Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, June 16, 1900, Page 6

ooo Or Under a Spell. ooo CHAPTER XXVIII, At “Le Providence.” In the neatest, whitest ward of the “Sisters” Hospital, in the quaint little’ nch town of D-——, our story re- opens. Ten weeks have pa thrilled te Amer nev of the Ocean Queen's total wreck, and the excitement-loving pub- lic are already weary of the oft-repeat- ed story, and athirst for a new one. sed since the But in the quict precincts of simple } little D——— it still remains a topic of undying interest, and the heroic men who braved all the terrors of that dreadful night, to rescue the few sur- vivors on the doomed vessel are at the pinnacle of ¢ popularity. Silver medals e been voted them already by the mayor and council, and a detailed account of their heroism de- posited with the archives of the town, for the jon and improvement of | future ions, while the daily pa- pers ng descriptions of the event are in demand by young and old. But the waves of interest break sl lently against the whitewashed walls of the little hospital, where the good llfully, tend ily papers or 4 gossip ever penetr those sunny, peaceful wards, where life seems no longer a struggle, death no longer a doom. “Le Providence” was the appropriate name of this quiet haven. that had proved a Providence, indeed, to many a storm-tossed wanderer who had sought refuge within its sheltering walls: and in Le Providence we re- sume our story. One of these waifs was tossing rest Jessly upon a fever couch, on this bright autumn evening. The little bay, with its fleet of white-sailed fishing boats, stretched before the hospital windows like a sheet of molten gold. Over the western waters the sun was setting in clouds of rose and purple, and the silver chimes of the Angelus were floating from a hundred different spires, as Herbert Clive opened his eyes, now gleaming, fever-bright, in their cavernous sockets, and felt him- self dr s it were, from a mighty distance back to unfamiliar earth. The low. white walls of the room in which he lay, the bright-colored relig- fous pictures hanging around the quaint, diamond-shaped windows, the polished floor and the tiled hearth—all seemed to him bits of some strange painting suddenly brought before his eyes, and ef which he formed no part. The slight, black-robed figure seated by the window, whose features were nearly concealed by the closely-frilled cap and flowing veil, was but a portion of the shadowy, unfamiliar scene, that seemed yet to be a remnant of his ever-dream. he murmured, in a low, Weak voice where i ybil?” Then, with a glance of bewilderment he added: “Where am I “In the hospital of Le Providence,” auswered the nun, as, with a deft movement, she let the veil fall closer around her face. “Monsieur has bee. very ill.” ybil!” repeated Herbert, in the same bewildered tone, as if he were dimly grasping at some broken clue; “where Pe hes forgotten’—the an- very softly and sadly from beneath the drooping veil—‘he is here alone ~ “Alone?” re “not alene? wild, ¢ arr us that even d has gone me to live The hopel pathos of his voice must have touched some chord in his lisi- er's keart, for she trembled visibly, aud for a moment silent. When, at length she spoke, it was in a quiet, measured voice. “Monsieur is young to weary of life. ‘They will tell him here it is always a good gift—one to be used well and i and never—no, never—cast peated Herbert, slowly— i as with me in the ! I held her in my waves dashed over oO my heart, and felt h was sweet! And she ne? Left me again—left He turned wearily on his pillow; tke feeble thread that was guiding him back to life was broken. Sybil, Sybil! What echo had he heard of her voice that made him be- lieve she was near? Weak and weary as a broken-hearted child, Herbert turned his face from the sunlight and wept. 3 The nun gazed at him for a moment, while her slight form trembled like an aspen in the wind; then, drawing her veil close around her, she hurried from the room. A tall, thin, elderly woman ‘took her place at Herbert's bedside and held a draught to his lips—a cool, pleasant draught, that seemed to steal thought from his brain—that steeped all his senses in a delicious languor of repose. He slept again, and when he awoke new life and vigor was infused into his frame. He looked about him, and be- gan to realize the present, to remem- ber the past. A screen was placed beside his bed to screen it from the moonlight that was flooding the little chamber. Two shadows were cast upon the sereen—a tall woman, seated ky the window, a paid smaller figure kneeling at her ‘eet. Low and guarded as were their voices their words drifted to Herbert's ears. The taller woman seemed speaking gravel, very hard, my child—very hard; but it must be. I have listened to you, yielded to you, unwisely and imprudently, perhaps, because I felt— Ithought life was past. But now— “I must go,” concluded the other, in a tone that made her listener’s heart- chords quiver. “Ah, Sister, I know what you would say! It is not for one like me to hide her torn, despairing Her Heart’s Secret ea the terrible | | happy in feeling I was near h despair. life, Herbert uncl the little band tha on his with a fer and his nurse of the previous evel from the s Oh, mock me no longer! By Jean WARNER. 