the agricultural people and laboring class are seen the round, flattened face, level eyes, and expanded nose.

The ladies are noticeable for taste in dress, and when occasion demands are attired in elegant and splendid costumes. The grotesque pictures of Japanese dress give no proper conception of the grace and richness of the costumes worn by the women of rank and wealth. Long trailing robes of exquisitely embroidered silks, chiefly of white, crimson, or ashen hues, open bodice, crossed and filled in with soft, rich laces, luxuriant hair flowing over the shoulders, bound in one beautiful tress, or formed into elegant and indescribable coiffure upon the head-each indicating age and condition, whether maiden, wife, or widow with picturesque fan, and flowing open sleeve, punctilious etiquette and charm ing manners, is the picture we beheld in many an ex-daimio's home, and among the women of the samurai class.

The educational forces introduced into Japan since the empire has opened to the world are a potent influence in overcoming the wrongs and ills of Japanese women. The present emperor and empress have the sagacity to perceive that the nation in embryo is in the homes, and that what these are, the nation will become; therefore they have set themselves to reform this root. They are do

ing much to lift the women of their country to the level of citizenship by forming a new and better code of marriage laws, and enforcing a system of education for girls as well as boys. The leading men of the rising generation, possessed of foreign education, imbued with Western ideas and wholly fascinated by them, are emancipated from the old systems of Asiatic despotism, and seek wives as helpmeets in the battle waged between superstition and progress; for intellectual companions and heartsome friends in that broader life to which they aspire.

"They hold the dead Past, for the seed it bore at death."

The example of such, and the precepts of a band of devoted teachers from Europe and America, are proving mighty factors to exalt the Japanese home, lifting wives, mothers, and daughters to that plane of life and hope which gladden their more favored sisters. Of the Japanese woman it may be emphatically said—

"The Future, the great Future, she has faced today: The darkness lies behind her; her path is toward the

sun.

But the glorious day she looks for is long upon its way. And a great work yet undone !"

In that future, the dawn of which has even now tinted the eastern sky, lies redemption for the women of Japan. Helen H. S. Thompson.

THE Pennington blood was of the very bluest. A knight of that name, after aiding William of Normandy to conquer England, had received large estates from his sovereign and had founded a family, the leadership of which had descended in direct line from father to son, generation after generation.

One Sir William Pennington had left the shores of England when this country was yet in its infancy. He did not come over in the Mayflower though there would doubtless have been room for him- but very soon after. Why he left his fine inheritance no one could tell, though rumors were plenty. But whatever the reason, the fact was undeniable that he resigned his title and his claims to his estates, for himself and all his heirs forever after, and sailed away to the wilds of America. "And that," Miss Pennington would sigh, "is why we are here."

Miss Pennington and Miss Penelope Pennington were the last of the direct line. For the first time since the Norman Duke had stood sponsor for a certain little bit of humanity, there was no William Pennington. Miss Penelope mourned bitterly that Matilda was not William since she had the brains of a man, "and a peruke would have been so becoming." Miss Matilda took the leadership in all matters domestic or otherwise. Not that Miss Penelope lacked strength of mind no Pennington was ever failing in that direction-but as her sister was two years older, half an inch taller, and ought to have been of the masculine gender, it appeared the proper thing that she should rule. It seems natural to describe these sisters together, for save that slight difference in height, there was little whereby to distinguish one from the other. They arrayed their slender figures after the manner of their loyal tory ancestresses, in full gowns with pointed bodices. They wore their hair high and powdered, and there was always the little patch of black court-plaster on the left cheek. They

The

Fate in placing them in a small New England village had not otherwise ill-treated them. Sir William had prospered in his new environment, and left behind him a fine old house, built after the manner of his English home, with stately oaken staircase, deep window seats, and generous fire-places. Revolution passed by and left it still standing, though its contents were almost entirely demolished. Later the house was repaired and refurnished as nearly as possible in the original style, and so it remained to the time of which I write.

The march of village improvement had taken away most of the ground belonging to the property, so that now the house stood close on the street. But behind it was a charming old garden, where the ladies took their afternoon tea in the summer days, when the sun had taken himself around the corner of the house and long shadows fell across the little lawn.

Occasionally the rector and his wife were bidden to a formal dinner, but beyond this few ever saw the inside of the quaint mansion where these two ladies kept up the state befitting the Penningtons. What! invite the man of whom they bought their butter and eggs to dine with them? Perish the thought! No feelings were hurt by this neglect; the Pennington ladies were regarded with kindly amusement by their fellow-townsmen, who looked upon their ceremonies as little vagaries that harmed no one. So whenever the well-known carriage, which had served the family ever since the war of 1812, rumbled through the one central street of Topsham, there were always respectful greetings and pleasant looks for the occupants, the ladies

of the "manner house," as it was slyly called; and Miss Pennington, as she folded her shawl after one of these airings, would remark, giving it a satisfied shake, "Penelope, I do think we are somewhat appreciated here."

So their placid life went on from year to year. It was monotonous, but it was dignified, and they were content.

