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"That I was thirty-four or five ?"

"No; but he began in the same way. He said that he did not know; that you were not his cousin; that you were the niece of Mr. Rutherford; that he supposed you to be about twenty-seven or eight."

"I am twenty-six," said Margaret. "And he is thirty-five," added Garda. "I suppose they both seem great ages to you," observed Margaret, smiling.

"It's of very little consequence in a man, his age," replied the young girl. "I confess that I thought you older than twenty-six; but it's not because you look old, it's because you look as if you did not care whether people thought you old or not, as if you were indifferent about it, and generally it's only women who are really old, you know, over thirty, like mamma and Mrs. Carew, who have that expression. Don't you think so? And I fancy you don't care much about dress, either," she went on. "Everything you wear is very delicate and beautiful. Still, I don't believe you really care about it. Yet you would carry it off well, any amount of it, you are so tall."

"I think you are as tall as I am," said Margaret, amused by these unconventional utterances.

"Come and see," replied Garda, suddenly. She took Margaret's hand and

rose.

"What is it we are to do?" inquired Margaret, obeying the motion without comprehending its object.

"Come," repeated Garda.

They passed into the back drawing room, and Garda led the way toward a large mirror.

"But we do not wish to survey ourselves in the presence of all this company," said Margaret, pausing.

"Yes, we do. They will not notice us, they are talking; it's about our height, you know," answered the girl. She held Margaret's hand tightly, and drew her onward until they both stood together before the long glass.

Two images gazed back at them. One was that of a young girl with bright brown hair curling low down over wonderful dark eyes. A white rose was placed, in the Spanish fashion, on one side above the little ear. This image in the mirror had a soft warm color in its cheeks, and a deeper one still on its slightly parted lips, which were very lovely in outline, with short, full, upward - arching

VOL. LXX.-No. 418.-41

curves and a little downward droop at the corners. The rich beauty of this face, and, indeed, of the whole figure, was held somewhat apart from indiscriminate appropriation by all gazers' eyes by the expression of indifference which accompanied it. It was not the indifference of experience; there was no weariness in it, no knowledge of life; it was the fresh indifference rather of inexperience, like the indifference of a child. Yet it seemed, too, as if it would always be there, as if that face would never grow eager or anxious, no matter how much expansion of knowledge the years might bring to it; but though very possibly demanding more of life in every way as it passed, would yet always remain serenely careless and unconcerned.

The mirror gave back, also, the second image. It was that of a woman older— older by the difference that lies between sixteen years and twenty-six. This second image was tall and slender. It had hair of the darkest brown which is not black-hair straight and fine, its soft abundance making little display. This hair was arranged with great simplicity, too great, perhaps, for, brushed smoothly back and closely coiled behind, it had an air of almost severe plainness—a plainness, however, which the perfect oval of the face, and the beautiful forehead, full and low, marked by the slender line of the dark eyebrows, with the additional contrast of the long dark eyelashes beneath, could bear. The features were regular, delicate. The complexion a clear white, of the finest, purest grain imaginable; the sort of texture which gives the idea that the bright color will come and go through its fairness. This expectation was not fulfilled; the same controlled calm seemed to hold sway there which one perceived in the blue eyes and round the mouth.

As Winthrop had said, Margaret Harold was considered handsome. By that was meant that she was in possession of a general acknowledgment that the shape and poise of her head were fine, that her features were well cut, that her tall, slender form was charmingly proportioned, her movements graceful. Winthrop himself would have said (but only to one or two persons) that he did not admire her; she was too cold and formal, too restricted. It was true that in one thing she was not restricted, namely, her good opinion of herself.

She had undoubtedly a quiet, reserved

sort of beauty. But other women were not made jealous by any especial interest in her, by discussions concerning her, by frequent introduction of her name. She was thought cool, unsympathetic; but as she never said the clever, cutting things that unsympathetic women sometimes know how to say so admirably, she was not thought entertaining as well-as they often are. Opinion varied as to whether she could say these things, but would not, or whether it was the contrary, that she would have said them if she had been able, but simply could not, having no endowment of that kind of wit. One thing alone was certain, namely, that she continued to not say them.

