Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, June 24, 1899, Page 6

BY FRANCES CHAPTER XVIII—(Continued.) Only a shade of darkness deepened the blue of their azure depths, betrayed that her question was a challenge. But vy now what had wrought the | in e cried, “for your wo manhood’s sake—” “Hush!” she interrupted, and in her voice rang sudden firmness, “I will not listen to another word!” Then, her tone, sinking to its usual low gentleness, she added: “You will stay to bre: ast with me “I cannot stay and obey your com- mand for silence,” he replied. .“Neith- er can I stay to look upon-the woman who mocks me with Florence ;Vane's semblance. I bid you.farewell., Mad- ame Florence. Henceforth I will in- flict upon you neither my presence nor my prayers.” “You will not breakfast? I am sor. r rhis was her‘sole response. He bade her adieu and left her; but, as the vel- vet hangings of the door closed behind him, faint, low ery smote his ear. An instant he paused, tempted to re- turn. But wherefore? another stab! He went on down the stairs and out into the street. Singularly, his steps terned in the same direction as had Dameroff’s on the preceding night, lmost unconscious of whither they ~vere leading him, he found himself be- side the marble lions guarding as senti- nels the entrance to the superb apart- snents oceupied by Mr. Leonard, the wealthy American. ‘The thought of Beatyice came to him with sudden, reireshing fancy. She, at le wore no mask, She would not probe his hu with questions; and yet the touch of friendship might send him momentary forgetfulness of his pain. Five minutes before he had not re- | membered her existence. "Now he was ‘agerness to see her. y, she was at home. He paced up and down the apartment into which He would gain but the servant ushered him, with an impa- tience most petulant. When she entered, her face showing her gladness in meeting him, he caught both her hands. Then some- thing blurred her from his sight, | It was a mist of tears. His sutter-| ings was stronger than his manhood. He turned his head quickly, to conceal ‘this weakness, but she already had de- tected The smile faded from her lips, the giadne hed. Her cheep paled, aL ut pity crept into her brown s she remembered what he had told her of his errand here, and read in his grief that his second wooing had met with no happier ending than the first She drew him to a sofa and seated herself on a low chair beside him, ry, dear old friend,” she said, was so sWeet in you to come to me! Thus, with her woman's ‘tact, she let liim know there was no need of words her to read and understand the he answered, uncon- sing the little fingers he s until they ached with pain. it not you whom I loved, you, whom I might have at to love me in return, and who o Well worthy all that a man might remember- nd echoed: The girl smiled we ing her own heart-pang. “Why. indeed? They had known each other from childhood. What» more natural than that placid, calm affection should have ! ed into love’s stronger current? | safe would have been their anchorage then—secure their harbor, But when did love make a weapon of expediency? Would it not seem as though Cupid were fonder of storm than sunshine, and laughed as, one by one, the boats which he had launched dashed themselves to pieces upon the rolck, leaving to float upon their cruel ‘waves only his name painted upen their prow? Sweet to a man who suffers is a wo- an’s sympathy; and though Ark- ht had heart to speak no word con- cerning himself, his weakness had now mastered him. The tears—the first he had shed since early boyhood—were dried, but he felt that he must make to Beatrice some explanation of their cause, “It’s not just as you suppose, Be—” he said, gulping back an ugly lump in his throat. “I think I could bear any disappointment of that sort like a man. I told you I had come here to find the woman I had lost. Well, I found a beautiful piece of marble, which had her eyes, and nose, and mouth, with skin like human skin, and breath like human breath. A woman, Beatrice, with a frozen heart! A woman whose ‘womanhood is dead!” A groan, bitter and deep, burst from him as he finished speaking. Infinite compassion was written in Beatrice Leonard’s face. “Don’t say dead, Harry,” she mur. mured, gently. “She must have suf- fered from bitter cold ere her heart froze, and the sharp, cutting