Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, May 5, 1900, Page 7

4-5 61) ac 9 <ce badliong Dae tac ee ee Oy ER SD 1 8 EN EE FE HER HEART" Or, UNDER % BY JEAN WARNER. PO 0 ee 0 ¢ SECRET. A SPELL. ie ] { <> 0? a Ee O CHAPTER XIII. wy Fannie’s Lover. ‘There was a moonlight regatta on the wiver that evening, and loth though she had been to leave her friend, Fan- ie had at length yielded to Sybil’s so- ticitation, and accompanied her broth- ex and Laurence Grey to the scene of festivity. A Yeung Grey was passionately fond oft aquatic sports, and his pretty little yacht, the “Fannie,” was the one in- dulgence which the self-denying young student allowed himself during these azduous years of toil that were to pre- gare him for his professional career. , Grave, reticent and dignified, Lau- alwa ‘eemed especially ide pretty Fannie Clive, whose like that of a butterfly, sunshine and gladness. not dance and could mot flirt: he v tupid at croquet and solemn in conversation. ‘annie kept out of his way as much possible .and found: Fenton Forrest ost delightful set-off to her broth- more favored friend. ant manners ney and his eyes and his Ss, was nnie’s ideal n who could ride like an nd danee like a Frenchma ld court desperately one nd flirt faithh the second— . Who never mi 1 a stroke at et or a step in the redowa, whose ras equal to all emergen- . and whose ready tongue was al to the f onists—Fent- | the gallant, the graceful, he perfection of manhood; “annie fancied herself very much Gx love indeed. For the pa month he had been her econsiant cavalie having suddenly ned to the onishing fact that little Clive girl he used to xd tease during his previ- handsome w And in his nating society Fan- y lost sight of her ola ate, Laurence, altogether—Lau- who had always been ready to » her to school, or church, or con- whose pretty beat, her namesake, always at he! sposal, whose qui- brotherly service was always at © command—Laurence, with his kind smile 1d uuassuming friendliness, Seemed, in contrast with the glorious Benton. very tame indeed. Bat Fenton was.in town this even- ing, and though Fannie felt the regat- ta would be a very tedious affair with- eut his enlivening presence, she yield- ed to circumstances and, donning the snost charming of boating costumes, cesolved—with a sudden conscience- stricken feeling, that she had been Fannie, lightly. “You're just the man to marry, and I really think you'll make a model husband, Laurence.” “Do you?” he asked, in a low tone. Why?" “Oh beecause—because you're so qui- et. and steady, and thoughtful. 1 know you'd never worry your wife by being selfish, and cross, and cranky, like some men do. Dear me!”—Fanny shook her head as the weighty subject struck her in its full foree—“I declare, I don’t see how some women put up with their husbands at all.” “Perhaps they love them,” suggested Laurence. “Love teaches patience, you know.” “It wouldn't teach me patience,” a swered Fannie, giving her sailor an aggressive little twitch. I couldn't put up with a cr cranky, worrying man—not if I lcved him to distrac tion. “But if you loved him, he would not eranky and worrying,” an- quiet smile. “T’'d have eyes 2 .” said Fon- nie, quite indignantly. “I could see hear what he did and what he Love would never make me blind. “T think answered Lau- rence. lock ly at the sweet | young fa so fresh and child- like in its . “Love makes all of us—the wisest and most far-secing— blind We will not see —we W “You seem to know all about it. Do eak fri experience?” asked | ™ rel “eae nearer sae 38 clo: y cf the pretty countenance— ‘ +: . i ” hav ryi 1 : the reply, in a low tone why, Fannie, you have been crying! that ay ips ot DRE What is the matter? Has anything thought ion. “I do speak from ed?” she said, nervously. experienc you like to hear answered Fannie, bursting in- my love story, annie?” to a fit of childish tears, “something “Oh, ear, no! T s. idn’ as happened; and—and I am so mis- cae nr, col Pant, 8,1 didat erable and wretched, Sybil, I don’t She stopped, blushing and embar- | know what to do! Herbert is~ rassed—she who could .support Fent- on's daring compliments with such smiling equanimity, who could laugh at Fenton's most ardent vows. “I know that you didn’t mean to ask my confidence.” he answers, sadly; “nevertheless, I give it to you freely. | I do leve, I have loved for years, ene so bright, so g: so beautiful, that it would be folly to ask her to step from her own sunny sphere and share my humble lot.’ ’ | ‘Why, you are not poor, Laurence,” she said, moved by a sweet, womanly sympathy at the brave, pathetic resig- nation of bis tone. “Your father is quite well off, I thought.” “Aye, well off,” his answer. “But only while he lives will I profit} by his assistance. My education is all | I ever will accept from my father. I am a man, and able to work for my- self. All that my father has he, by my own request, will leave to my sister, for women are weak, and should be in- dependent of a world that yields suc- cess only to the strong. I have my own battle to win, my own way to vather unfriendly lately—te be as agreeable as possible to her brother’s Damon. for the sake of auld lang syne. Eanrence looked his best in his sail- ans garb. He was /apt to affect a rather stiff, scholarly style in his everyday costume. Now, with. his dark brown hair falling in rich waves ander his jaunty hat, and his loose col- fxr turned back from his well formed throat, the young student looked, Fannie was forced to acknowledge, quite as handsome as Fenton himself. And he as so kind, so thoughtful, in ftis care for her. Such pretty new cush- fens had been placed in the stern of the boat; such a bright mirror swung im the toy of a cabin, such a dainty supper was packed away, with nauti- eal neatne in a compact little hamper wnder the deck. Fenton would have had plenty of wine and cigars, but he would have thought of the snow-white cottage cheese that was Fannie’s especial wealmess? or would he have been aware of her great predilection for raspberries and ice cream? Not that netic y minute attention to tines details; she only had a fluttering sense of being daintily and thought- ured for, and knew that Laur- se and sober head had plan- the evening breeze filled the snowy 1s, and the pretty yacht went mming like a seabird over the waters, whose surface was just silver- ed with the light of the rising moon, the young student's voice blended in an boat-song, whose tMch mel- aled Fenton's grandest operatie And ‘the young girl iistened, entranced, while the full, deep notes floated ont ever the shining waves and were “1 by the overhanging hills. A quiet stole over her; she seem- ing down a shadowy river into & beautiful Jand of dreams. Even after the song ceased she sat sti and silent, looking so beautiful. in this new mood that Laurence could not take his eyes off her face. “I’m going to-take a smoke,” said S¥erbert, lazily, rising from his seat. “f know you hate a pipe, Fan, so ll wet out of the way. You'll make a sxedel husband in that respect, Grey. ‘You'll never offend a lady’s affections Sy a vile meerschaum, while I—it ‘would be a hard pull, I think, between, 2 pipe and a wife.” “Vii tell that on you, sir!” said Fan- wie. with a threatening nod, as Her- Bert went off. “A pipe and a wife, in- deed! Was there ever such an odious comparison?’ “Not so odious, after all,” said Lau- rence, with a grave smile.“The pipe is -am emblem of peace, rest and comfort; tts influence is to soothe, to pacify and ~chees u wouldn’t weigh your wife and pipe in the same balance?” she said, ‘avzhing. “No: there is nothing on earth I -would weigh in the same balance with wmy wife—if I ever am fortunate enough to have one,” he added, « “Ob, you'll have one, of course,” said work. I can do it and I will.” “And won't she?’ Fannie looked up into the handsome face of the man be- side her with earnest, friendly inter- est—“‘won't, the lady wait for you, Lauprence? It is so good and generous of you to feel this way toward Marian. I think she—the young lady, I mean— would surely love you better for it.” “Love me better?’ he echoed, bitter- ly. “She does not love me at all. I am vothing—nothing to her!” “You don’t know,” said Fannie, en- co.ragingly. “I am sure if she knew what a fine fellow you are she couldn't help loving you a little, Laufence.” “A little—only a little; that is all I ask.’ “he answered, eagerly. “If she would only love me a little.” “Girls are so queer, you know,” said the pretty little mentor, confidentially. “You don't understand her, perhaps. Laurence. Perhaps you're too—too modest and retiring. You mustn’t be afraid ofher. Just speak right out, and | tell her that you love her with all your heart, and that you will work for her, and win her, if she will wait long enorgh for yo and then—and then, even if she says no at first, don’t take | it, for you know, Laurence,” continued the little traitress to her sex, “girls al- ways say no at first, even if they’re dying to say yes.” “Fennie! Fannie!’