tered the parlor the stranger was standing before the window looking down the street, his back to her. She coughed slightly, and the young man turned quickly to meet a stately reception from Miss Pennington, now thoroughly herself again. His bow was all that could be desired, she noticed, and when after the preliminary civilties she invited him to be seated, it was very graciously, his appear ance pleased her.

'I called, Miss Pennington, on a matter of business very important to myself," he began frankly. "This is my only excuse for invading your seclusion."

"Major Pennington's son need not apologize for his presence in this house. I knew your father years ago, and for his sake you are welcome."

"Thank you, madame," - marveling greatly at this pleasant reception from one of the "Gorgons," as our two sisters were known among some of the remote branches, - "and will you continue your kindness by giving me all the information you can about my father's half-uncle George Pennington? I will tell you that if he left no direct heirs I shall come into a property which is going to be very valuable one of these days."

"Ah, indeed! Then it will give me great pleasure to assist you to a realization of your hopes. I will look through the family records, for though I might feel confidence in my own remembrance of the past, your law yers might prefer documentary evidence."

If the young man had only known it, Miss Pennington had never before been quite so gracious to any one. Long ago she had almost persuaded herself that it would not seriously lower her dignity to marry the father of this young man. Even if she had never regretted her decision, it is not surprising that the sight of this son, so marvelously like his handsome father, caused a tender feeling to steal into her heart, which evinced itself by an invitation to the young man to transfer his baggage from the village inn to her house. He at first demurred, really not being desirous of so restricting his liberty; but when he found that Miss Pennington's family pride would suffer if a scion of the name

should sleep at the public house, he politely yielded.

It cannot be claimed that tender memories had alone been sufficient to lead Miss Matilda to receive this stranger so hospitably. A vague idea that through him she might punish Penelope had been present in her mind as she gave her invitation. Just how it was to be managed she had not yet decided, and so it was that she desired time to plan her course of action before her guest should discover that there was any one else in the house. And now had come this unfortunate encounter, and he was looking into her face, awaiting the explanation of that absurd exclamation. She plunged in, determined to give only bare facts at present.

"Miss Penelope Pennington occupies the other side of the house, and there is no intercourse between us. The young lady you met in the hall is a distant connection of the family, who is visiting her. I should have explained to you last night that I do not use the front hall Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; then this unpleasant experience would not have occurred."

Richard tried to say some words expressive of sympathy. He was rather at a loss as to what tactics he should follow, and so stumbled about confusedly in his remarks.

Miss Matilda came to his relief. "Of course, I should never wish to use the front stair-case on my sister's days, lest I should meet her; but I see no reason on reflection why you should be debarred the privilege, provided you have no objection to meeting strangers."

Miss Matilda was already constructing a note in her mind, which should carry consternation into Penelope's camp. She was really going beyond her rights, but she knew that Penelope would be too proud to admit that the presence of a young man in the house gave her any uneasiness.

A little later, Miss Penelope was reading: "Miss Pennington would prefer to give her guest the constant use of the front hall, if it will not annoy Miss Penelope Pennington. Miss Penelope Pennington will please consult her feelings alone in the matter."

Wrath and dismay filled the reader's mind, and she broke forth : "Unprincipled, is the only word which will express Matilda Pennington's course at this juncture!" Then turning tragically to Pennie- " Does she desire to drive you from under this roof?"

"Don't be distressed for me, Cousin Penelope. I can easily avoid the gentleman, and I don't suppose he would ever remember which day was which, even if he were told."

Very likely his intellect would not be the sarequal to such an undertaking," casm was intense in Miss Pennington's voice, -"but it is my sister's want of principle that is so painful to my feelings. Let it pass, however; she shall never know how deeply he has disturbed me."

She took up her pen; then a sudden thought made her turn again to her namesake. "If you should be so unfortunate as to meet this young man, I think you will know how to bear yourself in a manner befitting but my dear, how flushed your cheeks are ; you are not feverish, are you?"

"O, no indeed, dear Cousin Penelope, my face is always burning, and it is so disagreeable," answered Pennie, with a dreadful feeling of wrong-doing.

Miss Penelope's thoughts were for a moment diverted from their serious channel. "Well," she said complacently, "it is a family characteristic. I remember my father's sister telling how, when Lady Wilhelmina was presented at Court, her Sovereign graciously said to her, "We should know you a Pennington, Madame, by the heraldry of your cheek."

She fell into a reverie on past grandeur; but Pennie who had made up her mind to confess - brought her back to the present most unexpectedly by saying, "I met the gentleman in the hall this morning."

A pale, remorseful face was turned toward⚫ him. "O, Mr. Pennington, it's wrong, absolutely wrong for us to meet in the way we have!"

"How can you regulate chance, Miss Rathbone?" he interrupted laughingly, much relieved that nothing worse than this was troubling her.

"Chance! Of course it's not chance, and I don't know what I have been thinking about to allow it. How I have deceived Miss Penelope. O, I despise myself!"

"But you are not bound by this feud," he expostulated.

"Don't say that again," she cried impatiently. "I've listened to it too many times already. Wasn't I bound as Miss Penelope's guest not to do anything she would not like? My senses have returned rather late, but at least I can tell her everything before I go, though she will never want to see me again."

"O, it isn't so bad as that! She is so fond of you, she 'll forgive you at once."

"Indeed she won't; she will be dreadfully shocked and disappointed in me. But even if she should, I can never forgive myself. I

she had imagined This uncomfortable suspicion gave her such uneasiness that on this evening she felt it her duty to ascertain Richard's whereabouts, after some time had elapsed with no sign of his return from "a smoke."

