Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, June 2, 1900, Page 6

| | | eporlo rfl eee Or Under a Spell. eee CHAPTER XXII—(Continued.) “{ will be silent, if you wish it, sir,” answered Herbert, who realized what a@ struggle this conciliatory tone cost his father. “I will be silent, but that fs all I can yield, even to your wishes. My heart will ever be the same, and every effort in my power will be made to unravel the mystery that surrounds this unhappy gi fate; for my opin- fon js unalterable that she met her death in shielding me frcm a shot that would have bereft you of a son.” Mr. Clive started, and a sudden tre- mor of rm broke the stern repose ‘of his face. 5 After a moment he spoke again, But with evident perturbation: “I have long wished you.to take @ trip to Europe—a tour of at least a year. I think that, under all the ci eumstarces, you could choose no bet- ter time than the present.” “{ understand sir,” answered Herbert. bitterly. ‘ou think I am a ehild s -that I can be diverted by a ebhange of scene—that in other climes I will Jearn to forget. Well, I will £0, when I find that all is hopeless here. Then {ndeed.” he added, in a lower tone “I must go elsewhere, or die here I believe—I know that you ‘, and I—I will go, in @ fortnight from to-day.” And with this promise Mr. Clive was forced to be content. CHAPTER XXII. Was It a Dream? “And your brother is really going abroad?’ asked Miss Marian Grey, who had been spending a social even- ing with her dearest Fannie. “Dear me ‘t the fancy a sudden one?’ I @m sure he had no idea of such a thing a month ago.” “Perhaps not,” answered Fannie, fisticss' pa thinks it best for faim to travel awhile. He is looking ‘ba . * answered Miss Mart- an. with consoling emphasis. “I never y one so changed in a little indeed, eve one is talking As Miss Felicia was saying, rs older within the a@bout it. he looks ten ye: fast two weeks.’ ned. She herself looked nged and sorrowful. This first tempe: ck had been a rude one to flower so tenderly reared. For the ten days she had kept her room, exhausted by the passionate ‘bursts of f that had left her nerv- ous and prostrated. Miss Marian was her first visitor. Ger repeated entreaties for admit- ‘tance to her dearest friend could no Yonger be refused; and, for the last “hour she had been seated by Fannie’s ofa. torturing the poor girl by a clev- “questioning, masked by the ushing sympathy. he queerest reports are going ‘ound.’ said Miss Marian, as she #hook ott her lace handkerchief. “The most -absurd stories are told and ibeliev and, of course, as you i my dear, I am a re- «gular victim for all the newsmongers in the neighborhood. My intimacy there is so well known. Does your ‘head ache? Do let me bathe it; papa <@ays ‘I have a mesmeric touch. Yes, fndeeki. I can’t tell you how many alls I have had that I can attribute to nothing in the world but curiosity. E offended the Leslies terribly yester- Gay iby informing them, bluntly, once for all. that there was no use in ask- ing me any. questions regarding this wwretched nir, for I knew nothing ra@bout it whatever, and wished to ‘now nothing. You have to be rudely ‘positive to some people, or they will you to death.” anie thought so, too; but she felt ak and wretched just now to be ive” about anything. you know all that I can Marian,” she said, ¥ mystery about poor, s loss that none of us can coive. She is gone from us—that is all we know ‘annie’s voice choked) with sobs as she spoke—“gone from us forever.” Fannie si ale and ch “Indee: tell yo “There } Fannie.” said Marian, re- “you are giving way again. It is really a rebellion against Providence to mourn this way; and though, of course, my dear, it may Geem cruel to say such a thing now, 1 can't help thinking you will feel, after @ while. that one who so persistently wefused you her confidence, who closed ‘her heart to your gaze, was unworthy, | fm the truest sense, of the name of friend.” Marian!” Fannie rose from fher reclining posture, and gazed upon fher “friend” with flashing eyes. “I wili not hear a word from you against Sybil. You never liked her. I know it! You would have poisoned my mind against her long ago, if I had listened to you; but I knew her—aye, and you—too well! What if she dia refuse me her confidence? I never asked it. What if she did close her beart to my gaze? I saw enough of it to know that it was pure, and true, and noble and worthy—aye, far more than worthy—of my warmest love and trust!” “You are easily satisfied,” said Miss Marian. with her mocking little laugh, “J don’t aspire to such high-flown gentiments. but