—the girl started like a frightened fawn at the new ten- derness in her companion’s voice, the new light in his eye—‘are you only maddening me by your words, or are you, indeed, blind, blind to the love that has worshiped you since you were 2 laughing, bright-eyed child, the sun- beam, the gladness, the beauty of my life, even then—even then? And now —now I take you at your words! I come to you with my future, of strug- gle, privation, yet of firal—aye, speedy —success, I say to you, my darling, my darling, I love you with all my strength, the fervor, the endurance of a heart that has loved but once, and ean never love again. I love you! Can you love me a little, Fanpie—only a very little? *I—I—" Fannie shrank back, and covered her face with her hands. “Not me. Laurence! Oh, you didn’t mean me? Oh, I am so sorry—so very sorry! I didn’t know-— I didn’t think! I like you so much, Laurence. I—I respect you so much.” “But you don’t Jove me. I under- stand you,” he answered, bitterly. “I expected as much, Farnie. I am not disappointed, dear. Only—only—” He paused; his deep voice shook so that he could say no more; the strong man had been tried even beyond his that love was bling. I ought to have seen—I ought to have known better. Let us be friends, once more, Fannie— only friends—and think of me as you think of Herbert.’ ’ “What the deuce was the matter with Laurence to-night, Fan?’ asked her brother, as they wended their way homeward through the woods from-the river. “The fellow didn’t seem him- self at all. What were you and he talking about so long?” “Oh, dear! you won't be angry, Her- bert?” said Fannie, clasping his arm and Jooking up into his face in her own pretty, winning way. “But—what do you think? He actually—actually pro- posed to me, dear—Laurence Grey! I never dreamed of such a thing!” “Proposed to you, eh, Puss! And what did you tell him—yes?’ asked Herbert, smiling. “Yes?” echoed Fannie, in astonish- ment—‘did I tell Laurence Grey yes? Why. of course not, brother! I would as soon think of marrying you!” “Pshaw, Fan!” said her brother, in a vexed tone. “You don’t know what you are saying. I believe, when it comes to choosing a husband. every wo- man turns a fool. You're blind, Fan— blind, blind? CHAPTER XIV. A Girlish Confidence. Fannie went straight to Sybil’s room on her return home, It was midnight, and the old cham- ber of Basil Clive was flooded with the light of the midsummer moon; and, in- valid as she still was, Sybil sat dressea, by one of the diamond-paned windows, that looked out upon forest, river and valley—the wide-reaching domain that Robert Clive called his own. 'The sweet face that turned toward Fannie, on her entrance, seemed paler and sadder than usual. Perhaps Sybil had been weighing al! these proud pos- sessions against the woman's kingdom in whieh she could never reign—the kingdom of the heart. “Did you haye a pleasant time, dear?” she asked, as Fannie knelt be- side, and twined her arms around her What! surely’—Sybil took a “What! something happened?” cried Sybil started to her feet, “to Her—to your brother? Oh, where is he? Let me see him! Where is be?” “He is downstairs, [ suppose. I don’t mean anything has happened to him. I was only going to say—that—that he is as mad as fire because—because—” . Farnie broke down again, sobbing, too wretched to notice her friend’s mo- mentzry betrayal of herself. “What is the matter?’ asked Sybil, in a voice that tenderness could tone into the softest music. “How have you offended your brother, dear? Why is he angry with you?” “Because—because—I am sure I couldn't help it, and never dreamed of such a thing. I never flirted with him a bit. He was so poky—so good, I mean—and I'd as soon think of marrry- ing my grandfather,” concluded Faui- nie. emphatically. ~ “Marrying your grandfather? What » you talking about, dear?” asked Sybil, in natural bewilderment. “Why, Laurence Grey, of course,” answered Fannie petulantly. “He had to go and fall in love with me—with me!” repeated Fannie, as if it were the most surprising thing in the world. And I feel so horrid and mean, and wretched about it! and Herbert is cross because I won't have him, and says I’m a— a little fool!” “Ts that all?” asked Sybil, smiling, with a long breath of infinite relief. “I thought that something far more seri- ous had caused the grief. You have given Mr. Grey his answer, and I should think that would be the end of it—that is, if’—Sybil’s hand threaded the beautiful hair caressingly—“if you are quite sure of your hear “Sure of my own heart? Fannie, wonderingly. Sybil smiled again. “J mean, are you quite sure that you do not care a little for Mr. Grey? I