blast has lulled her womanhood into the slumber which feigns death, maybe; but true: ‘womanhood knows no death.” | He caught her hands again and drew them to his lips. He stood so sorely in j need of just the comfort that she of- fered him. The one hope she thus held out to him to cling to as one clings to the rock which is to save him from utter shipwreck. “God bless you for these words!” he said, fervently. “If I could but save fher from herself, I would be content to accept all my own misery.” “Who is she, Harry—may I ask? Do I know her?” “I think not. Here in St. Petersburg they call her Madame Florence.” “Madame Florence!” With a gasp of horror the girl repeat. Bet ed after him the familiar name; but, | fascination! Do not let me learn that] The words rang with strange, thrill- -rozen A THRILLING LOWE STORY. Heart, WARNER WALKER. absorbed in her own grief, he noticed no change in her tone, nor that the col- or had suddenly fled from her cheeks, nor that the hands clasped in her lap trembled convulsively. She recovered herself within a min- ute, and her voice, when she spoke again, was natural. “Tell me,” she said, indifferently, “did you ever meet there Lieutenant Damerofft of the Emperor's Guard?” Arkwright groaned with the recollec- tion inspired by the question, “You know him?” “Yes,” he replied. I met him yester- day; but I fear for to-morrow. He fights to- with Europe's ablest swordsman; and they fight, Beatrice, for her sake.” A wild cry of agony startled him, On her knees at his feet crouched the girl who, but a moment before, had been his comforter. Her face was blanched to death; her eyes were full of an untold fear and horrer. “To-day!” she gasped; “and already the day is more than half done! Quick! quick! Tell me everything, for I must and will know!” y CHAPTER XIX. Had Arkwright lifted again the vel- vet curtain of Madame Florence’s win- dow, which had fallen behind him just \ehen that low cry smote his ear, he would have found her sitting, just as he had left her, and dreamed only that his senses had deceived him. The smile had not vanished. Her eyes were undimmed by that moisture which, later, had sprung to his own. He would have looked and gone again, but that quick glance would not have betrayed to him that the smile had frozen on her lips, and that her eyes were hot with a pain which only the tears which were dried up in their channels might assuage. For the first time in all these weary months. when her heart had fed only on the just retribution it had wreaked, she had believed it stone, In this mo- went a sharp and sudden pang of ag- ony darted through it. left her, and left her forever. Yster- day he scarce had crossed her memory; to-day—she would pursue the thought no further, She rose and rang for her maid. Her breakfast she left untouched, except for the fragrant Mocha, which she ea- gerly drank.She ordered her horses; then donned her sables. “I would look my loveliest to-day,” she murmured; “in honor of the lieu- tenant and the prince. Where is the battle ground, I wonder? And who knows? Perhaps, if M. Gervais is in St. Petersburg, he and I may chance to meet. Does -he carry vitriol? Iv would be a vulgar revenge, but sure.” But her drive was unmarked by any incident, save the curious gaze of ad- miration which ever followed her. The afternoon v late when she stepped from her carriage at the palace gate. “A lady waits to see madame,” said the man who held open the doors that she might enter. Doubtles some privileged friend had liberty. ‘Perhaps the count. her thought . vouchsafing to te key no reply, she swept on into her drawing room. For a moment she thought it deserted —a moment only, for, on hearing the rustle of her skirts, someone standing in the deep embrasure of an alcoved window, turned, and came quick petuow forward with a low y cry, which she knew not betokened joy or pain. The face, the figure of the stranger were young and girlish, but a woman’s anguish was painted in the lines about her mouth, a woman’s pain in the brown eyes which fixed themselves up- on her, half in horror, half in imploring petition. Yet there was something about the ; face that seemed familiar to her sight. Surely, she had seen it before--some- where met the gaze of those great, vel- vety eyes, and felt their innocent love- liness smite her with sudden pain, in bringing back a girlhood which lay