7 RRA RRR en nnn heart beneath your holy garb. I must go ferth and wander on.” a “My child, my child! do not give womrsn. “It is wrong; it is sinful! You, upon whom Providence has shov | ered such rich and wondrous bless ings!” “I know, I know!” was the sad re- sponse. “Ah, Sister, you have taught me lessons during my sojourn in these holy walls that I ‘can never forge You have taugh me to look upward for the brightness ‘that earth denies me. But, alas! you know not the weakness hen it of a woman’s heart when— j loves! You know not the madness, the folly— Will you believe it she bro)ke off, passionately—“I have been very happy here, seeing him senseless, fevered, for aught I knew, dying im, at his side—happy in hearing his fevered rav- ing, yzthing his burning brow, holdng the C™ Ing water to hs parched lips— happy in feeling that he woujd die in my arms. Sister, Sister! what must be the misery of a love that can find iself blessed in pain, in sorrow, in suf- fering—nay, even in death itself?” “Poor child!” said the nun, in a tone of tender pit “Earthly love always has its dregs of bitterness and pain. Be sat'sfied, be patient, and trust in the gcodness of Providence. Al will yet be weil.” “Alas, you krow not the stern fate that rules my life,” answered the oth- er, scbbing. you know not how blind, how pitiless, how relertless, is the will of man. You speak to me of God’s will; but I, a am bound by the will of a proud, v , passionate, resentful man, and who, if he kne if he dreamed of my mission here, would scorn all restraint.’” “That mission is now over, My said the nun, gravely. “All past. God has heard your first wild prayer to Him, and has spared the life dearer than your owh. Leave the future in His wise keeping, and go the way that duty points in peace.” “I must, I must!” ing reply. “There me. But—but there can be no harm danger ‘as the despair- in my looking on his face once more | ere’’—the low voi bid him adieu forever. “Your promise, m faltered—“ere I hild—remember your solemn promise!” said the nun, | |deecs of daring; reproachfully. | softening < Ns | We a ng + i is no choice lett} were drawn up in the sunshine power that bad shaped her previous life. Sybil lived, and life was hope. She was not in Le Providence—that he knew. Indeed, as he recalled the conversation he had everheard, he re- membered that she had spoken of im- mediate departure. His cautious in- quiries elicited no response. Sister Winifred was grave, almost to sever- ity, when he strove to question her. She knew no one by the name of Sybil Wraye. About fifty passengers had been saved from the wreck of the Ocean Queen, but no such person was among them, so far as she had heard. A cousin of her own, Madam Gillette, had spent a few days at the hospital before starting for Switzerland, and she bad talked much of the shipwreck; but Sister) Winifred was always too busy to hear worldly talk. So, with many thanks to the good way to such despair,” chided the older | sisters for their kindness, Herbert was constrained to take his leave of Le Providence without learning more. It would not be so difficult, he fan- cied, to get a clue outside the hospital walls. e He went to the hotel—a quaint, sub- stantial old place, where in the sum- | mer time invalids of molest income resorted to enjoy the benefit of the | fresh sea breeze. The usual lady bookkeeper was in the cheerful little office, and, judging by her bright eyes and charming toil- et, would not prove so difficult a per- sonage as Sister Winifredy Monsieur was “Americain,” Ab— | Mademoiselle Belville’s eyes brighten ed with interest—saved from the wreck of the Ocean Queen? Ah—eyes into sympathy—she had heard! They had many guests at Le Brisemer who had also been on that unfortunate vessel. Ladies? Yes, yes! many _ ladies. Two boats had come in safe. But, eh, mon Dieu! what were two boatfuls when so many were lost? There we several madames, and the engagin housekeeper showed’ her reg'ster. Ah, but they were overcome! They would never’ be quite themselves again, as monsieur would, no doubt, under- stand. The sheck and terror were so grand, so terrible!” “Mees Wraye?’ Ah, no! there was no such name on the books; and made- moiselle scanred them again, obliging- ly. No such name—Herbert's eyes fol- lowing her eagerly—no such name. | Ah, she hoped that monsieur had iost no friend on board the Ocean Queen. She had understood from some of the passengers, that the young gentleman who had been taken to the hospiial was a stranger, save by sight, to them all. Herbert thanked the gracious young | lady, and with a heart that had lost something of its determined hopeful- ness, went down to the beach. The long boats of the fishermen the tide was out, and on the damp stretch of sand the men were busy mending their rets and lines. They were stolid, heavy-looking peasants, and scarcely the type of men that could be easily roused to and yet they had “I have not forgotten it,” the other | proved themselves heroes in many a answered. “I do not ask to speak to him. Alas, | it would be only adding a new pang to Let me but look upon his sleeping face and bear away with me its expression ef peaceful repose.” Herbert lay still, almost breathless, fearing to move or breathe, lest he should dissolve the beautiful dream; for it was Sybil who spoke—Sy' whose accents trembled in his ear, tones of despairing o—Sybil, who pleaded for one more glance at his sleeping frees. He closed his eyes and lay like a breathing statue a she approached his bedside. If he spoke to her, if he looked at her, he f melt from his presence, this strange, mysterious spirit-love. She glided to his bedside; he felt her | head bend above him, lift his wasted | alding tear fell) hand end as a great s upon his brow a whisper, low and tremulous as the sigh of the summer zephyr, reacheil his car: “My love, my faithful love, farewell —farewell, forever— The th if that teardrop h sed his eye still r word was unspoken, for, as were face to face. CHAPTER XXIX Seeking = Clue. “Sybil, Sybil!” _ man 's lps. My beloved, speak to me—teil me who and what and whence you are?” The little hand trembled in his, the veiled head drooped, but there was no reply. “Monsieur forgets,” saitl the grave voice of Sister from the other side, “he is in a house where no love enters save that of heaven. Leave us, my sister; I will watch to-night. You are weary and in need of rest.” “Speak to me once—only once before you go!’ pleaded Herbert, striving to raise himself on his pillows. “Unray- el this mystery that is torturing me far more than bodily pain. Speak to me once more with Sybil’s voice! Tell me if you‘belong to the living or to the dead!” “To the dead!’ The answer came in a hoarse whisper from her pallia lips, as the black-robed form flitted from the room. “Henceforth and for- ever to the dead!” “All here belong to the dead!” ech- oed Sister Winifred’s measured, pas- sionless Voice. . “Life ,with all its nas- sion, pride and pain, is over for all of us. We are not of the living, but of the dead!” Herbert made no answer, but the tide of life from that moment turned. Sybil's whisper, Sybil’s tear, seemed to brighten the dark future with the roseate hues of hope—for the dead neither speak nor weep. In'three weeks from that day he was able to leave Le Providence. As le grew stronger, memory be- came clearer, thoughts less troubled and confused. He began to link fact to fact, incilent to incident—nay, what had seemed dream to dream. To one of his young and vigorous constitution health came with a glad rebourd, and in the first days of his convalescence hope was strong in his heart. Sybil lived—separated from him by the same dark, mysterious | since Pierre Bardin was a boy; | Pierre Bardin is no infant now. He \is sixty-four, if he is a day, though | monsieur would not think so, if he | | could see him, with a rope around his she would again | heard 1 started him into | sped | ted timidly | t pressure, and ‘he | ning | The name fluttered | “Is it Sybil? | tempestuous night. Herbert approached one of them, and, making himself known as one of the survivors of the Ocean Queen, | found he was an object of interest at oLce. “Ah, yes, yes,” said the old fisher- man, “it was the worst wreck the coast has had for years and years, and waist, battling with the waves. He ved a dozen lives. Ah, ‘twould be strange, indeed, if monsieur had not f Pierre Bzardin. It was he who saved the pale lady with the golden hair, whose father was nearly mad with grief.” “A pale Indy with golden hair, lashed