thought*him a very noble young man, Fannie. He has so much dignity, so much modesty, and so much talent.” “I. suppcse he has,” said Fannie, du- biously, as if she had never reflected much on these accessories before. “He is real handsome, too, when he puts on a decent hat and a turn-down collar; und he sings—oh, Sybil, how beautiful- ly he can sing!” “Yet you don’t care for him, Fan- nie?” “Oh, yes I do—ever so much! We've played together ever since I was that high’—Farnie measured a__Lillipu- tian’s height with her hand—“and he always got me the prettiest flowers, ond the ripest strawberries, and the rosiest apples. He trained my pony for me; and you know Terry almost talks. He brought me my mocking bird, and would always go to the ends of the earth for anything I wanted. I like him better—better—” “Better. than any one you know?” asked Sybil, gently. “Are you quite sure of that, Fannie?” “Yes,” answered Fanny, hiding her ~ blushing face on her friend's breast. “I think—no, I am quite sure—I like him better than any one, except those I love; for liking is not loving, is it, Sybil? I like him ever sd much, but i eould never, never love Laurence Grey.” ¥ “I hope you will never love one less worthy, dear,”” answered Sybil, softly; and then, shrinking, as a light footstep sounded in the hall without, she added: “Mrs. Wylli¢ is still up. Had we net better say good-night?” “Oh, don’t mind her!’ answered the young mistress of the Towers, careless- ly. “Wyllis is a regular old cat. She is always prowling around at untimely hours, watching the servants, ‘and watching the lights, and watching ev- repeatea strength. a “am so sorry!” repeated Fannie, as penitently as a child who had just broken a costly vase, and was survey- ing the wreek dolefuly—“I am so sor- ry, Laurence! I wouldn't have had this happen for the world. And I do— I do”—Fatnie was sobbing now—“I do love you just—just like I love Herbert, if—if that will do any good.” : ’ “Poor little girl!” The deep voice was cteady again now. “There, there! it is all ever now—all over. I told you erything. I don’t believe she ever sigeps at all. But perhaps you are tired, darling. I am forgetting how sick you have been. Why are you sit- ting up so late? And your dress is all damp with dew! Surely, you have not been out in the night air, Sybil?” “Only for a little walk at sunset,” was the low reply. I was lonesome, and it was so beautiful out; but—’ Sybil hesitated. How could frame the warning that rose lips? How could she tell this | ing, thoughtless girl of the dangers that surrounded her happy home? How could she speak without compro- mising her father’s safety, her fath- | er’s and Rizpah’s?—those two desper- ate, maddened beings, leagued together against the innocent and unconscious children of Robert Clive? “I don’t think it is very safe to walk in these woods alone,” Sybil added. “I —I bave heard that some—some law- less characters have been seen near here. It is well to be careful, Fannie.” “Oh, dear, I’m not afraid,” answered the yeung heiress, laughingly. “Ev- erybody knows papa, and almost ey- erybody fears him. Wherever else they may go, you may be sure the ‘lawless characters’ will keep clear of the Clive place. Papa is a regular bugbear to all the thieves and tramps in the neighbor- hood.” “But—but’—oh ,how hard it was to speak with Fannie’s arm about her waist, with Fannie’s breath upon her cheek!—“there might be some daring and desperate enough to defy even your father. I heard of—of a man onece—a man dyiven to desperation by a real or fancied wrong—who for years and years haunted his enemy's grounds, cast his shadow upon the threshold; nay, eyen’—Sybil’s voice sank to a thrilling whisper—“found a secret entrance to the very house. And all the time this enemy, proud and pow- erful as your father, was unconscious of the danger that threatened him, and even more darkly threatened his. For he had children, Fannie—noble, beauti- fut children—and upon them had de- scended the legacy of hate and revenge. It was on these children this man had sworn to visit the father's crime; it was the children who were doomed to —to—Oh, heaven!”, Sybil stopped, shuddering all over, for the door had opened noiselessly, and the black-robed figure of Mts. Wyl- lis stood, a listener, upon ihe thresh- old. “Miss Fannie,” she purred softly, as the two young people started at sight of her, “your lamp has burned so low that I fear it is dangerous. If you have no objection, I will leave a candle in its place. There have been so many dread. ful accidents of late that