Evening Star Newspaper, June 4, 1898, Page 16

al oon THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, JUNE CHAPTER XU In the Moonlight. WRITTEN FOR, i~ q THE EVENING STAR CODvRIGHT 098 Feceterwcmmates ing the ofled paper to shaets of palest gilt. He could not sleep. He crept from the warm bed to the window and opened it a little way. Vast masses of silvery clouds swept away into the north, tratiing in their wake flecks and filmy tatters. In the midnight velvet of the sky rare stars twinkled like dia- monds, dimmed by the splendid white lamp of the moon. The black ramparts, sharp-cut against the sky, stretched out their angles.east and When Harewood and Bourke entered the | West; the crimson and sasphing lanicna Rue d’Ypres, a thin rain was falling, driven | giittered ke gems, staining the wet side- by sudden littl? volleys of wind that grew | walks with their colors. Over the bastion der anc e violent as the rain thick-] the Prophet rose, detached from the mass- = 3 ae ee ed ramparts 1 shape, up-tilted, ned. printed cl against the horizon. They stood for a moment iooking out into| Even the wind subsiding now, leav- the black void beyond the ramparts. There! ing a clear, fresh odor of distant winter in ! was nothing to see, not a star, uot a sen-! the air. The moon, too, sparkled with a try—nothing but quivering sheets of rain! Wintry radiance; the stars went out in its bape ees = rts = on | White luster. slanting across dim signal iamps s2t iow 02 On°wail and pavement the etched follage the bastions. no longer moved. Harewood leaned from Bourke unlocked the door noiselessly;!the window ledge, scarcely breathing: for Harewood followed him upstairs ani into| the beauty of the night was upon him and his own bed room; and, as he struck a| hon his soul was a spell. match and lighted the lamp, he felt a sud-| @en case, a sense of home-coming—som>-{ thing he had not known in months—Beurke | answered his unspoken thoughts. “Yes—it| is very pleasant to get back, Jim. 1 think Tl turn in direct Harewood sat dow wandered around the he windows. G has fill With oiled paper,” b you suppose the Prophet poeath on the bed; his glance | mpht room, cesting dow frames | “Do the the w uid listlessly. shattered bly,” said Bourke. The rain rattled on the oiled pap: after gust set it crackiing and bulg ward. Bourke started aimlessly toward the door, haited, returned and ieaned on the footboard ot the be “What are you going to do?” wearily. “About Buckhurst?” “Yes. don’t know.” After a minute of silence Bourke resu “I'd cable in a moment it it wasn’t for threat he made about Yolette and t he asked Har>wood’s face grew red, but he did not look up. é “Gen. Trochu a strange man,” con- tinued Bourke. If those blackgi ards | shouid denounce Yolette und Hilde, cnd bring a lot of ruffians to swear to anything, who can tell what might happe “You mean that the governor might expel them—under th2 law cevering the tempor- ary expulsion of dissolute women?” de- manded Harewood with an effort. oy replied Bourke, “that’s what I 2 silence ensued, broken at length “As for Buckhurst's threat to cut our throats—of course, that bothers neither of vs—at least, it wouldn't prevent our ca- bing. But I shall not cable now and risk ruining the lives of these two girls.” “No,” said Harewood, “‘we cannot cable.” ‘Then he looked up, his face so transform2d that Bourke Involuntarily re- hate ecil,” he whispered, “if ever they trou- ble Hilde I'l kill them both—I'll kill them both, when and where I can Bourke did not reply. Gradually the fierce hate faded from Harewood'’s face. He rested his chin on his hand, eyes vacant, lips parted. “You see, they've got us, Cecil,” he said more quietly. “Don’t you remeinber meet- ing Speyer in the crowd when we w watchmg the Tuileries. Of course, he us when Hilde and Yole to the empr I suppose if he tries, and I'm sure he’s going to try It "reflected Bourke, “now taufier seem to be to get the house. And their returning 2 other day to re-engage rooms is qu What do you supp« they want?" Harewood rose suddenly and began to up and down, hands clasped behind ck. Presently he halted before looking him squarely in th gave up the he can annoy “Do you know what I think? I believe rman spy! * repeated Bourke, blankly. Why did he enlist in a Belie- lion? Do war ¢ ny is he faw ille revolutionists? ble German rrespondents do and flatterin To get ne crican sheet? impor of anarch that? Wh the Bellew for his mi: Not much; war news is Americans than a report sqrabbles in the slvms of Paris. I'll you why he’s cringing to Buckhurst a Ficurens; he's a paid emissary of nore hired to stir up internal strife in while the Germans pound the fort outside. And I'll bet you, Cecil, never was anything but a spy. What has he done for his paper in New York? Noth- ing. Its columns are filled with stolen dis- patches and special work from al! the other par Speyer is a spy; he has cor- rupted Stauffer, too. As for Buckhurst—I believe he’s only a criminal who gives his life to anarehy just now because he be- ieves there's something in it for himself. That is my theor Bourke stood by the hed, eagerly atten- tive, aequlescing with nods and gestures as Harewood proceeded: “He tried to stab me there in the street when I was down; he had his knee on my chest; if it hadn't been for th se I don't know—I don’t know, Cec! I think he meant to cut my A He looked up into Bourke’s face soberly, beginning for the first time to realize his nt danger. “The Mouse is he contir a grateful beast, after all," I never thought anything cast upon the waters, you