Her dress, as seen in the mirror, had much simplicity of aspect. But this was owing to the way she wore it, and the way in which it was made, rather than to the materials, which were ample and rich. The soft silk, gray in hue, lay in folds over the carpet which Garda's scanty skirt barely touched; it followed the lines of the slender figure closely, while Garda's old muslin, which had been many times washed, was clumsy and ill-fitting. The gray robe came up smoothly round the throat, where it was finished by a little ruff of precious old lace, while the poor Florida gown, its fashion a reminiscence of Mrs. Thorne's youth, ended at that awkward angle which is neither high nor low.

But all this made no difference as regarded the beauty of Garda. Of most young girls it can be said that richness of attire spoils them, takes from their youthfulness its chief charm. But of Garda Thorne it could easily be believed that no matter in what she might be clad, poor garb, as at present, or the most sumptuous, she herself would so far outshine whichever it happened to be, that it would scarcely be observed.

"I

"You are the taller," said Garda. knew it!" The outline of the head with the smooth dark hair was clearly above that crowned by the curling locks.

"You are deceptive," said Margaret. "You look tall, yet I see now that you are not. Are there many more such surprises about you?"

"I hope so," answered Garda. "I love surprises. That is, short ones. I don't like surprises when one has to be astonished for ever so long, and keep on saying 'oh!' and 'dear me!' and 'is it possible!'

over and over again. Everything long is tiresome; I found that out some time ago."

Winthrop had watched them pass into the second room. He now left his place, and joined them.

"We came to see which was the taller," said Garda, as his face appeared in the mirror behind them. Margaret moved aside; but as Garda still held her hand, she could not move far. Winthrop, however, was not looking at her, his eyes were upon the reflection of the younger face; perceiving this, her own also came back to it.

"You two always look so solemn," said Garda, breaking into one of her sweet laughs. "Standing between you, as I do in the glass, I appear like Folly itself. There was an old song of Miss Pamela's:

'Reason and Folly and Beauty, they say,

Went on a party of pleasure one day.' Here they are in the glass, all three of them. Mrs. Harold is Beauty."

"I suppose that means that I am that dull thing Reason," said Winthrop. "Didn't he fare rather badly in the song? He generally does in real life, I know, poor old fellow!"

Garda had now released Mrs. Harold's hand, and that lady turned away. She found herself opposite an interesting collection of Florida paroquets, perched upon a bough fastened to the wall. She devoted her attention to ornithology for a while, the birds, in their various attitudes, returning her gaze with the candid eyes contributed by the taxidermist.

Dr. Reginald now came in search of her, to conduct her to the whist table. Pompey had arranged these tables with careful precision upon the exact figures of the old carpet which his mistress had pointed out beforehand. But though Pompey had thus arranged the tables, the players were not arranged as Garda had predicted. Mrs. Rutherford, Dr. Kirby, Mrs. Thorne, and the Reverend Mr. Moore formed one group. At the other table were Mrs. Harold, Manuel Ruiz, and Mrs. Carew, with a dummy. Evert Winthrop did not play.

This left him with Garda. But De Torrez was also left. The three walked up and down in the broad hall for a while, and then went out on the piazza. Here there was a hammock, toward which Garda declared herself irresistibly attracted. She arranged it as a swing, and seated her

self.

Winthrop found a camp chair, and placed it near her as she slowly swayed in her hanging seat to and fro. De Torrez remained standing-according to his method. He stood with folded arms in the shadow, close to the side of the house, but without touching it. He stood there one hour. It is possible that he found the occupation somewhat tedious, unless, indeed, the picture of Garda in the moonlight was sufficient for his entertainment. Certainly there was very little else to entertain him. Garda and Winthrop talked English during the entire hour.