I must say I prefer knowing a little about my friends’ an- tecedents. especially when the world at large looks upon them so dubious- ty. People do sav that if a jealous fover. whom she had flung aside for the more tempting prize, had not in- terfered. your dear friend would soou have claimed a dearer title still.” “And I would tladly have given it to her.” nnie, warmly. “The dearest wish of my heart would have been realized if I could have called Sybil sister as well as friend. She is the only one I have ever seen, lovely and true, and noble enough to be my brother's wife.” Her Heart’s Secret By Jean WARNER. (acaenravararaaaaal “T won’t dispel your illusion, dear,’ said Miss Marian, rising to go. “Think and feel as you please; but, it you will take an old friend's advice, keep your thoughts and feelings to yourself. People will judge by ap- pearances, and I am afraid that it would have taken more tban the dig- nity of the name of Clive to have bol- stered up the very shaky antecedents of your friend, Miss Wrayé. But as I told Miss Felicia last evening, when she was wondering that your papa could have been so blind, it’s no af- fair of mine. Good-bye, dear. Don't mope any longer, or it will spoil your beauty. I met Fenton out riding last evening, and he was savage at your seclusion. Don't try such a reckless fellow too far. You know men can’t take either friends or sweethearts like women can—on trust.” And Miss Marian trailed her Iilac- silk flounces from the room, leaving the air heavy with her perfumes and poisoned by her malice. ; Fannie went to the window, as if she would breathe a purer atmos- phere. Marian’s visit seemed to have bedy and soul. an adept in adopting rews, and knew just ar to stretch her victims on the different she was from her How brother, Fannie thought, remorsefully. There was something soothing, calm- ing about Laurence Grey’s presence. How grave, and kind, and brotherly, he bad been on that awful day when he had brought her home stunned and desperate with the first shock of Sybil's death! Sybil’s death—death! Aye,’ Fannie had at length brought herself to think —to speak the dreadful word—Sybil's death: Death! It was a new, strange oung creature, so full of life. so buoyant with hope. It was a thought from which she had hither- to shrunk appalled. But for the first time within Fan- nies knowledge—for her mother’s death was only dim childish mem- ory to her—one near and dear to her had crossed the shadowy threshold, and it no longer seemed to her utterly unknown ground. What was this death through which Sybil had passed? What was this veil that had so suddenly fallen between her and the friend whose hand she had clasped, whose lips she had pressed, whose voice she had heard, only a few brief weeks ago? And now —now—Fannie looked out dreamily into the gathering twilight, and, as the purple shadows grew deeper and deep- er. she strove to solve the mysteries of the great hereafter—could Sybil see her now? Was the barrier between them so impassible that the dear one gone before could have no knowledge of, no sympathy with, those who sor- rowed so blindly and deeply for her loss? Surely it would be unlike gen- tle. terder-hearted Sybil to utterly for- get. treat tears were rising into Fannie Clive’s eyes as she looked wp into that purple distance that sparkled already with ten thousand pallid stars, each feeble light, so her books had told her, coming from a world as great, as wou- derful, as well ordered, as our own. Was it in one of those that the homeless wanderer had at last found a home? Was it— Fannie started and trembled. Her overwrought nerves quivered at the slightest shock; and—and there was a rustle in yonder curtained recess, that concealed the long-closed door—a movement, a step, and, oh, heave! indeed, lifted—the b: For, paler, more deli- ethevially beautiful than was the veil. rier passed? cate, more when on earth, Sybil herself stood be- | side her. “Fannie—dear Fannie!” and the sobbirg, awe-struck girl was clasped in an embrace so loving and tender that it dispelled all fear. best of friends! I could not ou forever without a last good- ybil!” whispered Fannie in ac- cents that trembled between joy and grief, “oh, I have grieved so for you. Have you, indeed, gone from us for- ever? Oh, darling, tell me?” “Tush!” said Sybil, solemnly. “Dar ling. I can tell you nothing—nothing. My lips are scaled—sealed to the past; sealed”—she added, with a strange sadness in her tone—‘“sealed to the future. I can only come to take a last kiss from the sweet lips that have spoken so often words of love and cheer to me. I come my darling, to say farewell—a last farewell!” “Are vou dead, indeed?” asked Fan- nie, with a shudder. “Sybil, Sybil, are you dead?” “Aye, dead!” answered Sybil, in her strange, sad tone—‘dead forever! The stillness of death is far, far better than the struggle, the moan the pitiful agony of life. Aye, I am dead, dar- ling—dead!” - “And are you happy?’ asked Fan- », in an awe-struck whisper ‘Sybil, darling, you do not look happy.” “I am at peace,” was the grave re- joinder—“at peace for the first time since I knew the sorrow and troubles | of life. Let that suffice for you, dear- est Fannie, Iam at peace!” “Herbert—poor Herbert!’ said Fan- nie, with a burst of grief. “Oh Sybil, in the strange world to which you have passed, have you no thought of him? How can you be at peace, when you have left one cn earth so broken- hearted?” “Dearest, | sake—speak to him one farewell word!” “Speak to him?” echoed the spirit visitant, quivering all over as the lily quivers in the storm. “I must not dare not! I am dead—did I not say it?-dead to him forever! But you ean, if—if he wishes it, give him this for me'’—and she picked up a little scissors from Fannie’s work table, and severed one of the long, shining tress- es trom her head—‘“and tell him,” her yoice faltered, “that only death could break the spell!” And then, once more, she clasped Fannie. to her breast, and, with a sound that seemed strangely like a mortal’s sob, glided away, even as she came. For a moment Fannie sat gazing af- ter her, fascinated by some mysteri- ous awe: then she roused herself, as if by an effort, from her trance-like state, glanced at the long, shining tress she still held in her hand, and, with a ery of terror, fainted away. CHAPTER XXIV. On the Ocean Queen. The great steamship, the Ocean Queen, was just swinging away from the docks. It was a gay, busy, yet -saddening scene. : Bright pennants fluttered from ev- ery masthead; the uniforms of the officers glittered in the summer sun light; the newly-painted decks were thronged with eager, excited groups, laughing, chatting, sighing, or weep- ing, as their different circumstances seemed to demand. Here a merry party of tourists were exchanging jests and badinage; there a mother clung to her son’s neck, in an agonized farewell. Here a gay girl, all smiles and dimples, was tak- ing her first rosetinted glance at the great world of waters; there the shy bride of a few hours clung blushingly to him with whom she had just com- menced the unknown voyage cf life. In a sheltered corner of the upper deck a young girl—warmly wrapped in shawls and protected by a handsome traveling rug, sat silent and alone, sur- veying the scene before her with sad and thoughtful eyes. Her glance wandered from group to eroup, lingering on the sorrowing | ones as if they alone awakened sym pathy in her breast—passing by the young and happy, as if the sight of them held a sting for her. Yet. as she looked around her. with pity, sympathy, even tenderness, in her gaze, an actute observer would have noted her strange lack of inter- est in all she saw. 'Yhe noble bay, with its broad stretch of waters widening in the dis- tance; the sunlit slopes of emerald shore around; the mighty city, en- throned like an empress at the gate- way of nations, gathering in the trib- ute swept by the girding river to her feet; all the grand beauties of nature and of art spread, like a living pano- rama. around her—might surely have enkindled a look of life and animation in a face that lacked neither beauty nor intelligence—in a face that few would have passed without pausing for a second glance. Yet, young and lovely as was that pallid countenance, there was a shad- ow. even as of death upon its beauty— a languor that was not weariness, a stillness that was not repose. It was the look of one who felt nei- ther pain, nor care, nor sorrow, be- cause the fire of tribulation had seared her heart so deeply that it eould feel no more. “Ah ma chere, you are here still, and safe.” said a brisk voice that startled the pallid dreamer—if one can dream when hope and love have fled. “I have had sneh a time settling our trunks in that Ieetle cabin. Ma chere, but it is a bijou of a place for so lectle a one. Ah, but ‘tis you Americans who know how to make—eh, what you eall?—comfort—to make yourselves comfortable. But~ monsieur was so anxious about yor that I must fiy up your side, and see that his treasure was safe and sound.” “Quite safe and quite eomfortable, dear madam.” answered the young girl with a wan smile. “Papa is too anxious about me. This sunlight and this sea breeze is delightful.” “The wind is not too strong?’ asked the madam, who was a buxom. bright- eyed little woman of about five-and- forty, whose attire bespoke her to be something between a companion and a friend—snch a traveling appendage, in short. as a motherless young girl would require on a continental tour. “Are you quite sure the wind is not too strong for you? Ah, mon Dieu! if you have a look so pale, so fragile— as of a lily that would break in too rude a blast!’ “Ah, you mistake me altogether, madam.” was the half-sad answer. “I am far stronger than you think me. You know the lily often bends to the very earth and does not break.” “Ab, yes!’—the madam shook her head with a dim comprehension of the simile—“but you must. neither bend nor break. Will you not go in and rest awhile? There is so much noise and confusion out here. The turmoil of these emigres is vat you call head- splitting.” “I do not find it so,” was the gentle reply. “Poor creatures, it is hard for them to part.” “Ah, yes,” answered the madam, with a shrug of her plump shoulders; “it is. no doubt verra hard. I know ven I first left my countrie how de bitter tears flowed. I wept—ah, mon Dieu!’ how I wept! Ah, I was only eigkteen then and tears came freely. We are wiser afterward—wiser and harder, and colder. Mademoiselle is sigh, like the zephyr of a desert where there is neither leaf nor floweret to stir at its breath. “Do we grow so hard as we grow old?” she asked, dreamily. “Does age grow too callous to feel!” t “We grow—well, perhaps not so cold as so wise,” answered the madam, whose character for cheerful common sense had been always her chief re- commendation. “We find it so foolish to fret at what we cannot help. And Did some earthly memory flush for | we get ourselves so sore and weary a moment the white repose of that) fretting that we learn to look for the lovely face? Did some earthly tender- ness tremble in that low. sweet voice? “Herbert!” she echoed, very softly: “Does Herbert grieve?” “His heart is broken,’ answered Fannie, sobbing. “He has grown changed, and haggard, and old. He is going away from us to-morrow, and, alas! I fear he will rever return. Oh, Sybil, Sybil, for my sake—for love's smoothest and easiest way. And we find it. perhaps,” concluded the mad- am. with her low, rippling little laugh, andl a glance at her own plump figure —‘we find it when we are fair, ana fat and forty.” “There are some who never find it.” answered the girl, in a low voiee— “some who sink striving to bear the pain—some who—” She stoped suddenly, as a tall, dark- browed man, with the form and bea1- ing of some Viking of old, advanced to her side, and bent down to her anxiously. “~The cabin is all ready, if you wish to retire. My daughter you are tax- ing your strength too far, I fear, to- day. Remember, we have had a long, fatiguing journey, and you are weak yet, very weak.” . “But I am resting here. papa,” she replied, making an effort to speak gai- ly. “It is so much better than the close narrow cabin. Besides.” she added. more scftly, “I must take my last look at my native Jand.” “That none in this great vessel leave with less regret,” said the father, a harsh frown gathering on his brow. “There is no heartbreak in our fare- well, Marie. We leave neither home nor friends behind us. Our world is here.” He laidt his broad hand on her shoulder, as he spoke, and light, lov- ing as was its pressure, there was a certain fierce assertion of authority in it the girl was quick to feel. For the purest feelings of this fiery- hearted man lacked the gentler ele- ment of tenderness. He loved his child deeply, truly, ardently—he would have poured out the last drop of his blood cheerfully for her sake; but she must be his—his aloré—his to guard, to love. to chezish—but his alone. “IT warned Mademoiselle Marie that this, wind was keen,” interposed Ma- dam Gillette; “but she preferred re- maining here. The spot is quiet and secluded, and the sights are, no doubt, extremely beautiful.” “As you please,” said the gentleman, mcyving the hand that had rested upon his daughter’s shoulder. “I have some things to arrange securely in my state room before the vessel begins to roll. We will have to find our sea-legs, if this breeze continues before we pass the Narrows.” “Hh. ma foi!” said the little, madam, holding up her plump hands in dis- may. “And her trunks are not even strapped to their places. I must fly, mademoiseHe, or there will be one grand smash! You are verra sure that the wind is not too strong for you?” she added, anxiously. “Quite sure,” answered