riously; “it's ing the door, he added: “We'll cab nothing about Buckhurst for the present. Good night. I'm fit f leep, I thin: “Good night,” replied Harewood, ab- After Bourke had gon. e sat for a while on his be to the drimming of raindrops on the pi win- dow panes. He thought he could sleep, but when he fay among the chilly sheets his lids remained open in the Buckhurst's colorless eyes that haunted him—that, and the memory of the pistol flash, the momentary impression of Buck- hurst’s ashen face streaked with blood, as he groped on the sidewalk for the pistol. The blood? That had been his doing. Twice he had struck Buckhurst heavily between those pale eyes. And as he lay there he knew that this dreaded criminal would never forget, never rest, until he had sat- isfied a criminal’s ruling passion—revenge. Harewood, resting motionless among his pillows, heard the wind rising in the night, heard the sudden creak and swing of storm- shaken shutters, the swelling monotone of the rain. It seemed to beat on his heart. He felt the harmony of the million drops, the swift shafts of wind-swept rain blow- ing over vast valleys, over hills and plains, and the crinkled surface of unseen rivers. He wondered whether the Prussians were very near—how soon thelr black shelis would comé moaning and whistling over | the city. That very morning he had read } the government bulletins warning the in- habitants of Paris to prepare for the bom- bardment by placing valuables in the cei- lar, installing barrels of water on roof and Jandings to fight fire, and particularly to remove all paving stones from court and ndewalk in order to lessen the effect of ex- ploding shells. He himself had seen work- men stuffing the windows and balconies of the Louvre with bedding and mattresses. He had seen the Arc de Triomphe swathed and padded and sheathed for protection Sgainst shot and shell. How soon would the Germans arrive? Which way would they come—from the north or from the east? Outside the storm was subsiding. a cooler current of air swept across his face. The beat of rain on frame and sill ceased, leav- ing ¢roppt echoes from drain pipes ani eaves. As the wind freshened the dripping roof gutters grew silent. The sobbing of the wind through the wet leaves filled the room. And now he could see the shadows of yon branches, outlined on the paper fight ‘tll « dark. It was re long shafts of silvery moon- t fell athwart the window ledge, turn- He did not know it; he knelt heavily in the moonlight. chin on clasped hands, eyes dreaming. For him the breath of wi far away; alarms, rumors, the dull discon- tent of expectancy, all had vanished in th placid shadow worid, passionless, unreal le sweet vision. so, pensive, dreaming, he rose and about, unconscious that he was ; unconscious why he passed the door and down the dusky stairs, deeper, deeper into the silent house. At last he stood before a closed door at which he had not knocked. lently and he went in, Moonlight silvered everything. ‘The white It opened s bed, the curtains clustered overhead, the polished faience Sainte, smiling her set smile through the sh: Ss; but Hilde’s hair, clouding brow and neck, veiled her pale face in a shower of silk and gilt. They did not speak; she stood silent and white before the Sainte; he knelt beside her, holding her hand against his eyes. All by itself the door swung softly and closed. A clock ticked through the silence; after a long time the weights slid, creaking, and an hour struck. There was an imperceptl- ble movement of the hand he held pressed to hfs eyes, a soft stir of a faintly fra- grant garment, delicate a When he stood up held her and her silky head; rms around his neck. When he passed again through the door, the perfume of her lips on his, she sank before the corner where, in the meshed toonlight. Sainte Hilde of Carhaix smiles. And there she lay. faint with the heppiness life holds for maid or man. As for the man she ioved, he went blind- ly up the dusky ‘Ss. groping for his cemrade’s door. And he entered and sat by his sleeping friend. to, Chapter XII. The Soul of Yolette. Bourke awoke with a start, his ears ring- ing in a din so sudden, so frightful, that for a moment he lay, half stupefied, among his pillows. Under his feet, shock on shock, the earthquake cutcrash rocked the house, the windows skook and clattered as the cannon’s lightning, blast after blast, split the keen at: of dawn. He saw Harewood at the window beck- oring him to come, and he went, shivering and stumbling in the morning chill. “The forts.” moticned Harewood with his lips. “Look! There's hell to pay!” Far across the shrouded country, in the pale dawn, five dim forts towered.’ crown- ed with clouds: and through the ciomds, heaving, rolling. floating, bright lightning dzrted. Sudden yellow flares of light, smr- its of flame, swift crimson-jetted tiashes played under the carepy of smoke. The great fort of Issy streamed from every em- brasure: Vanves roared like a veleano; from Montrouge, Ivry, Bicetre, peal on peal, the reverberations rolled, until the humming air, surcharged and overstrained with sound, dinned in the ears with muf- fled, de echoes that set the sickened senses swimming. And now it seemed as if the wind had changed; the thunder blew clear of the city clouds blow before a gale. There was a sudden silence, ly by a roar from the str se—the s he Pru: Harewood ran back into his own room and looked out into the street. It was choked with people, men, women, children, rming over the ramparts, shouting ming, gesticulating. pointing. Office ut against the sky