one cannot be too eful’—her sleepy eyes took one of their quick, stealthy surveys of the rocm—"ore cannot be teo careful.” “Oh, dear, what a poky old thing you are, Wyllis!” said Fannie, petu- lantly. “I know you mean it is time we were in bed; $0, why don’t you so? Good-night, Sybil. I won't walk in the woods alone any more, fod your story has fairly made my fiesh creep.” As she retired to her own room, the young lady asxed: ; “IT wonder if papa has any enemies, Wyllis? ’- rae “T suppose he has, Miss Fannie,” was the quiet rejoinder. “There are few men like him who haven't.” “Do you suppose that he—that my papa—cculd ever bave done any one harm?’ asked Fannie, indignantly. “Of course not,” answered the house- keeper, softly. “Only, my dear, as you will live to learn, envy and jealousy make the worst kind of enemies. It does not need harm. But why do you ask?” “Oh. for no reason in particular,” an- swered Fannie, evasively; “only—only” —as the young lady confided to her own pretty image in the mirror, a few min- utes later—‘Sybil did talk so very aueer. It sounded—it really sounded as if she were telling that story about papa.” “Has he an enemy?’ repeated Mrs. Wyllis. softly to herself, as she stole noiselessly along the carpeted hall, and naused for a moment to listen at Syb- i's deor—“has he an enemy? Aye” —and her face lit up with a crafty smile of triumph that no, mortal eye had eyer seen upon its placid features —‘“he Las one at his threshold, at his fireside—aye, at his very meal! An en- emy that will not falter until she gains her end!” CHAPTER XV. Miss Marian Investigates. Feminine curiosity was perhaps the least. objectionable of Miss Marian Grey's, distinguishing characteristics but feminine curiosity she certainly possessed to a remarkable degree. She had been ina fever of excite- ment since the night when the strange visitor came to her father’s study, ana her natural curiosity, stimulated by a morbid woman’s pique against the man who defied her charms, deprived her of peace and rest. That there was some dreadful skele- ton closeted at Clive Towers she haa little doubt; but how could she bring that skeleton to light?—how discover the awful secret this proud family bad so effectually coneealed for so many years? For not even the malicious gos- sip of a country neighborhood, where any shaft against the lord of the manor would have been feathered by a hun- dred eager tongues, had not as yet touched the calm dignity of Robert Clive. He had always been honored, respect- ed—a little feared, perhaps—but not loved. Several attempts that Miss Marian made to sound her father having proved ineffectual—the old lawyer ‘be- ing as impenetrable as one of the iron safes that contained his legal docn- ments—the worthy daughter of Mother Eve arrayed herself. one morning, in @ becoming walking-garb and started out on a tour of investigation. Her path led by the handsome gate- wav of Clive Towers, and she looked in at its velvety lawn, and flowery ter- races, and spraying fountains, with an envious and malicious eye. The stately splendor of her neigh- bors had always awakened a petty jealousy in her breast, but hitherto that jealousy had been softered by the hope of calling hersel? one day mistress of all. : But now—now it was very evident Herbert did not care a pin for her—it was quite as evident that he cared for anothkez; and Miss Marian felt that to see a rival installed as lady of Clive Towers would be more than she or any other woman would quietly bear. She would take up a woman’s weap- ons first, aye, and would fight a wo-, man’s battle, no matter who was wounded in the fray. It was a lovely morning, and the fer- ‘| vid heat of the summer sun was tem- pered by the dewy foliage of the trees, beneath whose shadows the road wound like the pillared aisle of some -yast cathedral filled with emerald light. _ ‘Here and there, through intersices in | the forest, the river ; L like Si sheet of silver; here and there an open- ing the woods displayed some band- some village or picturesque cottage crowning a verdant hillside or nestling in some sheltered vale. It was to one of these cottages Miss Marian bent her steps—a very little bird’s-nest of a place, embowered in vines and roses, until nothing but an adventurous chimney and a very de- termined gable remained visible to as- sert the human proprietorship of the place. : y Here lived an ancient spinster named Miss Melicia Feenix, who was s¢ learned in the legendary lore of the neighborhood that her authority on all matters pertaining to aristocratic