"Ernesto," said Manuel, on their way home, giving a rapier-like thrust in the air with his cane, "that Northerner, Wintup, is simply unendurable."

"He is a matter of indifference to me," replied De Torrez.

"What, when he keeps you out there. on the piazza for two hours in perfect silence? I listened, and you never spoke one word. He talked to Garda himself all the time."

"That-I suffered," said De Torrez, with dignity.

Suffered? I should think you did! Are you going to 'suffer' him to buy East Angels too?"

"He may buy what he pleases. He can not make himself a Spaniard."

"The mother, you remember, is a Northerner," said Manuel; "that makes a great difference."

"I remember perfectly," replied the Cuban. "The señorita will always do-" "What her mother wishes?"

"What she pleases," answered De Torrez, serenely.

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THE BRAIN OF MAN, ITS ARCHITECTURE AND REQUIREMENTS. by a prema- The has enabled us bring Some explosion years ago, ber, an iron most of the results obtained by vivisection

OME thirty-six

bar three and a half feet long, one and a quarter inches in diameter, and weighing thirteen and a quarter pounds, was shot completely through a man's head and perforated his brain. This man walked up a flight of stairs after the accident, and gave his account of how it happened. Although his life was despaired of for some time, he developed no paralysis, nor did marked impairment of his intellectual faculties follow convalescence. Eventually he recovered his health. Twelve years elapsed before his death, during which time he worked as a laborer on a farm.

The "American crowbar case" at once became famous. It startled the minds of the reading public, and confounded the medical fraternity. No satisfactory explanation of the remarkable features of the case could be given. Some prominent medical men pronounced it "an American invention," and laughed at the possibility of such an occurrence. The skull was exhumed, however, after death, and is to-day in the medical museum of Harvard University.

into perfect harmony with pathological data. Those who have claimed that conclusions drawn from experiments upon animals are not applicable to man are today confronted with unanswerable facts to the contrary. Nature, through the agency of disease processes, is constantly performing experiments upon human brains, and the symptoms so produced may be recorded during life, and compared with the changes found in the brain after death. Physiology and pathology have thus added much to our knowledge in this field.

To-day the "crowbar case" is no longer a mystery to specialists in neurology. Bullets have been shot through the brain since then without loss of motion, sensation, or intellect; and in some cases they have been known to remain buried in the brain substance for months without ap parent ill effects. Three years ago a breech-pin of a gun, four and three-quarter inches long, was forced into the brain of a boy nineteen years old, through the orbit, and its presence was not suspected for some five months. It was discovered This case may be said to have been the during a surgical attempt to repair the starting-point of a new epoch in medical facial deformity that resulted from the acscience. It rendered untenable all pre- cident. Death followed the removal of vious hypotheses that had been advanced the foreign body from the brain, in conseregarding the organ of the mind. It quence of inflammation, created apparentproved conclusively that little, if any- ly by its extraction. This case is quite as thing, was known at that time respecting remarkable as the crowbar case, but it exthe architecture of the brain of man, and cited less interest in neurological circles the functions of its component parts. because we are in possession of new facts.

Since then a large number of observers have published the results of various forms of experiments upon animals, made with a view of determining the physiology of the brain; but for some years the conclusions drawn from such investigations were contradictory, and nothing was definitely established. We now are aware that serious defects existed in the early methods of research. By great ingenuity these have been gradually eliminated. We owe, however, to the discoveries of Türck, Fritsch and Hitsig, Waller, Flechsig, and Gudden most of our knowledge of new methods of research which have simplified the study of the nervous system during life and after death. These have settled many points in dispute. They have also made our knowledge more accurate, and in accord with clinical observations.

We know to-day that if even a needle be thrust into one region of the brain (the medulla oblongata, Fig. 1), immediate death may follow, while a crowbar may traverse another portion of the organ and recovery be possible. The effects of injury to the brain depend rather upon its situation than its severity.