on the bastio sun ed almost instant- tin front of th frenzied howl of a mob, “I Wish I Were Dead.” and striking dazzling sparks from brass- tipped field glasses. Drums were beating everywhere, down by the Porie Rouge, in the parade of the Prince Murat baracks, en every bastion, in every guard hou: The line battalions filed at double quic! from their caserne; the cannoneers of the Prophet clustered over the empaulement and glacis, scanning the distant hills toward Viroflay, Velizy and the plateau of Chatillon. Up in the window Bourke knelt, his ma- rne glasses fixed on a hillside below Cha- ville, where a single horseman stood, im- movable. The horseman was a Prussian Uhlan. Presently Harewood's glass brought mora Ublans into focus. Secil,” he muttered, “they’re right this time. The Prussians are here.” It was true. The first Uhlans had ap- peared near Versailles like buzzards above a wounded thing. When the rest arrived they would sit around patiently waiting for the end of the city lying at their feet. “There's hell to pay at Point de Jour, too, if anybody should ask you,” observed Bourke, shivering in his nightshirt. “The gunboats are firlng—look—do you sec?” “I see,” replied Harewood, soberly. He turned with a sudden gesture. “The siege of Paris has begun at last,” he said. Bourke nodded. MS After a silence Harewood burst out: “I wish to heaven we were out of this.” “What's that?” asked the other, sharply. But Harewood turned away wearily, say- ng: “You cant understand. Never mind. I wish I wer2—I wish I were—” "What?" demanded Bourke. “Dead,” sv Harewood, sulkily, and went out of the room. “What's the matter with him. now?” BY RoBT W-CHAMBERS: mused the other, closirg the window and entcring his own bed room. When Bourke had dressed and ‘descend- ed the stairs to the dining room he found Yoelette sitting alone at the table. She looked up as he entered. There were traces of tears in her eyes. “It is foolish,” she said, smiling. “The cannon have frightened us—Hilde will not lcave her room. I carried chocolate to her, but she will not even open her door. Has jtbe siege begun?” “I think it has,” said Bourke, lightly. Perhaps it will be more noise than any- thing else. Where is: M. Harewood?” “He has gone to the city. He would eat . Are you also going to the city?” ‘said Bourke. finished breakfast in silence. Yo- lette s blue eyes wet half raised from time to time, but Bourke’s eyes were on his plate. Before he rose he looked up absently. Something in the swift droop of Yolette’s clear eyes arrested his own. A light color touched his cheeks and temples. He made us movement to rise and go— tinct of a prosaic man who sur- prises the soul in a woman's eyes. She made no movement. The white sash in behind her stirred.in the morning wind. Under such circumstances it takes a truly prosaic man ten seconds to make up his 1 “WHAT ARE YOU HIDING 4, 1898-24 PAGES. which the Seine frothed and sparkled in the wake of somé river gunboat, ploughing its way unger wBite arches of masonry. On every: height, on every tower and dome and férra pie clustered to look off at the’ hills’ where the Prussians Jay. ‘The Buttes'of Chaumont, the hill, of Mont- marte, the! Trogadero, the Viaduct w2re black with people. Ladies in carriages surrounded the Arc de Triomphe, gay cOl- crs dotted the cr¢wa on top of the arc. It was so amYsing—really a delightful sensa- tion to watth the shells’ tall curve, to see the cloudy explosion, shot with lightning, to watch the shredded vapors float away, white as flebcy Wool. It was a new sensa- tion and a thrilling one to know that those shells were’aimed at men hiding among the blue woods ‘and Hills. And so the carriages flashed past through the trees, bright with cclor, glittering with painted wheels, silver chains ringing anging rhythms to the Unkle of steel-shod hoofs, and the gay sunshades and bonnets and scarfs bright- ened the autumn grays and greens of the Bols de Boulogne until the brilliant city seemed to be en fete, and the soft thunder pfthe guns was but a feu-de-Jole announc- ng the triumphs of peace and of the brotherhood of man. Bourke lunched on the ramparts, survey- ing the scene with cool, optimistic eyes. “The Prussians will never get in,’ he mused as he munched his bread. “There will be an assault or two and then a sortie, and nobody can see the end of the war yet.” In the early afternoon he went his dis- Patches by way of Bordeaux, for the northern and western wires were not work- ing, and about 3 o'clock he strolled home- ward, wondering where Harewood spent the day. There was nobody in dence excepting Red Riding Hood when he entered the house. “T think,” she said, “that Mlle. Hilde has gone to market with Mlle. Yolette.” “And M. Harewood?” “He is lying down in his room.” Bourke looked pleasantly at the child. He wished to say something kind and cheerful, but he did not know how. He realized this and it embarrassed him. It was always so with children—his awk- wardness stifled his affection. you are washing—er—dishes?” he quired. “Iam,” replied Red Riding Hood, serenely. in- OUTSIDE {HERE FoR? mind that he is mistaken, Eight seconds were suflicient for Bourke. He slid into his chair, looked,at Yolette, swallowed his co?- fee with serious satisfaction, and helped hunseif to a finger bowl. “I suppose,” he said, “that M. Harewood has gone to the telegraph office? “I don't know,” said Yolette, without raising her eyes. Does anything trouble you?” he asked. ad no ta Yolette loois niment. “Why, of course not, up, confused, pink with M. Bourke.” 