in numbered years so short a time be- fore that on which she had gazed, but, marking time by feeling, seemed to in- terpose between the two a segment of eternity. A dim recollection swept over her, teo, that if, indeed, the two had met before, it had been in happier scenes, when the color had not been blanched from the young cheek, now so color- less, and the smile on lip and eye had not been shadowed by grief’s black pall. “You wished to see me?” asked Flor- ence, in her sweet, low tone, which had swayed so many to her will, and which now struck on the girl's ear with all the magie of its music, and sent a ray of hope and renewed courage to her heart. A woman with a voice like that could not be all hard, all cruel. “I have waited to see you, madame,” she answered while,, unconsciously the two little gloved hands locked them- selves tightly together—‘waited, while every moment, every hour, has been torture in its long-drawn agony. If you had not come—oh, God, if you hau not come, I should have gone mad? A momentary thought crossed Flor- ence’s mind that already some trouble had unseated the girl’s brain, else why should she, a stranger, address to her words like these. “You were so impatient of my com- ing?” she asked. And there was now a tender. pity in her tone. “So impatient, madame, that mo- ments lengthened into endless days! I have lived a year since I entered this room, and yet, already, we waste time toc precious in this idle talk. Madame, you do uot know me, but i know you— I know your grace, your beauty, your Arkwright had | iy 4 fi f you are but the mask which hides your cruelty! Please listen to my prayer, and answer it! I come to you to plead for Carlo’s life!” * Then the woman to whom‘she made the plea knew when and where they had met before. Again the scene in the opera painted itself on memory’s tablet. She saw herself idly listening to the prince’s flatteries. She saw Dameroff seated beside this girl in the box opposite, when she had beckoned him to come to her, and she had cbeyed the summons. She had taxed him with his betroth al, and he had acknowledged it; but already, poor, struggling fly, he was in the stronger web of her weaving; she had but drawn closer the threads, and the weaker links which bound him to another snapped. After all, she had but obeyed the spi- der’s instinct, which makes all prey lawful that listens to its siren song. “Ah!” she answered, after that short and almost imperceptible pause, “I re- member. You are Carlo Dameroff’s at- fianced bride?” The young lieutenant must have lied to her in saying that his engagement had been annulled, she thought, since this young girl could come hither to plead to her—her rival—for his life. But her answer undeceived her. “No,” she said. “We were engaged to be married, but that is ended now, and has been, as you well know, mad- ame, for many weeks. He loved me for a little while, and then your beauty made him forget me. Perhaps it is not easy for one woman to forgive apother, but, after seeing you, no one could wonder that you blinded him to any charms save yours. Oh, madame, I did not come here to reproach you with that; or, indeed, to speak of that past at all! I came to plead for his life—the life which he will forfeit for your sake —for the sake of a flower, a ribbon!” “Ah, the old love has revived, then, and he comes to you for sympathy? He has informed you as to all the par- ticulars of the event?” The tone was cold and sneering. Beatrice recoiled as if she had been struck. The implied insult to him brought fuller resentment than any personal wrong could possibly have done. “He seek sympathy from me?’ she said. “Shame, madame—shame! You, whom he loves, dare impute to his brave soul a cowardly regret! You well know that I have not seen Carlo Dameroff in many weeks. It matters not how or through whom I heard what took place last night. Let that explaration pass for some future time, when it shall be yours, if you wish it. We must act now, not te moments in words. Why should his blood be spilled? Why should his young life pay the forfeit of his love? It was your act, madame; you placed the rose upon his breast, Would you make it the seal on his death warrant? You, who bow all men to your will by your fateful loveliness—will you not use that loveliness for good, not evil? They say the prince, too, loves you. Go to him— make him