prec- edence was beyond dispute. She had the most uncomfortable recollections of everybody’s grandfather and the most decisive opinion of everybody's grand- mother. ‘Ancestral squabbles and an- cestral sprees were equally fresh in this. alarming memory. She knew whose great-aunt had taken in wash- ing, and whose great-uncle had cobbled shoes. There had been a little coolness be- tween Miss Feenix and the Greys since the estimable Felicia had mentioned to a friend her reminiscences concerning one of the Grey's grandfathers, which were not very agreeable to their de- scendants; but. as Miss Marian decided that morning, if was very foolish to al- low so trifling a ter to estrange her from a valuable friend. Perhaps her grandfather had been a little uncertain in his business matters—perhaps he had taken money under false pretenses. Miss Marian’s secret regret was that he had not taken a little more. At apy rate, Miss Feenix’s opinions and recollections were necessary to Miss Marian just now. If any one could let her into the secret trouble of the Clives, it was this maiden of terri- ble memory, this (as Herbert called her) pickle jar of the past. {TO be Continued.) His Denomination. W. F. Cody had in one of his com- panies a Westerner, “Broncho Bill.” certain missionary had joined the ag- gregation to look after the morals of the Indians. Thinking that Broncho Bill would bear a little looking after also, the good man secured a seat by his side at the dinner table and re- marked pleasantly: “This is Mr. Broncho Bill, is it not?’ ‘Yaas.” “Where were you born?” “Near Kit, Bullard’s mill on Big Pigeon.” ‘Religious parents, I suppose?” “Yaas,” “What is your denominatio: “My what?” “You denomination?” “O—ah—yaas. Smith and Wesson.” —Philadelphia Inquirer. Didn’t Seem Possible. A Scottish paper tells an anecdote in connection with a new electric system, just opened in Aberdeen. Two farm servants came to Aberdeen to spend New Year's Day. Arriving by train, they immediately made their way to the terminus of the electric tramway circuit, where, after looking at the new creation with much wonder, they decided upon having a ride. Getting on top of the car, and after getting well along George street, “Wull,” saia man Jock, “this is‘a graun’ invention. In Edingurgh I saw them drive the cars wi’ an iron rape aneth street, in Dundee they pu’ them wi’ an engine, but, michty man, wha wad a’ thocht they could ca’ them wi’ a fishing rod!’ —New York Tribune. Another Idol Shattered. She was a kindly-faced woman, and it was easy to see that she was bub- pling over with love for the little folk. She walked modestly over info the office of the city editor and inquired: “Will you please tell me which one of the staff it is that writes all those pret- ty little stories about the children? I know he must love the little folk, be- cause he writes such nice stories about them. I want to tell him a precious little story about my darling boy, who is only—” “That's the man over rupted the city editor. “Which one, pray?” “That one with the corncoh pine in his mouth, swearing at the office boy.” —Omaha World-Herald. ; ° there,” inter- Why She Refrains, “It is true. My wife never scolds, never scowls, never frowns.” “Do you expect us to believe such nonsense 7" « “I do. Why not? TI ean explain.” “Then explain.” “She doesn’t scold Decause it twists her mouth; she doesn’t scowl because it gives he wsfeet, and she doesn’t | frown because it brings wrinkles.” “Good. Fut inwardly?” “Don’t ask me. ‘The opinion is tso harrowing. Neveland Plain Dealer, Considerate Young Women. Twigley—I don’t think the Sands girls read the funny papers. Snapleigh—Why? Twigley—Well, I was up there pretty late the other evening and when I said, in thanking Miss Kate for sing- ing for me, Tat her singing quite ear- ried me away, rone of them said she ought to have sung earlier in the even- ing.—Detroit Free Press. . Generally the Case. “Where are the principal hard coal deposits of the United States?” asked the instructor of the physical geogra- phy class. 4 _“In the national bank: exclaimed one of the pupils, a wild-eyed, shaggy- haired young man.—Chicago Tribune. How to Make a Happy Home. Mrs, Youngbrige—Mrs. Oldwife, you have been married for a good many, years. I wish you would tell me ss in your opinion. is the best way of managing a husband. | Mrs. Oldwife—It’s easy enough, my dear. Always do exactly as he want you to.—Somerville Journaly ‘The Uncertainty Ended. “Now, honestly, Maud didn’t Jack propose last evening?” “Why, ye-e—es! But how did you guess?” ‘ .