2 sy, he stood up as she arose. He wa. » that some subtle condition of mind to change existing con- aitions. S a sense of expectancy already ping in his own mind, a rental attitude of preparation for some- tking or other that began to disturb him. He looked curiously at Yolett he noted the white neck, the silken blue-black hair, the eyes fringed deeply with the same color. “Lam going,” said Yolette, “to see Sche- if She bites me I shall be very unhappy. “Bile y repeated Bourke. as The poor darling is almost out of her senses with the cannonade. She 1s so frightened she runs around and around the garden, and slinks close to the ground and sréeris dreadfully.” As Yolette spoke she walked toward the garden door and Bourke followed. He would not allow her to precede him into the garden, and when they stood together at the door he unconsciously placed his hend on her arm and stepped in front. “Let me go and call her,” satd Yolette, starting across the grass, but he drew her back with a sudden decision that surprised hei It surprised him, too, to find that his natural solicitude for her amounted to sheer fright. “Monsieur,” she sald, “I am not afraid of my own lion.” There was something besides mutiny in her blue eyes as she started forward again, only to be firmly detained by Bourke’s sun- browned hand. “I cannot le her from her “M. Bourke’ you do that,” he said. ‘Call “Don’t go,” he said, beseechingly. Is it possible that Yolette enjoyed his con- sternation? There was a little thrill in her breast and a quiver in her clear voice as she re- peated: . Bourke, you will certainly not detain me?” “Yes, ¥ will,” he replied. “I am not going to see you clawed by a frightened lioness, and you must stay here.” The flash of revolt died in her eyes; there was contentment in her heart and acquiescence, too—and something more that made the smile on her lips so exquisite that Bourke's hand fell from her arm, and again the impulse seized him to go away some- where with moderate haste. “Scheherazade! Scheherazade!” she call- ed, holding out her arms in the sunlight. There was no response. “Scheherazade! Scheherazade!” The tangled thicket of rose and briar bushes moved slightly. “She's in there,” said Bourke. He walked out among the trees, calling to the lioness. Presently he saw her, crouching close to the parched earth, under an acacia bush. But that was not all; on the ground beside her knelt Hilde, both arms around the lion's neck. When Hilde saw Bourke she hid her face in Scheherazade’s tawny shoulder. “Why, Hilde,” he said, “what on earth are you hiding out here for? “Hilde,” cried Yolette, coming up, “be careful, my darling. Scheherazade growled at me this morning.” Hilde stood up and answered, looking down at the lion: “I am not afraid.” She drew the lioness to her feet beside her, then, without glanci at Yolette or Bourke: “I shali take hér to my room. If you go in she won't be afraid.” Slowly she drew the lioness toward the house, never looking up at her sister or at Bourke until they reached the door. There she met Bourke's puzzled gaze, turned, smiled at her sister, and passed into the house leading the cowering lioness. The Cay passed quickly for Bourke. He prowled around the ramparts by the Point de Jour until luncheon, scribbling notes and bits of half-caught gossip from the swarms of officers who were watching the Prussians with a fascination approaching hypnotism. There was not much to see, a column of smoke here and there, nothing more, except a rare Uhlan, a tiny speck on distant height. The forts of the ne a east wate regan! the forts of the south were steadily cannonading the distant woods, blue and hazy under the veiled sunshine. Now and then a great gun bellowed from the viaduct, clouding the bastions with billowy mist — ee The fact was ‘As obvious as Bourke’s confusion, = " Red Riding Hoot hittte. - “Here,” ‘said’ Botirke, desperately, “are some bonbor$," and he sotemnly presented the child with’ a package tled up in red ribbon. Red Riding Hood thanked him gravely, Untied the parcel, retied the scarlet bit of ribbon in her targled black locks, and came up to him holding out the sweat- meats, * serious eyes opened a “Take one,” she said. Bourke obediently took a chocolate drop and placed it in his mouth. Red Riding 1 did likewise. “I will return to my ve. »” he said, understanding that the audience was at an end Upstairs he found Harewood lying on the bed. “Hello, Jim; out of sorts?” he esked amiably 0,” said Harewood, without looking up. Bourke sat down on the bed. “Sent your dispatches?” “I sent mine, too. Well, the Pruss are here at last. What a devil of a row the forts of the south make when the wind is right! Where were you this afternoon?” “Outside the cit: Go far?” Bas-Meudon. “See anything? “Ne After a pause, Bourke said, “Don’t you care to talk, Jim? “Yes,” said Hare’ , for God's sake—let us do “What's the matter with you?” asked Bourke sharply. : Harewood’s face changed; he smiled at his comrade and touched him affectionate- ly on the arm. Nothing—case of blue deviis—they’re gone. You're a good chap, Cecil.” “Am 1?" replied Bourke, gratified. “I haven't had a chence to see you—to talk things over today—you went away rather abruptly.” After a moment's thought he added: “What's the matter anyway, Jim? Have you had a misunderstanding with Hilde?” “No,” replicd Harewood, forcing a smile. “Oh, I wasn’t sure, Hilde seems to have the blues, too. What have you been doing all day? “When I came ‘back from Bas-Meudon,” said Harewood, crossing cne leg over the other and clasping both hands above the knee, “I borrowed a crowbar from a soldier and pried up all the flagstones in the courtyard. You know the governor issued orders for all sérts of precautions. At noon today a_ soldier came to sec whether we had obeyed Trochu’s orders. Guess who it was?” “Not Speyer!’ exclaimed Bourke. “Yes, it was Speyer.” They looked at each other significantly. Bourke bega: 1o pecs the floor. “I foresee “wha’ ‘ coming,” he said bit- terly. “Buckhurst, and Speyer are going to nag us and te us until we do some- thing for which they can denounce us. Buckhurst TS Us becaus2 we know ais record. Speyer mts to get into this house, because it’g the ideal headquarters for a spy. They gfe both working for the same end.” . “I think,” gaid Harewood, tightening his clasp about his ee, “that Speyer is the center of thg whdle spy system in Paris. Shall I tell you why? , Listen, Cecil. When he came to ict srt: ut whether we had -un- paved the ind incidentally te dis- cover whateyer hé could to our detriment— I, luckily, J finished prying up the flagstones afid pijing them against the wall. He 8s in, Qniform—the uniform of a Belleville ftaff gaptain. He spoke to me and looked me in fhe eye as though he had never before seen me. And all the time I was eyeing the mark my riding crop left across his face. He came into the house— I dared not strike him; his uniform you know—and that would have been fatal— fatal to us all. It was not until he went that he said anything important; but, as he left by the same steps down’ which I bad knocked him a few nights ago, he stopped and said: “Take my advice ‘and get out of this house before you're "kicked out.” Bourke's face crimsoned. He’stood stock still in the middle of the floor. “I replied,” continued Harewood, “that in the event of a frost in hell I would leave, and not before. I also pointed out that, uniform or no uniform, I'd twist his head oft his shoulders if he ever came back.” Harewood had risen while > and now he also began to pace the floor. “You see, Cecil,” he continued, “that I’ve committed us all. But I mean it. We can’t stay here with these Belleville rufMfans free to enter the house when the whim strikes them—free, to billet their fellow cut-throats here—perhaps Speyer, perhaps Buckhurst bimseif. And I tell you if any man, sol- dier or civilian, offers a word—a look—at Hiide—I'll fling him through the window. “Of course,” said Bourke, soberly. Harewvod,,nervous and flushed, sat down on the bed again. * “I fear it's coming,” he said. “I fear we shall all be obliged to leave. They have the whip hand. If they denounce Hilde and Yolette for aiding the empress—if they de- nounce them on a more dreadful charge— who is to help them? Not you—not L Trochu will listen to his soldier-police—not to us. Think of the horrible shock to those young giris—think of their helplessness. Suppose Speyer should swear. to the lies he threatens them with. He is a staff captain; he once lodged here: he has a lying witness in Stauffer. Would it help matters if IL should shoot Speyer down in the street, in tne house—on the witness stand itself? This thing is like a night- mare to me, Cecil.” “Do you mean to say,” burst out Bourke, that they would not listen to you —that they would not believe you—you who can swear that Hilde is the sweetest, pur- est woman on earth—the woman—Jim—the woman you love?” Harewood’s lips whitened. He tried to answer. His cheeks were smitten with a @eadly pallor. “The woman—the woman I love?” he re- peated. “Do you not love her?’ demanded Bourke, violently. Still Harewood’s white face was turned to his in silence. “An: r me,’ said Bourke, stepping arer. As he spoke a vision of Yolette flashed before him. He saw her blue eyes fixed cn his own, he saw her hair, the troubled curve of her lips, the quiet, pure brow. And suddenly he understood that it was Yolette—it was for Yolette that he spoke and it was for himself, too—for he loved ber. The sudden illumination, his own heart laid bare before him, the surprise, the emotion, the flashlight revelation of a secret unsuspected—the undreamt-of secret of his own heart—staggered him. Harewood, gazing blankly at him, saw but a parting of his comrade’s lips, a dilation of his eyes, a brusque movement of chest and head. After a moment Bourke you loved Hilde. id: “I thought I only asked because I hoped you did.” His vote wonde fully gentle. He spoke slowly, as though, between his own words, he was listening to another voice—the votce that whispers, whispers always in the ears of those who love. He went on, slowly: ‘You and she are so much together, it might not be the safest and best thing for her if you took it lightly—not that 1 think you dishonorable, Jim—you won't believe that! But some- times I have thougit—I think a great deai about you, Jim—I sometimes fancy that Hilde s for you a great deal. It might be less cruel for both—both you and Hilde— if we went away—unless—unle: ~He stopped abruptly, his f: touched with a tender light, the voice again sound- iug softly in his ears. What?” motioned Harewood, lips. Bourke smiled at him and touched his forehead with his hand, dreamily, “What was I saying?” he asked. “Nothing,” said Harewood, vacantly. (To be continued.) — LOSS OF VISUAL ACUTENESS. Reasons That Tend to Make Children Need Glasses. Frem the Jewelers’ Weekly. It is interesting to compare the visual acuteness of the normal eye before and after the effect of some purely physical cause, that may be within the realm of either nature or civilization. Taking a few instances of each for illvstration, I will cite from nature first. It is well known that severe illness