the girl, with a patient, weary smile. “Let me have the sunlight, madam while I may.” And, as the little madam tripped off in her father’s wake, Mademoiselle Marie sank back in her chair with a low sigh of relief. Ehe must have been weak, indeed, or so short a con- versation would not have so wearied her. Clesing her eyes, as if she would shut out sight as well as sound, the girl seemed to fall again into a list- less reverie. The pale, golden hair, brushed back in rippling masses from the low. broad brow revealed the beautiful features clearly. So still and lifeless were they, unlit by the deep lustre of the wondrous gray eyes that it seemed almost as if a statue were resting there. not a living, breathing woman. Deep in that woman's heart, a smothered pain was stirring—a pain she had herself awakened by her last words—“*Let me have the sunlight while I may!” And when, at length, her eyes un- closed. there were tears glittering in their Himpid depths—tears that she brushed away ere they could fall. The river was glittering to the west- ward. like a sheet of burnished gold; the verdant slopes of island and point were steeped in the glorious dyes of sunset; for. far above. dim and dis- tant as a hepe of another world, a pale star trembled where the shadows met the light—the star of Ioye and hope. The busy, erowdod scene around | vanished from: the pale girl’s eyes. She was away—far away, beyond the sea, the wood the mountain—far up the golden river, that wound like a pathway of light into the heart of a flowery land. She stood again on the verdant slope of a sun-hallowed hill, and listened to words that would echo | in her heart for a life-time—“The star of Lepe shines above us, and will light our pathway.” Ah, wockery—bitter mockery! Al- ready there was a tremor in the vas mass of iron and timber; the huge wheels began to turn slowly and pain- | fully, the mighty lungs to work. Al- ready a world of waters was widen- ing between: already the fiat of etern- al welfare had been pronoumeed. “Too late, sir—too late!” A shout from the crowd below start- Ted the Creamer into reality again. “Not too late for a jump!” cried the eaptain, cbeerily, as a young gentle- man with a satchel in one hand ran breathlessty to the edge of the wharf. The pale face of the watcher on the deck flushed suddenly with a won- drous light; the eyes kindled with ra- dianee. She half-rose, and then, with 2 low ery of pain, fell back amid her eushions as Herbert Clive with the spring of an athlete, touched the mov- ing vessel’s deck. CHAPTER XXV. The Midnight Song. Herbert Clive stood on the moonlit deck of. the Ocean Queen, watching the faint line, now scarcely percepti- ble in the distance—the line that marked the fast-reeeding shore. The preez2 had freshened, as the dark-’ browed traveler had foretold, and few of the passengers were able that even- ing to appear at the table or ot deck. Mr. Clive was one of the few, and though the mighty vessel rolled and swayed like some playful monster in the moonlit waves, he stood watching the silvery waters, undisturbed by the usual horrors of a first ocean voyage. But sea-sickness would have added little to his present misery. He felt almost as if he would have welcomed some bodily ill that might divert his mind from its bitter and sorrowfu contemplations. The thought of her he so deeply loved, so cruelly and mys- teriously lost, was ever present to him. Echoes of her words ‘her songs, were ever drifting back like broken music, to his ear. Her form seemed floating before him by day and by night, her eyes looking into his with that last look of despairing love that had brightened them for a moment ere they had closed forever. His spir- it seemed broken, his energies paral- yzed. He was listless, languid,dreamy utterly unlike the Herbert Clive of old. i There would come a reaction after a time, for there was too much of the fire, and spirit, and strength of man- one blow, however swift and sudden, and weighty. But, for the present, the stout young oak was prostrate; the strong man’s strength had failed; ev- ery fiber of the brave young heart was torn and bleeding almost unto death. In such a state he had scarcely heeded Fannie’s agitated and improb- able story of Sybil’s visit It had all been a dream, of course—- was not Sybil before him always, by night and by day?