to.a spar—” “Yes, Pes, morsieur! But the spar would never have saved her but for Pierre Bardin. It w be who caught her, the black darkness, from the cruel waves at would have case her on the rocks abo Eh ,mon Dieu: but those were cruel rocks! It v there monsieur was found, with his head so cut and bleeding that, but for the good § s of Le Providence, he would never have lived to tell of the terrors of that awful night.” Ah, yes! Sister Wiutfred had told Herbert of the smerciful *manuer in whick a kind Providence had saved his life. She had told him of those frightful lack rocks, that reared themselves, like cruel monsters, on the upper skore, waiting until the billows east them their prey. It was there he had been found, cangbt in a cleft be- tween the rocks, his helpless hand closing to his beart an imaginary form. But Herbert was not thinking of his own wonderful delivery now’ “The pale lady with the golden hair. lashed to a spar—’ the lady whom Pierre Bardin had saved—where was she? The sturdy old fisherman came shuf- fling up the beach, and Herbert re- solved to question him. “Oui. oui!’—the weather-beaten he- ro of fifty tempests scratched his griz- zied head in response to the young monsieur's inquiries, and looked as stupid as though an idea had never before entered his brain—“oul, oui: there was a lady he saved from the wreck; but he did not know whither she had gone. He had not stopped to ask her name; there were so many names, and he could not remember. She had lain in his cabin on the beach for a while, until—until her father found her, and he had given Pierre a purse of gold that would make him sleep warm the coming winter nights. And they had gone away.” It was all that old Pierre knew. The dull current of his thoughts had never passed beyond a certain tide- mark. He would risk his life twenty times in saving the helpless whom he saw buffeting with the billows, but he did so led by the same instinct that makes the brave Newfoundland plunge into the sea after the missing child. Once safe on shore, Pierre’s interests in his neighbors ceased. Baffled at every turn, Herbert took his way moodily back to town. Old thoughts and fancies he had lost sight of in the roseate glow of returning | hope began to reassert their sway. Was be not, after all, only pursuing the shadow of a dream? Did it not seem as if he were, indeed, bound by. some mystical spell? This girl, who | sweet to feel that, though invisible, 1 | cities could not induce the handsome had exercised so wondrous a power over his life—whom he had lost in the green heart of his native forest—what madness led him to believe he could find her here? The midnight song, the midnight vision, were born only of his: own morbid fancy. If he would, nov go utterly mad he must give up this fruitless quest—the hope that.» was clouding his reason, upsetting his phil- osopky. He must give up the wila idea that. Sybil lived. And yet—and yet, that tear, that whisper, that had been but portions of a fever-dream? “The pale lady with the golden hair, lashed to a spar!” ~ The fisherman’s words haunted him, despite himself. Surely, he could discover who that pale lady was and whither she had gone. Absorbed in his own contending thoughts, Herbert was slowly walking along through the quietest and most aristocratic portion of the town, where | the decayed gentry of other days still; kept up a feeble appearance of im- | portance, when he suddenly became conscious that he was followed. A young girl, whose bright bln eyes glittered roguishly beneath her high peasant cap, was coming down the street, shyly watching him, as if apxious to speak. Herbert waited for her with an en- couraging smile. “It is—ah, yes! it must be Monsieur Clive,” she said, looking up into his face. “Monsieur, you have given me a chase this mornipg. I have been waiting, and watching and following you ever since you left Le Provi- dence.” “Watching for me?” repeated Her- bert, in surprise. “Yes,” answered the gril, with a merry laugh. ‘“Doubiless monsieur thinks I am yery bold, or he is very charming; but, although Nanette is no angel, she is also noe fool. I have something for monsieur. See!”—she held up a Gginty enyelope—‘some- thing that I wish to give him alone.” Herbert took the little missive ea- erly, slipping a bright silver piece into the little messenger’s hand. “No, no,” sail Nanette. “I have been paid already, monsieur—better than paid in gold.” “Where did you get this?’ inter- rupted*Nerbert, his eyes flashing as he turned upon the girl. “Are you mixed up in a plot to madden me? Child, child, where, from whom did yon get this letter?Lell me, and I will iriple that piece in your hands!” “Morsieur asks too much,’ was the girl’s laugbipg answer. “I have told him I was already paid.’ “But you know—yvou saw the person who gave you this?’ said Herbert, ex- citedly. “Perhaps,” she answered, with an arch smile. “But there are times when even wild Nanette is blind and dumb. Though’—Narette sank her voice to a cautious whisper—“I would advise mousieur to use both eyes and ears—and use them well” She nodded merrily as she tripped away, leaving Herbert gazing after her in speechless amazement. Then, glancing at the paper he held in his hand, he read again the words that seemed to have come at this mo- ment as if to lure him further on his hopeless search: “Grieve no longer for me, true ana faithful friend. I have witnessed your love and your despair, and every pang of your noble heart adds a new pain to mine. The life that now opens before me is one that I can share with none. Yet the heart that I believed had ceased to throb with earthly feel- ings, quivered anew at you presence. Our peace lies in being far apart. | go from you forever. It has been was near you; put that sweetness, like all that I have ever known, was not to Ia Forget me! No, that I eannot s but think of me as one whose bl and barren future is brightened by one sunbeam of mem. ory—the sunbeam that your love has cast upon ber clonded path.” (a CHAPTER XXX Lurline. With that note folded in his breast, Herbert Gliv. ne a wanderer. All the attraction the gay European and wealthy young American to lin- ger long within their charmed pre- cincts, cr pariicipate in their dazzling pleasures, Like one bound by some mystic spell, he pursued his restless w: watching and waiting, day by day some further revelation from his be- loved onme--some token of her pres- ence, some echo of her voice. The energy with which he devoted himself to the one object ef his life made him oblivious of all things else. His letters home wre short and infre- quent. .His manner to-the friends he met seemed cold and changed. | “What the deuce has come over you, anyhow, Clive?” asked a gay young colege-mate, meeting him, one day, grave and abstracted, on the streets of Paris. “You haven't taken a ser!- ous turn, I hope, so early, though that ducking in the Ocean Queen was enough to sober any one for a while. I will begin to believe you were be- witched by some sea nymph in her native waters, and haven’t recovered from the spell.” Herbert looked up with a start. “Do you believe in such things, Dunn?” he asked, gravely. “What, in woman’s witchery? Of course I do!” was the laughing re- sponse. “Though I don’t think one of your finny nymphs could ever capti- vate me hopelessly. Seriously, though. my boy, you'll get ‘hypped’ completely if you don’t shake off this green and yeilow melancholy. You're only five- and-twenty, and haven’t brushed the sparkle from your life-cup yet, much less reached the dregs. Stir yourself up. Come with me to Madame la Marquise’s ball; it will be the most dazzling affair of the season—in masque, too, which always adds to the charm. Yoy needn't show your face unless you want to, though it’s alto- wether too good-looking, in my opin- ion, to keep hid. Come, I’m just on the way to choose my costume. 1 want a chum. Let’s go as Rival Princes, or Brother Knights, or—stay, no, something more solemn befits your present mood. Go as Ravenswood; the gloomy knight will suit you to a charm.” Ard, acceding to Edgar Dunn's gay fancy, without taking any interest in the matter, Herbert went that night to Madame la Marquise’s ball. It was a brilliant affair—such a com- bination of artistic conception and her elaborate execution as only the gay capital can produce. Madame la Marquise was one of the leading elegantes of. Paris. She sel- dom undertook an extensive entertain- ment, -but when she did, it was em- phatieally a success. 7 Eyen Herbert forgot for a moment his morbid fancies and hopeless wan- derings, as the sober realities of the world seemed to melt away, and he passed into the enchanted dreamland into which Madame la Marquise had transformed her palace. It was not all glare, and glitter, and erash of orchestra, as is the usual style of such entertainments. La Madame’s ideas were far too perfect for such crude developments. She was in advance of her age. The entrance hall was shadowed to a pleasant light, through which the coming ~ guests moved noiselessiy. Rows of crimson lamps, gleaming through tropic foliage, marked the pol- ished staircase, where deft attendants waited at every turn; but the grand ball room, with its swinging suns of