greatly impairs the acute- ness of vision of an otherwise strong eye. Almost the first thing a convalescent will do is to call for a book or newspaper to while away the tedium of the sick room. Unless warned not to try his eyes too much, he is apt, through forgetfulness, to ertask his accommcdative powers or in- jure the already weakened ciliary muscle. When the rest of his body recovers its nor- mal strength the eye continues weak. After straining the eyes more, in the vain hope that his sight will improve, the person, if he is wise, will consult experienced help; if otherwise, he will pick up the first pair’ of spectacies available, regardless of whether they shoull be too strong or too weak for his eyes. Should he finally go to an op- the la en find it difficult eee at affect eyes are . when excessive. with dry tician, conditions the 2 ‘ommodative power is strong enough to overcome But under such atmosphe conditions as I accommodation is I of the ey the err climatic the y nnot find relief, ¢ pt by the use of glasses. They should generally be convex. Having mentioned those losses of visual acuteness due to natural caus next in order are causes produced by civilization. At the outset I will say that if the patient were to change his occupation and tak plenty of fresh atr and exercise, the opti. fan's service might never be needed, but these “ifs” are in the way, and are not to be got rid of by the average individual. Take a boy from the country, bring him to town and place him at clerical work, vriting, perhaps, all day and into the ht. Put him behind a counter, and let him stand all day with one hour free out of twelve or more, or let him sit at a work bench, following a trade that keeps his eyes fixed steadily, hour after hour, twelve or eighteen inches in front of him. Take this same youth with hitherto good cyes and bid him use them day in and day out, reading for a profession, or let him occupy kis time in a dimly lighted room, or bend overea desk beneath artificial light all the time. I might go on, giving instance after instance, without particularizing any call- ing as more harmful than others to the eyes. Is it a wonder that the children of this generation are wearing giasses along with their grand sires? Old age is no longer the reason for wearing glasses. In nine cases out cf ten the young man needs a convex glass to assist his overtaxed eyes in ful- filling their duties. . In addition te these causes of weakened vision, if is hardly necessary to mention the common evils of tobacco and alenholic stimulants. Again, if the strong constitu- tion of a boy cannot save his eyes from their thousand and one uses, how can frail women escape? The ever increasing army of women workers in shops and offices, and the new avenues of employment opening to them, swell the number of spectacle wear- ers. It has been my purpose to point out tkat it is not the serious and very plain er- rors of refraction that cause the most of an optician’s patronage, and he must often atiribute’ the loss of visual acuteness to other causes. ——_—_____ Corean Women Monopolisze Latchkeys From the Bombay Advocate of India. A curious custom in Seoul, Corea, is the law which makes it obligatory for every man to retire to his home when the huge bronze bell of the city proclaims it to be the hour of sunset and the time for closing the gates. No man.is allowed in the streets after that hour under pain of flogging, but the women are allowed to go about and visit their friends. ——+ e+____ Shocking. (Copyright, 1898, Life Publishing Company.) A GRUESOME PLACE Yet the Paris Morgue Has Many Charms for Tourists. WHERE UNKNOWN DEAD ARE TAKEN Hundreds of the Unfortunates Are Never Identified. SUICIDE AND MURDER Special Correspondence of The Eveniag Star. PARIS, May 25, 1898, Feet-foremost, thou shalt go thy w: This was a famous song at the Chat Noir, which mixed grave things and gay in a fearful and wonderful manner. Some of ‘the French dead stay feet-foremost for many days—behind the glass windows of the morgue. They are the poor devils fished out of, the Seine river, or found lifeless in some back street in the late night, without anything to tell who or what they are. Altogether, this gay city of Paris counts an average of two sulcides and two mur- ders every day of the year. All these are regularly brought to the morgue for the medical examination and autopsy. The autopsy is in connection with a department of the faculty of medicine, so that suicide and murder benefit some one, if not the Victims. But few bodies are exposed to the Public. The occupants of the places be- hind ihe windows, which present so in- vincible an attraction to tourists and Par- isians alike, are those who bear about them no sign of identity. They are ex- posed here in the hope that some one may come to recognize them. The clothing fcund on them is arranged near, as this is often the only means of identification. And all day long the crowd defiles before the glass screen, from which fails on them the deathly chill of the refrigerating room be- hind, in which the corpses are preserved. It is a gruesome sight thrown into the frivolous brightness of Paris. Her Morbid Curiosity. “I wili never, never go there again!” says the young woman after her first visit. But when her final sightseeing comes she drives ostensibly to the stately cathedral church of Notre Dame, towering above the river, and then slips round to the iow bullding on the river's bank and in at the ever-open doors to look once more at those who lle feet-foremost. Behind the ornate apse of the great