—it was all a dream, And yet, he had taken the long, gold- en tress and guarded it sacredly. It had been Sybil’s once—that he knew, for no other hair could have such a sunset sheen. But he fancied Sybil had given it to her friend long, long ago, and Fannie’s vivid imagination, excited by the sorrowful circum- stances had pictured the golden tress asa gift from the dead: “But I saw her, brother—I saw her, spoke to her, kissed her,” persisted the girl, as, still hysterical, from mingled terror and delight, she detailed the occurrences of that twilight eve to her brother. “It was Sybil herself, pale and changed and even sadder than when in life—but Sybil, her true selt, for I saw her!” “As I, too, see her, dear, always, by night and by day,” answered Herbert, kissing his fellow-mourner tenderly. “We both dream, sister—dream as the hopeless only dream. There is no such joy on earth as seeing Sybil with waking eyes again.” He was dreaming still, standing on the moolit deck of the mighty vessel that was carrying him so swiftly from the home once made so beautiful to him by love and hope. A sense of unutterable loneliness came cver him as the line of shore grew fainter and fainter, and was at last lost in the misty distance, and, with all her canvas swelling to the wind. her heart of flame beating and throbbing, the Ocean Queen dipped her graceful bow into the waves, and proudly swept along her eourse from world to world. In a fitful, despairing mood, Herbert had taken his passage on the first out- ward-bound steamer that sailed after his promised fortnight had elapsed, and now he began to regret his hy compliance with his father’s request. (TO be Continued.) COURTESY ON A STREET CAR. How Chicagoans Get the News With- out Having to Buy the Papers. A big, fine-looking mam sat in the corner of a South Side car reading his newspaper. Next to his sat a little woman in an up-to-date frock. She had a box of candy in one hand and an open libretto in the other. She tried to get a newspaper from a boy who came through the car, but the conductor broke up the transaction, and, seizing the small newspaper deal- er, put him off. Then the pretty wo- man in the up-to-date frock paid her fare in pennies and smiled. The big man’s newspaper was out- spread before her eyes, and she looked at the headlines. Then she read half a column about a thrilling rescue of a typewriter girl by a gallant fireman. She glanced sideways at the ‘big man. Apparently he was taking no notice. She began on a story of burglars in a South Side flat, how they bound and gagged a woman, stole her sealskin sacaue, and— “Oh, the horrid things!” claimed, ‘excitedly. The big man turned around inquir- ingly and then, quite as a matter of course, he said: “Have you finished this page, mad- am? If so. let us turn to the stock reports and the society news.’’—Chi- cago News. she ex- Handsome Legacy for Science. By the will of Charles E. Smith, for- mer president of the Philadelphia & | Reading Railway Company, an estate valued at nearly $500,000 is disposed of. One-sixth goes to the Academy of Natural Sciences, with a valuable col- lection of botanical books, maps. let- ters and dried plants The collection of the plants found within ‘ifteen miles of Philadelphia is to be forever kept separate and distinct as a local herbarium. To the Franklin institute sre bepuethed all the decedent's books reating to iron, coal, mining, railroads, and statisties The executor, W. Moy- lan Lansdale, is empowered to sell the or personal estate, the proceeds to be divided in six parts, two being devised to Frank G. Smith, United States army, 2 nephew; one-sixth part each to Thomas T. Smith, Charles E. Smith and ‘Thomas G. Smith, and the remain- ing one sixth to the Academy of Na- tural Sciences, the interest of the same to be expended on the maintenance fund.—The Philadelphia Record. To Abolish the Nasal Twang. Harsh voices cam be easily changed to agreeable ones. Of late years much has been said and written coneerning the harshness of the American speak- ing voice, special criticis mfalling on the voices of women and children. More than half the singing voice is used in speech,and the misuse of the voice in speech is accountable for many of the difficulties in singing. When ‘schools begin, systematically, to train ehildren’s speaking voices there will be a vast improvement in the music. This training ean be given so easily and quickly that mo extra time has te be allowed for it. ‘The quality of tone used by parents” often has a decided effect upon chil- dren, and there is hardly another in- fluence so strong in the school room as the kind of tone used and demand- ed or allowed, by the teacker. We Wouldn't Litigate. No, the trillionare would not litigate. Sooner would he endure an invasion of his rights. e “Were I to litigate,” he protested, “I should almost certainly be the cause of numbers of innocent lawyers dying rich!" This charming anecdote shows con- clusvely that the possession of great wealth does not necessarily sear the finer sensibilities or deaden the springs. of noble impulse.