tiniest of gardens, being only a few yards of ground, surrounded by iron railings. Indeed, it might have presented anything but an attractive appearance, had pretty Polly P. not so crowded it with bright blooms. Its miniature-beds were full of brilliantly-colored flowers, blue-eyed lobelia, mignonette, scarlet geraniums, a thrifty rose or so, and numerous nasturtiums, with ferns, and much pleasant, humble greenery. There were narrow boxes of flowers upon every window-ledge, a woodbine climbed round the door, and, altogether, it was a very different place from what it might have been, under different circumstances.

And down the graveled path, in the midst of all this flowery brightness, came Polly with her plant to set out, looking not unlike a flower herself. She was very busy in a few minutes, and she went about her work almost like an artist, flourishing her little trowel, digging a nest for her plant, and touching it, when she transplanted it, as tenderly as if it had been a day-old baby. She was so earnest about it, that, before very long, Framleigh was rather startled by hearing her begin to whistle, softly to herself, and, seeing that the sound had grated upon him, Popham colored and langhed half-apologetically.

"It is a habit of hers," he said. "She hardly knows when she does it. She often does things other girls would think strange. But she is not like other girls."

thought, to give way to these fits of gloom, occasionally; they were not so much an unamiable habit as his enemies fancied; he had some ground for them, though he was not prone to enter into particulars concerning it. Certainly he never made innocent little Popham, "Lambkin Popham," as one of his fellow-officers had called him, in a brilliant moment, his confidant. He liked the simple, affectionate little fellow, and found his admiration soothing; but the time had not yet arrived, when the scales not yet having fallen from his eyes, he could read such guileless, almost insignificant problems as "Lambkin" Popham clearly.

So his companion, only dimly recognizing the outward element of his mood, thought it signified a distaste for that soft, scarcely unfeminine, little piping of pretty Polly's, and felt bound to speak a few words in her favor.

It was just at this moment that Polly looked up. She raised her eyes carelessly to their window, and doing so, caught sight of them both. Young Popham blushed gloriously, after his usual sensitive fashion, and she recognized him at once. She did not Framleigh made no reply. He remained silent, and blush at all herself, however; she just gave him an arch simply looked at the girl. He was not in the most little nod, and a delightful smile, which showed her communicative of moods, this morning; he was feel-pretty white teeth.

MARY NOAILLES MURFREE.

(CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK.)

Author of the "Prophet of the Smoky Mountains."

HE pen name of Charles Egbert Craddock has become familiarly known throughout the English-speaking world in connection with the graphic delineations of character in the East Tennessee Mountains, to which theme the writings of this talented author have been devoted. Until long after the name had become famous the writer was supposed to be a man, and the following amusing story is told of the way in which the secret leaked out. Her works were published by a Boston editor, and the heavy black handwriting, together with the masculine ring of her stories, left no suspicion that their author was a delicate woman. Thomas Baily Aldrich, who was editor of the "Atlantic Monthly," to which her writings came, used to say, after an interval had elapsed subsequent to her last contribution, "I wonder if Craddock has taken in his winter supply of ink and can let me have a serial." One day a card came to Mr. Aldrich bearing the well-known name in the well-known writing, and the editor rushed out to greet his old contributor, expecting to see a rugged Tennessee mountaineer. When the slight, delicate little woman arose to answer his greeting it is said that Mr. Aldrich put his hands to his face and simply spun round on his heels without a word, absolutely bewildered with astonish

ment.

Miss Murfree was born in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, in 1850, and is the greatgranddaughter of Colonel Hardy Murfree of Revolutionary fame, for whom the city of Murfreesboro was named. Her father was a lawyer and a literary man, and Mary was carefully educated. Unfortunately in her childhood a stroke of paralysis made her lame for life. After the close of the war, the family being left in destitute circumstances, they moved to St. Louis, Missouri, and Miss Murfree contributed largely to their pecuniary aid by her fruitful pen. Her volumes include "In the Tennessee Mountains" (1884), "Where the Battle was Fought" (1884), "Down the Ravine" (1885), "The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains" (1885), "In the Clouds" (1886), "The Story of Keedon Bluffs" (1887), "The Despot of Broomsedge Cove" (1888), all of which works have proven their popularity by a long-continued sale, and her subsequent works will no doubt achieve equal popularity. She has contributed much matter to the leading magazines of the day. She is a student of humanity and her portraitures of Tennessee moun

taineers have great historic value aside from the entertainment they furnish to the careless reader. It is her delineation of mountain character and her description of mountain scenery that have placed her works so prominently to the front in this critical and prolific age of novels. "Her style," says a recent reviewer, "is bold, full of humor, yet as delicate as a bit of lace, to which she adds great power of plot and a keen wit, together with a homely philosophy bristling with sparkling truths. For instance, "the little old woman who sits on the edge of a chair" in one of her novels, and remarks "There ain't nothin' so becomin' to fools as a shet mouth," has added quite an original store to America's already proverbial literature.