It was a bleak day in November, and Baker, a demure maiden of fifteen years, had just removed the tea-tray and brought in candles. The rain was falling outside, and the ladies both felt decidedly at a loss for occupation with which to beguile the two hours before their seven o'clock dinner. Their embroidery frames stood waiting, but they had devoted themselves to the stitch, stitch, stitching all the afternoon; so they turned away from this stately employment, and while Miss Matilda stirred the fire, Miss Penelope wandered up and down the hall, pausing before the portraits of their noble ancestors. Strange as it may seem, considering the number of times this ceremony had been performed, she made a discovery on this occasion.

"Matilda, come here!" she suddenly exclaimed in an agitated manner. Miss Pennington, with wild thoughts of the discovery of a secret chamber or something equally startling, gave the fire one final poke and hurried to her sister. Miss Penelope was standing still before the portrait of Sir William Pennington, and tragically pointing her As Miss Pennington appeared in the doorway, she cried out "Matilda, he has not the Pennington hand!"

Now Miss Matilda was immediately angry at having been startled out of her usual calm for so slight a cause, and without ceremony replied, "How silly of you, Penelope! Of course he has the Pennington hand!" and forthwith turned on her heel and was about to return to the parlor.

Miss Penelope, being so much in earnest, was offended at this summary disposing of the subject and said quickly, though with great dignity," Matilda, I am not wont to speak without reflection, you well know; and I repeat that Sir William has not the Pennington hand."

Miss Pennington at this stepped to her sister's side and looked at the member in question. The hand rested lightly on a table just as it had done for the past century. Could Penelope be right, or was it simply the shadow cast by her candle that made the hand, which should be so slender with tapering fingers, suddenly look fat and stunted? Of course it was the shadow, and the elder sister after a protracted look said decidedly, “I am surprised at you, Penelope, bringing up such unpleasant doubts with so little reason. It is unworthy of a Pennington!"

"And I am surprised at you, Matilda, that you should be so prejudiced and so determinedly blind as to declare with your eyes on that picture that that hand is a Pennington hand!"

The sisters stood and glared at each other for a moment. Miss Matilda was the first to recover speech, and spoke with awful slowness :

"Penelope Pennington, do you realize that you have the same as declared that I have told a lie?”

Miss Penelope here lost her head completely. "And so you have!" she replied, unconsciously imitating her sister's tone of a moment ago.

This was too much, and Miss Matilda's voice was full of suppressed passion as she said: "No Pennington has ever before stooped to such an imputation. I decline to have any more communication with you till you apologize for this insult.”

"And I," returned Miss Penelope, appearing to grow several inches taller as she spoke, "refuse to live any longer with one who considers me an unworthy member of the family." With this, she retired to her own apartment, and her example was immediately followed by Miss Pennington.

When Baker came to announce dinner, she found the drawing-room deserted. In much wonderment she ascended the stairs, and in still greater wonderment descended them— neither of the ladies cared to dine. Each spent the evening in solitary reflection; and the result of such reflection was this:

Before sleeping, she composed a letter, which Baker was directed to hand to Miss Pennington early the next morning. That lady's breath was almost taken away when she had digested the contents. Miss Penelope, after saying that to her the breach seemed irreparable, proposed that she should remove to the west side of the house with her personal belongings. In order that Miss Pennington might not have the pain of meet ing the one "unworthy of the family name," she was requested to remain in her own apartment while the changes were being made.

Miss Pennington straightened herself both physically and mentally she had relaxed a little during the hours of the night and instead of any form of retraction sent back the answer, "Miss Penelope Pennington's proposition is entirely satisfactory to Miss Pennington, who will remain in her room as suggested."

Dire was the dismay in the domestic department when the new order of things was announced. But even Stephens, the old housekeeper, dared not hazard a query as to the reason for the change. Miss Penelope's aspect was far too forbidding for that. She gave her orders with sharp decision, and by night the rooms so rarely used heretofore were ready for occupancy.

When Miss Matilda descended to breakfast on the following morning, the first thing that attracted her notice was that the portrait concerning which the disastrous dispute had arisen was entirely shrouded from view by a thick piece of dark cloth. A grim smile parted her lips, but she made no comment. In the breakfast room, the table was laid for

And so the two ladies took up their divided lives. Questions which would arise were settled entirely by correspondence, as on the following occasion: One morning, about a week after that dreadful day, Miss Penelope started to go up to her own room, when just as her foot touched the first stair, she was thrown into utter consternation by the sight of her sister calmly beginning the descent. For one wild moment she hesitated, then feeling it would never do to retreat, she moved on, the personification of frigidity. Slowly they approached and passed each other, without a word or a look, but when Miss Penelope gained her own sanctum she found herself trembling from head to foot. "What shall we do?" she said aloud. "This is terrible!"

Miss Pennnigton in her parlor was, at the same time, saying to herself that such an encounter must never take place again. On this occasion she took the initiative, and shortly afterwards the little maid knocked at Miss Penelope's door with the following communication:

"Miss Pennington, feeling that her nerves cannot again endure the strain so lately put upon them, would suggest that on three days of the week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and also during the first half of Sunday, Miss Penelope Pennington should use the front hall and stairway, and that on the other three days of the week, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, and during the latter half of Sunday, she should use the rear hall and stairway, Miss Pennington reversing the order."

Miss Penelope agreed at once, and so after this they never met in the house. Gradually a complete system of avoidance was arranged. On the days that Miss Pennington used the rear staircase she used the carriage, and on the days she used the front staircase she did not use the carriage and did occupy the garden; Miss Penelope vice versa.