She accordingly stepped out from the low window, her head erect, stately disapproval in every movement. As she turned the corner of the house, the shock she received was overwhelming, and trembling in every limb she paused behind a tree to await develop

ments.

What was it she heard? "My sweetheart!" in fervent tones from her guest; and then from her sister's guest, "I suppose a greatgreat-grand-mother ought to care for her grandson."

This was somewhat unintelligible to the third person present, but the next remark was not. The girl went on with an acutal laugh. "What a dreadful creature Miss Pennington would think me if she could see us now."

"You're very right!" was on that lady's lips, but she remembered just in time that she was not included in the conversation. She glanced about in alarm, fearing that she had really given utterance to her thought, and almost sank to the ground on beholding the form of her sister stationed behind another tree just opposite her.

The recognition was mutual and equally unpleasant. Miss Penelope, however, was sustained by the knowledge that it was her garden day, and drew herself up, every fold of her voluminous gown rustling with hostility, while the horrified and bewildered expression of her face changed to so haughty a look, that any one but a Pennington would have been crushed immediately. But Miss Matilda was equal to it she had not the slightest intention of retreating -- and returned the gaze with as much stony severity as if Penelope were the trespasser instead of herself. So they stood till a remark from the foreground broke the spell, when both bent eagerly forward to listen; love-making was too new a sight to be neglected by either. Richard was saying, "Tell me now that

you forgive me for so disturbing your peace of mind."

"No," responded Pennie, "I don't think I can do that till after I have confessed to Miss Penelope. O, how I dread it! Just think, neither of them has the slightest suspicion!"

Involuntarily the listeners glanced at each other, and — yes, both were smiling! They immediately turned away in confusion.

"Don't think of them just now," was Richard's answer, "but tell me"

"I've told you too much already," declared Pennie. "Do you know what may happen at any moment?"

"Yes, this," said her lover, audaciously taking his first kiss.

Pennie's exclamation at this reply to her question covered an insuppressible groan from Miss Penelope, who, with eyes dilated with the most intense astonishment, was gazing so fixedly at the pair before her that it seemed as if they must become conscious of her presence. She took one step forward, then looked waveringly by at Miss Matilda, who though pale with horror, quelled her sister's impulse to interfere with a decided shake of the head: she had no desire to be discovered.

The conversation became a little indistinct for the moment, but later Pennie was heard to say, "I love Miss Penelope, I do indeed, and now she will despise me. can I ever tell her!"

How

"It's my place to do that, said her lover decidedly. "I'm ready to shoulder the blame, every bit of it." Then with sudden inspiration, "The sooner it's over with the better, I think, don't you? Supposing you take me to her now."

The ambuscade began to grow uneasy. "O, no," faltered Pennie; then after a moment's reflection—" Yes, it is the best way,' and she started forward, all her color gone on the instant.

"Not just yet," said Richard. "We shan't be alone again for a long time, and before you go won't you of your own accord tell me that you do really love me, and that nothing on this earth shall ever part us?"

His voice was so full of feeling that Pen

nie, after one glance into his earnest eyes, held out her hand, saying simply while her voice quivered, "I do love you, and shall never, never change."

Miss Pennington here could not restrain another look at Penelope, who, her Pennington stiffness entirely melted, was openly wiping her eyes. Miss Matilda to her great surprise found her own growing dim. It was evidently time to retreat, and turning she started for the house.

Miss Penelope, without realizing in her agitation what she was doing, followed after around the house and into the hall. There they both stopped and looked at each other again, Miss Penelope being so thoroughly upset that she exclaimed helplessly, "What can be done!"

"Matilda, I apologize for my intemperate speech."

"Penelope, say no more. I too was to blame."

Miss Penelope clasped the hand held out to her; then moved by a resistless impulse she walked deliberately up to the shrouded picture and uncovered the noble features of Sir William Pennington. That gentleman gazed straight before him, apparently unmoved by the emotion of the two descendants who stood looking reverently into his face. After some moments of contemplation, Miss Matilda said,

"Penelope, I think he has not quite the Pennington hand."

"On reëxamination," returned Miss Penelope, "I am of the opinion that he has the Pennington hand. "

Solemnly the sisters exchanged the kiss of peace, and as the sound of approaching footsteps caused them to turn toward the door, Miss Penelope said,

"O, Matilda, you will be such a support at this trying time."

With this expression of renewed allegiance, the Pennington Feud was at an end. Leigh Webster.

ALL the Indians that had been connected with this war from the various tribes, Umatillas, Piutes, Bannocks, Weisers, and Klamaths, were as far as possible gathered in as prisoners. The main portion of them after considerable correspondence with General McDowell were sent to Camp Harney. They came there particularly from Boise City and the Malheur reservation, and some fifty or more were brought up under escort from Fort Bidwell, Cal., to the same post.

It appears also that many of the friendly Piutes, disturbed in all their usual operations and hindered by the war from gathering food, went to Fort McDermit entreating the garrison for supplies. One band of the latter,

viz., that of Leggins, made its way to Camp Harney, and was counted, perhaps improperly, among the prisoners of war.

I never knew why Leggins and his band were joined to the prisoners. From information that was brought me, however, I came at the time to the conclusion that he played both ways, and I believe that some of his people were among the hostiles. It is a fact whether we like it or not, that many prominent Indians are very friendly after a war, and would have us believe that their sympathies had been with the whites all the while, when the reverse was actually the case.

I think myself that if all the facts were known, at the beginning of the Piute and