erystal, its wreaths of living blossoms, and cages of swinging birds, was but one feature of this bewildering scene. Marble corridors led to quiet nook where the edorous breath of flowers seemed to hush the air—where un- seen lights trembled through crystal domes. and fountains trickled musie- ally into fern-wreathed basins. The grand old oaken gallery that was the Madam’s pride, was also thrown ofen, and her guests could wander at will amid the artistically- iHuminated pictures, the rare mosaics, the chefs d’oeuvre of art, she had gathered from every clime. And, as through hall, salon and cor- ridor fitted the motley crowd of mask- ers, dressed in the quaint, gorgeous and picturesque costumes of every clime and age, Herbert felt as if he were a portion of some strange Ori- ental pageant, moving through the en- chanted scenes of “Arabian Nights.” The dark velvet costume and sable plumes of Ravenswood well became his tall, graceful figure, and’ many a bright eye sparkled mere brightly be. neath a dainty mask at the dark knight's approach. But by midnight the glamour of the seene was gone. Herbert grew weary of talking pretty nothings to unknown charmers, and wandered away from the gay ball room to find a more se- eluded place to rest and dream. He was glancing over a portfolio of sketches in the onken gallery, when a sound reached his ear that made him start and tremble as with a sudden shock. (TO be Continued.) WHAT IS PERPETUAL YOUTH? Ponce de Leon Sailed the Globe to Find It and Missed It—Are You Missing It? To be perpetually young, a woman must fill up her life with constant in- terests, those that strengthen and de- yelop the body and those that strengthen and develop the mind, She will take great care of her intellect and equally great care of her body. A sound mind in a sound body must be motto. By giving from ten to twenty minutes cf her time daily to in- telligent exercise she can retain the suppleness of youth to the last’ hours of a long life. She must learn that ed- ucation includes the body, and make her muscles respond to her will, and understand that a good digestion is of more importance than a knowledge of the science of mathematics, for with- evt it life is hardly worth the living. She will apply a cheerful philosophy to her way of living. She will apply a cheerful philosophy to her way of living, so that the light of the sun be- hind her cypress trees shall always illumine her face, giving it the rosy glow of a youth that is immortal. Nor shall she disdain the box of ointment for the benefit of the weary flesh. Sei- ence and sanitation will both be her handmaidens and she will live out her years in a house beautiful which has not fallen into disrepair. Girls, don’t put any signs on the house beautiful which the Great Arch- itect did not intend to have there. Don’t label one room “Ill-Temper,” another ‘Nervousness’ and another “Caprice.” Above all, take pride in keeping placards of ill-health off its walls by cultivating the habit of good health, and carrying the news in rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. There you have the foundation of true beauty as well as happiness—Philadelphia Press. When a Bachelor Pays Calls. An unmarried man in calling at a daughter, or any married woman and other wome relatives, leaves one card for the host and hostess, one for the daughters, and one for any guest who may be staying with them. No matter how many there may be in the family, he should leave no more than three cards. Whatever the terms on which he may stand with the brothers or other masculine members of the fam- ily, he leaves no cards for them at the time of making his general call on the the house, and he leaves a card for his family. The exception is the head of the house, and he leaves a card for him after he has had a call from him, or its social equivalent, an invitation, —Woman's Home Companion. Cleaning Fine Lace. Summer, Winter Fall and Spring, . Occasionally a piece of fancy-work on the lace order does not show soil enough to justify sacrificing its lacy newness to the process of washing. If such work is laid away for a week in a heavy book between blue tissue- paper. having had rubbed into the soil- ed places calcined magnesia or pipe- clay, it will come out cleaned and brightened. This is a good way way to treat Battenberg and point lace work which has become dingy or yellow.