swear, for your sake, to give Carlo the spoken reparation which is iis due! How it can be done I cannot tell, but you can, and you must pre- vent this murder!” “My dear Miss Leonard,” answered Florence, in a calm, impressive tone, “I have heard Lieutenant Dameroff speak your name. You have borrowed your ideas from romance, or perhaps from Mr. 4 vright, a countryman of yours, whom you may chance to know, I do not know, even were I willing to go to the prince, what I might say, ex- cept to forget that a glass of wine had been thrown in his face. If boys will se far lose their tempers I do not know that they should murmur at the penal- nor do I fancy Lieutenant Damer- of courage, which I have no reason to doubt, would be grateful to me for} jJeading to the prince to spare him, Pray, dees his own skill count for nothing in the contest?” “The wine was but the answer to the insult, madame, and the insult reflect- ed upon you as well as himself. Dare you call such manly action the temper of a boy? No. I do not ask you to plead for mercy, but for justice, You know that Carlo Dameroff will pay the | penalty of his life for his love, if he meets the prince to-day. But you, and not the prince, will be his murderer. Your hands will be red with his blood; your conscience haunted by his spirit. See! L love him, yet I give him up to you: I love him, though I am nothing vo him! I love him, and resign him to your caress. But, oh, let me feel he lives—that the same earth holds us both—that somewhere the same sun shines on us, the same rain rains on us! I’or God’s sake, save him—spare him!” Florence drew from her belt a tiny, jeweled watch. “Pardon me, -~.ss Leonard, but it wants but a few minutes to my toilet hour.” “Go to your toilet!” she echoed, when he goes to his death—smile on other men when you have sharpened the sword to pierce his heart! Are you wo- man or devil?” “Women are never born devils, Miss Leonard,” was the calm, almost smil- ing reply. “They are made so. Shall I spare the lives of the men who do the work of transformation?” “Listen, Madame Florence. Always, all my life, I have had one regret—that God had given me no sister. But to- day that regret has turned into thanks- giving. 1 might have had a sister like you—a woman who used her beauty to make men murderers, her loveliness to give those murderers yictims. Had you had one grain of womanly pity in your soul—had you listened with one touch of kindness—had your tears min- gled with mine, I would have loved and blessed you, though you had stolen from me the only one thing which made life’s sweetness, I would have prayed night and day for your happi- ness and his! I would have said, ‘One boon: only crave from you—never let know that I came to plead for him. Do not betray to him the love which is at once the glory and the shame of my womanhood! Let him believe that, for- getting, he has been forgot.’ But now, in his dead ear, I may whisper all I would have hidden you keep from him. He will hear and understand then, al- though he will give no sign. But you, who are traitress and murderess in one —you who have turned my sorrow at the love God denied me into a song of joy, you, too, may thank Him that you, too, are sisterless, else might the moth- er who bore you, whether she be on earth or ‘in heaven, shed tears of blood!” ing intentness through the room; then she who had spoken them, further plea for mercy from the merci- legs, turned and passed out from the room, “Was it a craven statue she had left behind? One moment Florence stood there; then, with a wild cry, she threw her arms above her head. “You, too, may thank Him that you are sisterless!” As if conning a lesson, slowly her white lips formed this utterance: “Dorothy,” she moaned—‘Dorothy! Mother!” And the last words came from her lips like a wail. Then the light of a new resolve shone on her face. It was the dawn of her awakened womanhood. Again she glanced at her watch, but now in quick terror, with the shadow upon her of a terrible doubt. “God grant that there may yet be time for my atonement!” was her yoiceless prayer. Five minutes later she was seated in her carriage, and to the footman at the door she gave the command: “To the hotel of Prince Caranach, and see to it that the horses are not spared in reaching there!” Then she sank back among her cush- iens, white with the horror of an awfuw’ fear. CHAPTER XxX. The footman held open the carriage door. He waited her commands, but she herself would enter the hotel. She herself would make the inquiries that must be made. “The prince—is he at home?’ she asked, “The prince left the house not five minutes since,” replied the man, re- spectfully, disguising his surprise at seeing the beautiful woman, whom he knew well by sight and reputation, here alone and unattended at his mas- ter’s hotel. But wonderment soon was merged in pity, as she staggered back, and would hfve fallen, but for the portal of the door against which she leaned. In her ear rang the terrible cry whicu had rung through so many ages, whose first utterance smote on the ear of the hapless virgin holding «her hastily- trimmed lamp in her hand: ‘Too late! too late! Ye cannot enter now!” Oh, God, was it too late? Were the gates forever closed upon her? The man drew a chair forward, and sho sank into it. The very ground seemed ‘slipping from beneath her feet. But moments were too precious to be thus wasted. She must ascertain where the prince had gone! She must follow him! Come what might to her, she must avert this murder! At this instant the man’s face bright- ened. “My master’s carriage, madame. He has returned. He has forgotten some- thing.” > “Quick, quick!” she gasped. him to enter—that I am here!” He hastened to obey her. In another instant the vrince hastened up the steps. “Ma chere!” he murmured, tenderly, and led her into an inner room. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” His words, his voice, restored her calm. She knew better than either of those who had pleaded with her where- in lay her power over this man. He was vain and selfish. Through these points alone she must reach him. She dropped the woman. She became once more the actress; but now the role was for a nobler end. In all the hours of her beguiling she had known full well that had her past been unveiled to him, his pride would have been greater than his passion, and it would have Ceemed the price too great which he must pay. (To be continued.) “Tell INDIAN’S LUCK. Haurled Over Sturgeon Falls, He Es- caped With Slight Injury. Mitchell Peters, a Shawana Indian, is a living witness of a drunken man’s luck. Peters was one of a driving crew that broke a big jam above Sturgeon Falls, He made a desperate attempt of trying to cross the river on a jog and was carried over the falls. The falls are 40 feet high and consist of two pitches and a rapids. Peters was given up for dead and the driving crew thought it use less to search the river for his body, as the logs were piling over the falls at a fast rate. Imagine the surprise of all when Peters walked into camp the next morning for breakfast. Some thought it was his ghost until he was in their midst. He had been swept down the river by the rushing water and up against the river bank, and he manag- ed to crawl out and: went to sleep. A few scratches on his head were the only injuries sustained. The Sturgeon Falls is one of the most theachous places in the Menom- onie River region, and a few years ago three girls were swept over in a boat and drowned. —Chicago Times-Herald. An English Joke With a Point. London society is peculiar in the fact that there is generally one particular new joke in circulation, not to know which is to show one’s self outside the movement, A majority of these jokes, it is needless to say, come from Amer- ica, the fountain of almost all really original wit and humor of our time. This week’s joke I believe to be home- made. It is as follows: During Kip- ling’s illness, Kaiser Wilhelm of Ger- many sent a graceful and cordial mes- sage, expressing the hope that his life might be spared. On Kipling’s recov- ery the Kaiser conferred the Order of the Black Eagle—of the second class— upon Providence.—London Letter. Telling His Troubles. “Its no use,” exclaimed Willie Wish- iugton, “I never can learn to say the right thing at the right time. I told Miss Slimstars that her eyes shone on me like the stars above.” “That's old,-but pretty,” answered Miss Cayenne, “Yes, But she is one of these re- markable tall girls who resent any ref- erence to their height.” — Washington Star. Home Maid, Wilkins—Deuced pretty girl I saw at your window. Is she foreign? Bilkins—No; a domestic.—Brooylyn Lite. WORDS OF THE WISE. It has often been said that corpora~ tions have no souls, and the same is still more true of the governments of our day.