Gothic church, with its flying buttresses of stone, there is first a green square wher clildren play beneath the trees. Then there is the highway, and then—with the everopen doors at the curb—the long, low building cf the morgue. The balls of the children at play may roll into it, and the urchins, before hurrying back ‘to. their sport, take a cal ing look at the body which the night has added to the familiar ecHection. The building is like a Grecian tcmb—or a place where lost objects are kept until claimed. Perhaps that would be the best description of the relics of hu- manity found here at ali seasons, but es- pecially now in the springtime. When Suicides Abou It is a curious fact that, while a ma- Jority of the dead are taken from the river where they have drowned themselves or been drowneg, it is in the months when the water is warm that suicides abound. Strong argument for the insanity of all these poor clims, for if they were really tired of lite’s history, glad of death's mystery, weuld they hesitate from the fatal plunge t because the water is cold? This is just what Rousseau says happened to himself once, and, as a result of his antipathy to cold water, he lived to a con- siderable age, and lies buried in the Pan- theon as the prophet and precursor of the French revolution. He is not the only one who discovered the mortal dread of the French race for cold water. When the peo- ple gathered, in 1830 or thereabouts, to make a new revoluticn, Casimir Perier, grandfather of the ex-president of the present French republic, instead of ordering out the troops, had the firemen turn their hoses on the mutinous crowd. The crowd ran for dear life, and there was no revolu- tion—and the great man was known for- r after as Casimir “Pompier!” But ery is great, and in the balmy spring- time the water grows warm enough to think of suicide in it. Women in the Minority. In one year, out of 695 bodies brought to the morgue, 347 had been taken out of the river. Of these, only eighty were women— which shows that Tom Hood’s “Bridge of Sighs” was a compliment to the sex, at least as far as our French sisters are con- cerned. The life which has been led by those who ccmmit suicide is interesting to know. It is not what is commonly thought—which again shows that people do not get rid of their own lives according to any reasonable act. Of the men, sixty came from the lib- eral professions, forty-seven were foremen m commercial or industrial establishmen sixty-eight were clerks or employes, 288 skilled workmen and ninety-nine day labor- ers, thirty-eight domestic servants and siaty-three without any known or avowed rrofession. Of the women, eight were from Mberal professions, six were forewomen, six clerks, seventy-eight skilled and thirty- three unskilled workingwomen, twenty-two domestic servants and sixty-three of pro- fession unknown or worse. Another curious item of the statistics of the place is that the figures run up fear- fully in the years of universal exhibitions. Is it because so many foreigners get stranded here in Paris? It will be a ques- ticn to ask in two years from now, when so many will try to do the exhibition of 1900 on perhaps insufficient funds. Let their first visit be to the morgue, to see how unwholesome they will look if they are ever brought to these benches, to be propped up with their American feet curled up piteously at the idle, profane, horrified, cynical stares of the crowd which will strely pass before their dead bodies. Preserving the Bodies. At the back of the morgue, where the public is not admitted, the building sinks cown two stories to the water's edge. Here are the demonstrating rooms for the medi- cal students and the powerful refrigerating appacatus. This latter produces a tempera- ture of the zero of our thermometers—that is, thirty-two degrees below the freezing point. The bodies brought in are subjected to this during several hours. They are Placed for the purpose in niches in the solid wall. Then they are brought into the exhibition hall (if they have not been iden- tufied) and are kept at freezing tempera- ture. Sometimes they remain for many weeks. If no one recognizes them they are taken away from public view; but they are still kept for some months before they are finally buried. Meanwhile, photographs of ail who arrive in this strange inn of death are placed at the entrance, where every ome can scan the details of the features; and the clothing is open to inspection by any one who thinks he has ized the face. When persons are missing it is here their friends come to search. There is always an official to give them all information and aid. With the sudden mixture of this dreadful and laugh- able which characterize the civilization of this city of light, a forty-year-old Parisian joke is founded on this. A drunkard who has been for several days on 2 spree is suddenly struck with remorse at the re- membrance of his wife, who all this time has had no news of him. He comes to the morgue and tearfully demands to look at the dead, and explains to the astonished employe: “You see, I have been gone from home now four days. I am getting uneasy. I come to see if I am not here.” Poet_in a Dead House, girls, two or three years old, dressed altke, but taken from the river at a distance from each other, and exposed here, with their emiling baby countenances, for many weeks. It was never known whether th had been simply drowned to get them « of the world where they troubled some or, as many thought, if the unhappy m. er had not thrown herself with them ints the river and been separated