THE CONFESSION.*

แ

(FROM THE PROPHET OF THE GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS.")

There was a galvanic start among the congregation, then intense silence.

HE congregation composed itself to listen to the sermon. There was an expectant pause. Kelsey remembered ever after the "I hev los' my faith!" he cried out, with a poigtumult of emotion with which he stepped forward nant despair. "God ez' gin it-ef thear is a God— to the table and opened the book. He turned to the he's tuk it away. You-uns kin go on. You-uns kin New Testament for his text, and the leaves with a b'lieve. Yer paster b'lieves, an' he'll lead ye ter familiar hand. Some ennobling phase of that won- grace,-least wise ter a better life. But fur me derful story which would touch the tender, true thar's the nethermost depths of hell, ef"-how his affinity of human nature for the higher things.- faith and his unfaith now tried him!" ef thar be from this he would preach to-day. And yet, at the enny hell. Leastwise-Stop, brother," he held up same moment, with a contrariety of feeling from his hand in deprecation, for Parson Tobin had risen which he shrank aghast, there was sulking into his at last, and with a white, scared face. Nothing like mind that gruesome company of doubts. In double this had ever been heard in all the length and breadth file they came fate and free agency, free-will and of the Great Smoky Mountains. "Bear with me a fore-ordination, infinite mercy and infinite justice, little; ye'll see me hyar no more. Fur me thar is God's loving kindness and man's intolerable misery, shame, ah! an' trial, ah! an' doubt, ah! an' despair, redemption and damnation. He had evolved them ah! The good things o' heaven air denied. My all from his own unconscious logical faculty, and they name is ter be er byword an' a reproach 'mongst ye. pursued him as if he had, in some spiritual necromancy, Ye'll grieve ez ye hev ever learn the Word from me, conjured up a devil-nay, a legion of devils. Per- ah! Ye'll be held in derision! An' I hev hed haps if he had known how they had assaulted the trials,-none like them es air comin', comin' down hearts of men in times gone past; how they had been the wind. I hev been a man marked fur sorrow, combated and baffled, and yet have risen and pursued again; how in the scrutiny of science and research men have passed before their awful presence, analyzed them, philosophized about them, and found them interesting; how others, in the levity of the world, having heard of them, grudged the time to think upon them.-if he had known all this, he might have felt some courage in numbers. As it was, there was no fight left in him. He closed the book prevailed agin me. Pray fur me, brethren, ez I with a sudden impulse, My frien's," he said, "I cannot pray fur myself. Pray that God may yet stan not hyar ter preach ter day, but fur confession." speak ter me-speak from out o' the whirlwind."

an' now fur shame." He stood erect; he looked bold, youthful. The weight of his secret, lifted now, had been heavier than he knew. In his eyes shone that strange light which was frenzy or prophecy, or inspiration; in his voice rang a vibration they had never before heard. "I will go forth from mongst ye,-I that am not of ye. Another shall gird me an' carry me where I would not.

*Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

Hell an' the devil hev

P

AMELIA E. BARR.

THE POPULAR NOVELIST.

ERHAPS no other writer in the United States commands so wide a circle of readers, both at home and abroad, as does Mrs. Barr. She is, however, personally, very little known, as her disposition is somewhat shy and retiring, and most of her time is spent at her home on the Storm King Mountain at Cornwall-on-the-Hudson, New York

Mrs. Barr's life has been an eventful one, broken in upon by sorrow, bereavement and hardship, and she has risen superior to her trials and made her way through difficulties in a manner which is possible only to an individual of the strongest character.

Amelia E. Huddleston was born at Ulverstone, in the northwest of England, in 1832. She early became a thorough student, her studies being directed by her father, who was an eloquent and learned preacher. When she was seventeen, she went to a celebrated school in Scotland; but her education was principally derived from the reading of books to her father.