“I noticed that you didn’t have that oe look this morning.”—Harper’s Getting at the Facts. “Is that. your ring, madam?” asked the Mi iri judge. ae “Naw,” c snot me oldeet young "une" New York | ®| Gveaing World A Matter of Headway. “She is so interested in higher educa- tion,” said the young woman. : “Yes.” answered Miss Cayenne. Ls mortar board is very becoming to her style of beauty, and she knows it.”— Washington Star. , British Aristocraty Blamed. Many people attribute their recent reverses to degeneracy. The life of luxury does not produce vigor. Indi- gestible suppers, constant nerve strain and lack of exercise upset the stomach. The blood that) makes heroes must come from healthy stomachs. Hostet- ter’s Stomach bitters purifies the blood and strengthens the stomach. It cures constipation, indigestion and dyspepsia More Information. Ton‘my—Say, paw.” Mr. Figg—Well? “What is a millinery opening?” “It is a hole. It occurs in my bank account every. spring.”—Indianapolis Press. That Tired Feeling Just as surely indicates that the blood is lacking in vitality and the elements of health as does the most obstinate humor that the vital fluid is full of impurities. Hood’s Sarsaparilla cures that tired feeling by enriching and vi- talizing the blood, creating a good appetite and invigorating every organ of the body. Hood’s Sarsapari"vwa “IT had that tired feeling all the time. Was as tired in the morning when I rose as I was when I went to bed. I took four bottles of ;Hood’s Sarsa- parilla and it ‘made me feel like a new man. I could work hard and not feel tired. I recommend Hood's to all who need a good medicine.” Carter, Creston, Iowa. Hood’s Sarsaparilla is sold by all drug- gists. Get Hood’s and only Hood's. Two Kitchener Stories. What Lord Kitchener is doing may be best summed up in two stories t are going the rounds in regard to him. It is said that he was asked the other day whether he did net propose to re- organize the transport. His reply was. “No; I am going to organize it.” Th other story is that he paid a surpris visit to the prineipal hotel in the city, the resort of all those among the ofli- cers who can, while in Cape Town, af- ford the luxuries of life at the Mount Nelson. He called fer the visitors” book. and carefully ran his finger down the list of military guests. He subse- quently inquired of each officer his rea- son for being at the Mount Nelson ho- tel and rot at the front. In most cases, of course, there were excellent reasons for the presenee of those gentlmen in Cape Town. In some, however, the rea- sons were not so gcod—were not, in fact. satisfactory, and in one or two cases the leave was immediately can- celed and the lagzard soldiers sent to their regiment.—London News. Send for “Choice Recipes.” by Walter Baker & Co. Ltd., Dorchester, Mass, mailedfree. Mention this paper. Mine Rats in Colorado. Mountain rats in the mines in Colo- rado are about as big as a wharf but they have a bushy tail like a sq rel and are pets of the miners. When ever the luncheon hour comes you will see them come from their holes, or nests. or wherever they live in the in- tervals between meals, squat on their haunches and sit there until one of the miners shares his dinner with them. Whatever they get of the scraps of that méal they sit up and eat just as a squirrel does. The miner doesn’t ex! that would no tshare his meai with them.—Indianapolis News. Why Ragged Robbins—Dis writer is our best friend. Weary Walker—How’'s dat? Ragged Robbins—W’y he’s contineral- ly givin’ us new gags ter work. Weary Walker—Dat's so. I wonder w'y sech a gifted feller ever left de per- fesh ter work. tramp-joke Asa dressing and color restorer, Parsen's Hara BALsam never falls to sutisty. HrxpeExoorss, the best cure for coras. t5cts. There is a strong resemblance be- tween the onion and the leek. The living skeleton im the museum finds that his less is his gain. ALABASTINE ings, made ready for use by mixing with cold water. It is a cement that goes throu h a pro- cess of setting, hardens with age, and can be coated and reeoated without washing off its old coats before renewing. in white and fourteen Is a dorablo ana pa forwalls and cei ‘Alabastine is mad atiful tints. It is LABASTINE : = put up in five-pound di * ith: complete ditestions es every nitriding le not becon- founded 0) as it is ent different sepous als s entirely it from all the le and not stuck on the iL wil a Slahetina’ customers: GRORIA Myold, teeing Gentes atari Ua fois seca pac bigs in paci labeled, Thoy FSESS Thee ts Sjust''as good? A. P.