from her children, whom she would not leave bein by death and the force of the waters STERLING HEILIG >: THE QUESTION OF DISTANCH. Remoteness of Some of the Scenes of Warlike Actio: From the New York Tribune. Some one who was asked the other day how long it would take to send ald from San Francisco to Commodore Dewey at Manila, was surprised to learn that the fastest ocean liners would do well to make the voyage in two weeks, and that most vessele would require nearer three weeks for the trip. In view of the lack of exact knowledge as to the distarices between the various geographical points now prominent in the war news, a brief statement regarJ- ing the most important of them may be useful, From San Francisco to Manila the dis- tance fs, in round numbers, about 6,500 miles, or nearly than twice k and Liv- * from San Fran- to Hawali, and about 4,0" miice from Hawali to Manila, so that if the vex- fel touched at Hawaii on her way across the Pacific to Manila she would leave the direct c htly and increase her yoy- 000 miles. From Hong K to Mahila Commodore Dewey's ships had tip of 6 miles to make, almost di stances between various p the Atlancic ocean have also bee a vements of in reference to the probable n t the Spanish fleets. From Cac the chief home rendezvous of the the Canary Islands from Cacia to the Cape Verde Islands about twice aa far, or nearly 1.50) miles. The distan tween Cadiz and New York is nearly miles, and the Canary and Cape Verde isi- ands, each group about the same distance from this city, are more than 2%) ti! nearer to us than Cad‘z. From Cadiz te Rio Janetro ts over 4.000 miles: from New York to Rio, 5,900, The distance betweea New York and Porto Rico ts 1.430 miles, and this is on the direct route to R’ that if the Oregon's course is from Rio Porto Rico, she had, on leaving Rio, ah 4.470 miles to travel in order to maki island. From New York to Havana it 1.230 miles; from Key West to Havana, 7 miles, The difference in time between the ters of war news Is a point which mu observed in order to form a correct {dea of the reports regarding the work of distat.t forces. Manila is nearly s cs the antipodes of New York, being situated on the 120th mer- = to t tha * cen- t be {dian east of Greenwich, as New York is on the v The difference in time betwen the two places is thirteen hours, or, in othet words, Manila clocks are thirten hours ahead of those here. The battle of Manila Bay, which began at lock on Sunday morning, May 1, according to t dispatches, was thus being fought on Sai- urday afternoon by New York time, be- ginning at about 4 o'clock. In London the hour was 9 o'clock in the evening, and at Madrid, where the actual time is fourtecn er fifteen minutes behind that of Gr wich, it was 845 p.m. If th rt « th battle had been transmitted promptly. t. this city, there would thus have been an other example of the fami but peculiar experience of getting news of n the day before that event took place. But owing to the delay caused because the mes- Sage went through Spanish channels, 1 report of Dewey's victory reached 3 York until Sunday night. The actual or local time at Havana is report of Dewey's victory reached New York; that of Rio Janeiro. is two hours ahead of New York. At the Hawailan I ands, situated on and about the h mer- idian, west longitude, the time ts about five hours and a half behind or earlier than the time here, so that at noon in this city it is 630 a.m. at Honolulu. eae > How England Took Gibralt From the St. Louts be-Democrat Gibraltar was taken by the Enelish in 1704, during the war of the Spanish suc- eresion, a war which was provoked by th azeressive policy of France in endeavoring to place a monarch of the French family upen the Spanish throre, and thus « date the two kingdoms into one. ress was then capt though the Spaniards and French, clating the strategic value of th made desperate efforts to recov Were repulsed at every point. date of its capture forts were mi fortress, and in the armament that n event nsoli The fort- ured, almost by surprise, place r ft, bu: Between th ) repeated in to recover the year the greatest Was ever brought to bear upon a besieged place lay before Gibraltar The siege jasted, off and on, for many months. The investing force comprised of F infantry of 00) troop: of the be: corsiste . over twice as many of Spain, and the f forty-seven ships, all three- floating batteries, es- carrying guns; tn- numerable frigates nb-ketches, cutters, gun and mortar be ‘ sg. wr weeks together 0 shells a day were thrown n and repeated attempts were mi to storm the works, but the little garrison of only 7,000 men repelled every assault and finally succeeded in beating off the al- Ked fleet! The blockade began June 2 17 lasted until February, 1788, when the garrison was finally relieved by the a! rival of a British fleet and army. Si that time the fortifications of Gibraltar have been so improved and increased that iz is regarded as the strongest fortress in the world. The British government mai tains there a garrison of from 5,000 to 10, 000 men, with Lrovisions for six months and it is said the supply of military ma- terial is sufficient to enable the fortress to stand a siege of indefinite length. oe Impossible, to Be Sure. From Life. “There is no marrying or giving in mar- riage In heaven.” “No; it is promised that we shall know each other there, you remember.” Prescription is the best It acts directly on the it organs concerned in matermity, gi’ them health, strength, vigor and elasticity. It relieves pain, inflammation, checks debilitating