—The Detroit Journal. Not Awkward in His Head. ; Ethel—Percy, did that sniffy Miss Blitzenburg find fault with your . waltzing? Percy—Indeed, she didn’t. I jumped around so fast she couldn’t.—Indian- apolis Journal. . —— s hood in him to be crushed utterly by | Components of a Proposal i Daughter—No, mamma, Harold has not proposed as yet; that is, not in 30 many words. ba Mother—Mercy me Jane. You must not wait for words! Proposals are mostly made up of signs, gurgies, stammers, coughs, hems, hawks and looks, you know!—Puck. Sleep Changes the Verdict. A jury recently agreed upon a ver- dict. sealed it and went home. After sleeping over it, they disagreed. This shows the power of sleep to strength- en the mind. Those who are troubled with insomnia or stomach disordo7s should try Hostetter’s Stomach Bit- ters. It puts the stomach in good com- dition and induces sound sleep. The Reason. Weary Critic—But how could you prefer that insignificant book to all the others you have ever read? Innocent Young Person—Recause I had to read it on the sly.—New York Morning Tiredness Is a serious complaint. It’s a warning that should be heeded. It is different from an honest tired feeling. It is a sure sign of poor blood. You can cure it by making your blood rich and pure with Hood’s Sar- saparilla. That is what other people do— thousands of them. Take a few bottles of this good medicine now and you will not only get rid of that weak, languid, ex- hausted feeling, ‘but it will make you feel well all through the summer, Tired Feeling—“I bad that tired feel- ing and did not have life or ambition to accomplish my usual amount of housetold work. Hood’s Sarsaparilla gave me relief and also cured a scrofula tendency.” Mara, R. Merritt, Dowagiae, Mich. Hood’s Sarsaparilia Is the Best Medicine Money Can Buy. Solitude. “Yes,” muttered the old inhabitant, — in faultless dialect, “when I first ¢: to Kentucky to live my near bor was fourteen miles aw those days the best guns scant two miles.” JUNE t A BARGAIN DAY. Farm News, one of America’s best live stock and farm journals, price 50 cents a year, bas adopted a new and original plan to get into new homes by making an un- usually low price on certain Eargain Days. The best offer yet is to send it one year to all who remit !5cents to Farm News,Spring- field, Ohio on June 1, next Bargain Day. Very Faithful, Purehaser—I would agree to your price if I were only sure that the little dog would be faifhful. Dealer—Faithful? Weil, E should say so. I have sold him hlaf a dozen times already and he ha scome back every. time.—New York Wi $20.00 A WEEK AND EXPENSES toagents selling our household goods. Seil on sight. Write C. H. Marshal! & Co., Chicago, Diplomacy. Miss Wunder—Why do you always ask Miss Sanger to play her own ac companiments? Miss Gabby—Why, she always playa loud enough to drown her yoiee.—Balti- more American. A Book of Choice Recipes Sent free by Waiter Baker & Co. Lid., Dorchester, Mass. Mention this paper. Tempting Fate: “T have come,” said the young man, “to ask you to let me have your daughter.” “Never!” shouted the millionaire.” “Thanks,” shouted the other, as he hurried away. “Up to this time she has refused to smile upon my suit. When I tell her that you object to me she will be mine!"—The Colum! Do Your Feet Ache and Barn? Shake into your shoes Alien’s Foot- Ease, a powder for the feet. It makes tight or New Shoes feel Hasy. Cures Corns, Bunions, Swollen, Hot and Sweating Feet. At all Druggists and Shoe Stores, 25c. Sample sent FREB. Address Allen S. Olmsted, LeRoy, N. ¥. Stage tragedians may have no tion of being comical, but it e is funny how some: of then mana make a living. : Binder Twine at Low Prices. Tf you want a special inside price on binder twine, either Sisal, Standard or Manila, cut this notice out and mail to. Sears, Rorsuck & Co. (Binder Twine Department), Chicago, stating about how much twine you will require and how soon you will want it, and they will save you money by quoting you a price that will either secure ler or compel the party whosupplies you to sell to you at a lower price than he otherwise would. The emperor of Germany’s portrait is being painted by Prof. Hubert Her- komer. NONE SUCH Nothing hobbles the muscles end units for work like . SORENESS and STIFFNESS Nothing relaxes them and makes a speedy perfect cure like St. Jacobs Oil