As

When about eighteen she was married to Robert Barr, and soon after came to America, traveling in the West and South. They were in New Orleans in 1856 and were driven out by the yellow fever, and settled in Austin, Texas, where Mr. Barr received an appointment in the comptroller's office. Removing to Galveston after the Civil War, Mr. Barr and his four sons died in 1876 of yellow fever. soon as she could safely do so, Mrs. Barr took her three daughters to New York, where she obtained an appointment to assist in the education of the three sons of a prominent merchant. When she had prepared these boys for college, she looked about for other means of livelihood, and, by the assistance of Henry Ward Beecher and Doctor Lyman Abbott, she was enabled to get some contributions accepted by Messrs. Harper & Brothers, for whose periodicals she wrote for a number of years. An accident which happened to her in 1884 changed her life and conferred upon the world a very great benefit. She was confined to her chair for a considerable time, and, being compelled to abandon her usual methods of work, she wrote her first novel, "Jan Vedder's Wife." It was instantly successful, running through many editions, and has been translated into one or two European languages. Since that time she has published numerous stories. One of the most successful was Friend Olivia," a study of Quaker character which recalls the closing years of the Commonwealth in England, and which her girlhood's home at Ulverstone, the scene of the rise of Quakerism, gave her special advantages in preparing. It is an

unusually powerful story; and the pictures of Cromwell and George Fox are not only refreshingly new and bright but remarkably just and appreciative. Some of her other stories are "Feet of Clay," the scene of which is laid on the Isle of Man; "The Bow of Orange Ribbon," a study of Dutch life in New York; "Remember the Alamo,' recalling the revolt of Texas; "She Loved a Sailor," which deals with sea life and which draws its scenes from the days of slavery; "The Last of the MacAllisters;" "A Sister of Esau ;" and "A Rose of a Hundred Leaves." Only a slight study of Mrs. Barr's books is necessary to show the wide range of her sympathies, her quick and vivid imagination, and her wonderful literary power; and her career has been an admirable illustration of the power of some women to win success even under the stress of sorrow, disaster and bereavement.

A

S she approached her house, she saw a crowd higher than all the rest. And when Jan had cut of boys, and little Jan walking proudly loose.the prize, he was like to greet for joy, and he in front of them. One was playing clapped his hands, and kissed Jan, and he gave him "Miss Flora McDonald's Reel" on a violin, and five gold sovereigns,-see, then, if he did not!" the gay strains were accompanied by finger-snapping. And little Jan proudly put his hand in his pocket, whistling, and occasional shouts. "There is no quiet and held them out in his small soiled palm. to be found anywhere, this morning," thought Margaret, but her curiosity was aroused, and she went towards the children. They saw her coming, and with an accession of clamor hastened to meet her. Little Jan carried a faded, battered wreath of unrecognizable materials, and he walked as proudly as Pompey may have walked in a Roman triumph. When Margaret saw it, she knew well what had happened, and she opened her arms, and held the boy to her heart, and kissed him over and over, and cried out, Oh, my brave little Jan, brave little Jan! How did it happen then? Thou tell me quick.” "Hal Ragner shall tell thee, my mother; and Hal eagerly stepped forward:

The feat which little Jan had accomplished is one which means all to the Shetland boy that his first buffalo means to the Indian youth. When a whaler is in Arctic seas, the sailors on the first of May make a garland of such bits of ribbons, love tokens, and keepsakes, as have each a private history, and this they tie to the top of the mainmast. There it swings, blow high or low, in sleet and hail, until the ship reaches her home-port. Then it is the supreme emulation of every lad, and especially of every sailor's son, to be first on board and first up the mast to cut it down, and the boy who does it is the hero of the day, and has won his footing on every Shetland boat.

What wonder, then, that Margaret was proud and happy? What wonder that in her glow of delight the thing she had been seeking was made clear to her? How could she go better to Suneva than with this crowd of happy boys? If the minister thought she ought to share one of her blessings with Suneva, she would double her obedience, and ask her to share the mother's as well as the wife's joy.

"It was last night, Mistress Vedder, we were all watching for the Arctic Bounty;' but she did not come, and this morning as we were playing, the word was passed that she had reached Peter Fae's pier. Then we all ran, but thou knowest that thy Jan runs like a red deer, and so he got far ahead, and leaped on board, and was climbing the mast first of all. Then Bor Skade, he tried to climb over him, and Nichol "One thing I wish, boys," she said happily, "let Sinclair, he tried to hold him back, but the sailors us go straight to Peter Fae's house, for Hal Ragner shouted, Bravo, little Jan Vedder!" and the skip- must tell Suneva Fae the good news also." So, with per shouted Bravo!' and thy father, he shouted a shout, the little company turned, and very soon

*Copyright, Dodd, Mead & Co.