—Alfred Russel Wallace. The use of the law as the instrument of social injustice and industrial law- lessness is a form of anarchy from which our nation urgently needs re- demption.—Herron. Mr.‘ Rockefeller claims that he re- ceived his colossal wealth as a gift from God. I would like to examine the witnesses to that transaction.—Debs. I never could believe that Provi- dence had sent a few men into the world, ready booted and spurred to ride, and millions ready saddied and bridled to be ridden.—Richard Rum- bold, on the scaffold, 1685. When Richard Wagner declared his faith that the people would be the ar- tists of the future, and that from the most absolute democracy the true mu- sic would come, his critics pointed to the multitudes as a conclusive answer. “This mob,” he said in reply, “is in no wise a normal product of real human nature, but is, instead, the artificial product of your unnatural culture; all the crimes and horrors which you find so repulsive in this mob are only des- berate incidents of the war which real human nature is waging against its cruel oppressor—modern civilization.” “From possessions,” he says, “which have become private property, and which now. strangely enough, are re- garded as the very foundation of good order, spring all the crimes, both of myth and of history.” POINTS FROM THE PRESS. When the people are tired of fighting and devouring one another, and of be- ing robbed, skinned, and cast into the ditch to starve and die, they can try co-operative and brotherhood for a change. The change can’t hurt and may help them.—Humanity. America’ is “pacifying” the Phil- ippine islanders on the same plan that Spain pursued, only as we have better troops we are able to kill them faster. —The New Era. Our growing commerce with the new possessions in the far Pacific is most encouraging. Our exports this month to the Philippines amount to several thousand American youth with guns, and $1,500,000 in gold, while our im- ports therefrom amount to only sev- eral hundred sick, wounded and inval- ided soldiers. As will be seen, the trade balance is heavily in our favor.— Springfield, Republican. Municipal, state, and national owner- ship of public utilities, and of what- ever may become a monopoly, will as surely come as the trusts have come, and then the trusts will disappear.— Pittsburg Kansan. The two houses of the Arizona legis- lature passed a bill for allowing the people to vote on laws, but the very paternal governor, appointed by Mc- Hanna, vetoed the bill. He knows much better than the people what the people want. All kings do, you know. And so the people of Arizona have lib- erty with a big L. The republican kind of liberty. Appeal to Reason. Direct Legislation. New Era Standard, Kearney, Neb.: Direct legislation is the only salvation of the people from the grasping power of corporations in the direction of our government. Direct legislation re- moves the middle man between the voter and his desire into law. A ma- jority expression on the adoption of new law is thus known prior to adop- tion. By direct legislation we can dic- tate the laws, while under the present system of elections the middle men— state senators and representatives— follow their own dictates in voting for or against enactment of law. A ma- jority vote is required to elect a candi- date for Office. Why should not a ma- jority vote designate any particular law for enactment? Why should the peo- ple be taxed outrageously high for ab- solute necessaries of life, when less money paid into a city treasury gives the taxpayers just as good gas, water, telegraph, telephone, electric light or railroad service? The people are the government. The franchises they in their blindness have voted away they should absolutely own, and can, there- fore, operate them in their own inter- ests. If the people will only get to- gether on direct legislation they can easily wipe. trustism and corporate monoply out of existence. No one man, no corporation, no trust, can long ex- ist if a majority of the people amic- ably get together and assert their rights as regards direct legislation. Is Not a Fact. The Oakland Enquirer asks: “How can the people be taught to respect the laws they themselves have made?” This recalls King Charles’ celebrated poser to the Academy of Sciences: “why is it that if you put a fish in a vessel of water it will weigh no more than it did previously?” After the scientists had exhausted their ingenu- ity in solutions, the king asked them if they were sure of the fact. Now, we don’t ask the Enquirer that ques- tion, but simply deny that the people either make or administer their own Jaws.