—_Woman’s Home Companion. Stick to Baptismal Name. Nothing is more deplorable than the habit some girls have of changing the spelling of their names. Whatever happens, stick to your baptismal name. ‘The Ethel who calls herself “Ethyl,” the Blanche who becomes “Blancha,” the Caroline who writes herself “Caro- lyn,”, are victims of a *»olish fancy. When such a girl arrives at the age of discretion she trims off all the fur- belows which have adorned her name and returns to the simpler spelling which her parents intended.—New -York World. dd _Misapplied. Heman. , What a fine stretch of land over there! — Niblack—Beautiful! But what @ ‘shame to put it under cultivation! It would make such an ideal golf links!— Boston Transcript. Revolution in Water Travel. Experiments have proven that ves sels, fitted with propellers which imi- tate the fish’s fin, develope remarkable power. It will cause a revolution in water travel. Men gradually learn that Nature’s ways are best. One cause of the remarkable success of © Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters is the fact that it is a sure cure for constipa- tion, indigestion, dyspepsia and bilious- ness. Plainly Impossible. Young Mr. Spoonamore (who has just been accepted)—But what will your father say, darling? You know he doesn’t like me any too well.” The Young Woman—Well, you can’t expect me to use the exact language in which papa will expr imself when he kears it—Chicago Tribune. Straight Road To Health Is by the way of purifying the blood. Germs and impurities in the blood cause disease and sickness. Expelling these impurities removes the disease. Hood’s Sarsaparilla does this and it does more. It makes the, blood rich by increasing and vitalizing the red globules and giving it power to trans- mit to the organs, nerves and muscles the nutriment contained in digested food. Hood’s Sarsapariiia Is the Best Medicine Money Can Buy. And He Was. The latest centrilution to the cotlec- tion of curious epitapbs comes from Rutland, Vt., and expresses in an iu- direct but forceful manner the repu- tation of the deceased among the com. munity in which he lived: William Wilson. : Died October 4, 1896, 3 Aged 85 years. iC The good Are You Using Allen's Foot-Ease? It is the only cure for Swoilen, Smarting, Burning, Sweating Feet, Corns and Bunions. Ask for Allen’s Foot-Ease, a powder to be shaken into the shues. At all Druggists and Shoe Stores, 25c. Sample sent FREE. Ad- dress Allen S. Olmsted, LeRoy, N. Ye Wasn't Just Sure. Sir William McCormae, the president of the Royal College of Surgeons of London, is at times quite absent-miad- ed. He is an indefatigable worker, and often, to save time, when study- ing in his laboratory, has a light lunch- eon served there. Orce his assistant heard him sigh heavily, and, looking up, saw the doctor glaring at two glass receptacles on the table. “What is the matter, doctor?” asked one of the youngsters. “Nothing in particular,’ was the re- ply, “only I am uncertain whether [ drank the beef tea or that compound I am working 0: Argonaut. Ladies Can Wear Shoes. One size smaller after usingAllen’s Foot- Ease, a powder. It makes tight ornew shoes easy. Cures swollen, hot,sweating, aching feet, ingrowing nails, corns and bunions. All druzgists and shoe stores, 25c. Trial package FREE by mail. Ad- dress Allen S, Olmsted, Le Roy, N.Y. The Farewell. “Good-by,” said the pale, determined man, as his wife flung her arms wildly about his neck and gave way to a flood of weeping. “Do not go into unnecessary dan- gers,” she said. “I know you will be brave and réturn with honors.” And he was gone. He was not off to war. No; he was a baseball umpire and he was leaving home for the open- ing game.—Philadelphia Nort hAmer« ican. Hall’s Catarrh Cure Is taken internally. Price, 75c. Merely a Good Listener. Miss Swelltop—Sister is so disap- pointed. She can't go to the opera to- night. Miss Bluegore—Is she so ill as all that? Miss Swellton—Oh, ro; it is just a nervous affection of the throat. She's not really ill. Miss Bluegore—Why can’t she go, then? Miss Swelltop—Why, goodness gra- cious! She can’t speak above a whis- per.—Philadelphia Press. For What He Missed. “Didn't I tell you that I didn’t want any of your infernal grind around here?” shouted the irate citizen, as a hand-organ man stopped at the gate. “Yes, you tella,” was the reply. “Then what are you doing here?” ” Bite wen a no ae No playee, centa. Muchee ee, 1 cen) fs Good-bye!” Pa oe ‘Winslow’s Soothing Syrap. m toothing, softens the gums, Zeduces twr A woman’s hair would soon look sweet if she tried to dress it with a honeycomb. A Book of Choice Recipes Mase "Sleavion tuts papers °°” Les Dorchester, Mother Hubbard dresses ought to be pete mical;, they so seldom get worn ‘The charm of deautifal -HiyDEROORNS, the best curc for corns. i5cta. A money drawer—the . ~ 4 | po =_—