In the light of our present knowledge the brain must be regarded as a composite organ, whose parts have each some special function, and are to a certain extent independent of each other. One limited part is essential to vital processes; hence its destruction causes death. Another part presides over the various movements of the body; hence paralysis of motion is the result of destruction of any portion of this area. A third part enables us to appreciate touch, temperature, and pain;

the utility of such information becomes
apparent at once.

and some disturbance of these functions
will be apparent when this region is in-
jured or diseased.
A fourth region pre-
sides over sight; blindness may follow
disease or destruction of this area, in spite
of the fact that the eyes escape. In the
same way smell and hearing are govern-
ed by distinct portions of the brain, and
also the sense of taste. When a com-
bined action of different parts is demand-
ed-as in the exercise of the reason, judg-
ment, will, etc.-the knowledge gained by
means of the special senses can be con-
trasted and become food for thought.

The skilled neurologist can often tell to-day, by the symptoms exhibited during life, the situation and extent of disease processes that are interfering with the action of certain parts of the brain. So positive is the information thus afforded in many cases that surgical operations are now performed for the relief of the organ. A patient who had lost the power of speech from an accumulation of pus within the brain was lately cured by the removal of a button of bone from the skull over the seat of the pus, and its prompt evacuation. Epileptics who suffer in consequence of brain irritation may sometimes be cured of their fits by the mechanical removal of the cause. Paralysis can occasionally be cured by a removal of a clot of blood from the surface of the brain through a hole in the skull. Only a few months ago a bullet, which had been shot into the head during an attempt at suicide, was removed from the skull, in one of our hospitals, by means of a counter-opening. The labors of such

men

as Meynert, Charcot, Nothnagel, Ferrier, Wernicke, and others, have made neurology a science that would exceed the comprehension of its founders. Our ability to localize disease within the substance of the spinal cord is even more remarkable than in the case of the brain. This important organ can not, however, be discussed here.

The theme of this article is one upon which it is proper as well as important that all should be generally informed. When we consider that it is by means of our nervous systems that we move, feel, see, hear, smell, taste, talk, and swallow; that in our brains are stored all the memories of past events; that we digest and assimilate our food partly by the aid of nerves; and that, in fact, we perform every act of animal life by the same agency,

The nerves are but telegraphic wires that put the brain and spinal cord in direct communication with the muscles, the skin, and the various organs and tissues. The nervous centres are therefore to be compared to the main offices of a telegraphic system, where messages are being constantly received and dispatched. Every message sent out is more or less directly the result of some message received. So it is with our nerve-centres. We are constantly in receipt of impressions of sight, smell, taste, hearing, and touch. These are called afferent impulses. As the result of the information so gained we are constantly sending out efferent or motor impulses to the muscles. These create movements of different parts of the body. Respecting this view, Michael Foster expresses himself as follows: "All day long and every day multitudinous afferent impulses from eye, and ear, and skin, and muscle, and other tissues and organs, are streaming into our nervous system; and did each afferent impulse issue as its correlative motor impulse, our life would be a prolonged convulsion. As it is, by the checks and counter-checks of cerebral and spinal activities, all these impulses are drilled and marshalled and kept in hand in orderly array till a movement is called for; and thus we are able to execute at will the most complex bodily manoeuvres, knowing only why, and unconscious or but dimly conscious how, we carry them out."

Sometimes, however, the motor impulses sent out by the brain in response to sensory impressions take place in spite of our volition. Let us cite an instance in the way of illustration: a timid person sees, perchance, some accident in which human life is possibly sacrificed, or the sensibilities are otherwise shocked. His feelings overcome him, and he faints. How are we to explain it? Let us see what takes place. The impression upon the brain made by the organ of sight creates (through the agency of special centres in the organ of the mind) an influence upon the heart and the blood-vessels of the brain. This results in a decrease in the amount of blood sent to the brain, and causes a loss of consciousness. In the same way persons become dizzy when looking at a water-fall, or from a height, through the effects of the organs of sight upon the brain.

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