—San Francisco Star. Tolerably Correct Teaching. ‘Henry George’s teaching in a rut- shell: To deprive men of the power to take what belongs to others.—Mel- |" ‘vourne (Aust.) Beacon. Lugubriously Miss Ethel—Musie al } makes me feel sad; doesn’t it you, Mr. Suds? Mr, Suds—Yes; but I like it—it’s aw- fully jolly to feel sad, don’t y’ know.— Brooklyn Life. ee Bs! : oa There will be a large bit from this country at the Paris ition in 1900, which will prove ver;M nteresting to all, but no more so than the news that the famous American remedy, Hostetter’s Stomach Biters, will cure dyspepsia, indigestion and constipation. To all sufferers a trial is recommended. Cause and Effect. “My wife’s got a cold again, doctor,” he said, Like a man who for grievance has cause; “Despite all my protests, she would go last night To the ball in a dress made of gauze.” Though the doctor tried hard to look grave, on his face Was a smile not so hard to detect, As he answered: “That settles the matter at once, , 2 It’s a plain case of gauze and effect.’ —Buffalo Courier. Are You Using Allen’s Foot-Ease? It is the only cure for Swollen, Smarting, Burning, Sweating Feet, Corns and. Bunions. Ask for Allen’s Foot-Ease, a powder to be shaken into the shoes, At all Druggists and Shoe Stores, 25c. Sample seat FREP)}A dress, Allen S. Olmsted, LeRoy, Tommy’s Retort. Tommy—That church is over 200 years old. Cissy—My auntie says it’s only 100. ‘Tommy—Oh, well, I suppose that’s as far back as she can remember.—Rival. Mrs. Winstow’s soothing Syrup. For children teething, softens the gums, reduces tn- flammation, allays pain, cures Wind colic. 25¢ a bottle. Wanted His Stud. “Mrs. Joy—Oh, John, run for the physieian. The baby’s swallowed your diamond stud!” Her Bachelor Brother—Physician be hanged! I’ll bring a surgeon.—sewel- er’s Weekly. FITS Permanently Cured. No fits ornervousness after first day’s use of Dr. Kiine’s Great Nerve Restorer. Send for FREE $2.00 trial bottle and treatise. De. R. H. Kui, Lud., 931 Arch St., Philadelphia, Pa. The Only One. “Robbie,” said the visitor, “have you any brothers and sisters?” “No,” replied Robbie. “I’m all the ebildren we've got.”—Cincinnati En- quirer. Life to a Lazy Liver. Lazy. leaden livers cause nine tenths of all deaths. Give your liver life with Cascarets Candy Cathartic and save your own life! All druggists, 10c, 25e, 50c. His Experience. Mrs. Waflles—What is the longest time you ever got along without food? Professor—I once lived three days on my wife’s cooking—Leslie’s Weekly. Hall’s Catarrh Cure Is aconstitutional cure. Price, 5c Poverty is no disgrace, but it is sel dom used as a testimonial of ability. How many women are economical in the matter of pins. I know that my life was saved by Piso’s Cure for Consumption.—John A. Miller, Au Sable, Michigan, April 21, 1895. To fasten a lie upon a person, you must nail it. Was there ever anything in life just as you’d expected it to be? It is as hard to kill real love as it is to find it. “Better Be Wise Than Rich.” Wise people are also rich when they know a perfect remedy for all annoying diseases of the blood, kidneys, liver and bowels. It is Hood's Sarsaparilla, which is perfect in its action—so regulates the entire system as to bring vigorous health. Never Disappoints STOCK RAISERS Wil find it greatly to their advantage, if before purchasing a farm, they will look at the country along the line of the Saint Paul & Duluth Railroad. *” DAIRY FARMERS Who desire the best Clover and Timothy land, in a district which can boast of a fine climate, good pure water, rich soil, fine meadows, and near to the markets of St. Paul, Minneapolis, Duluth and Superior should apply immediately by leter or in person to i WM. P. TROWBRIDGE, Asst. Land Commissioner, St. Paul & Duluth R. R. Box U—903 Globe Bldg., St. Paul, Minn, KILL THEM ‘Th 3 Ronschold Fic. fe _Dutcher’s Fly Killer not only kills parent fly, but A sheet a quart. Ask your Druggist or Grocer. When Answering Advertisements Kindly Mention This Paper. NWNU -No.25—. 199.