Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, June 23, 1900, Page 6

i> ™~ eee Or Under a Spell. eee ¢ CHAPTER XXX—(Continued.) A voice, low and sweet as the mur- mur of the western wind, floatea through one of the western corridors, im the notes of a well-remembered song: ‘Lou in the sunlight. And I in the shade; But, 2h! by the sunlight The shadow is made. Thine be the gladness, And mine be the gloom, For Love, though thy triumph, Is only my doom! En silence and shadow, Through weal and-through ill, My fate is to love And to follow thee still. Wnseen and unknown Will I cling to thy heart, ¥or fetters have bound me That death cannot part.” Like one spellbound, Herbert. list- -ened, and then, letting the portfolio he eld fall from his grasp, he turned swiftly down the corridor whom which the song-notes seemed to come. to a sort of conservatory, which had, a few menths ago, been one cf the madam’s pet follies, but «whose novelty had at present faded away before some still more charming eaprice. Tt wv a mmoth aquarium—the stone walls overgrown with sea-moss- . and trailing water plants; the light, intly through shades of sea- the central fountain send- s pearly spray from a minia- on whose bosom the Victo- pread its mighty leaves, mul Egyptian lilies floated in spotless beauty. fhe entrance to this enchanted mook was low and rugged, like the opening of an ocean cave. Huge sea- shelis rrounded the tiny lake, and | Ghe mo: own rocks dipped into the erystal waves. Seated on one of these rocks was a; form that seemed the fitting guardian | -of the ry scene. Her my white, robes were looped sters of white es over an kirt of pale sea-green; her float- ra cloud of golden light, was 1 with sea-grasses and waxen ; water plants, while the jewels enci - cling her snowy throat and arms glit- | fered Sike the y of the ocean as it YDreaks in m She was masked, but the form, the “fair, the voice, made Herbert's heart wound within him, and, springing for- ~ ward, be whispered: “Sybil, Sybil! my lost darling! Have *E found you at last?” ted, trembled and recoiled then, as if conquering a terror, spoke, in a low, ed voice bold, sir knight--over bold. rbil, but Lurline, the water who brave an entrance n kingdom, do it at their “Has the cost not been great enough ody? he murmured, despairingly. ‘wiki, Sybil! torture me no longer by these masks and mysteries! Call your-' self what you will—spirit, mortal, an-{ vagel, or demon—you are to me, u can Secret ! this? Young Grey, the lawy Her Heart’s By JEAN WARNER, PPA can, to go from you forever. I swear to you that if I leave you now, my mad pursuit will end, my dreams be o'er! I bid farewell to love and hope forever! Choose betwen us. Your word alone will decide my fate—your word alone!” “Farewell!” she whispered. “It is all that I can sa Father, father! See, I Go not falter, though you bid me rend my heart in twain. My cwn beloved, farewell! Farewell ‘to—to hope, and love forever!” ? CHAPTER XXXII. Gathering Clouds. The snows of December were whit- ening the turrets and gables of Clive ‘Towers; the forest was a bleak wilder- ness, through whose mazes the winter winds sighed and raved; the cozy lit- tle cottage of Dr. Bond w: almost lost sight of in the white waste sur- rounding it. But though the diamond panes of his little shady window were well- nigh covered with snow wreaths, and ne small factotum—a crisp-haired tto boy—was making futile ef- forts to shovel a passage way to the gate. the doctor's serenity was undis- turbe, and he sat before a huge fire with a large medical book in his hand, the usii ef which appeared to af- foi ™m perfect satisfaction. “Seasonable weath said the doc- tor, rising at last, and rubbing his hands together before the cheery fire. “White winters are not the kind to fill doctor's pockets. Good, fierce, snap- i s strike sense into people. e to red flannel and_ thick shoes. Then, naturally, yon can't per- suade man, woman or child what a cold is, until Jack Frost nips their noses for them, and gives them his promise to pay Hello!’’"—a horseman, stopping at the gate, interrupted the | old man’s satisfied revery—“who is fool enough to turn out such a day as "s son! Must be a matter ef life and death that | brings such a steady-going fellow as | he is through such a storm, Come in, s ome in! Don’t stand shaking | your self all day on the door-mat. | There’s no woman here to look sour at | a sprinkling of snow in the hall. Come | in to the fire right away. There’s liquor on the sideboard yonder; but I forgot—you don't drink, All the better | for you in the long run. Sit down, | then, and get warm. Don’t say a} word until you are warm through.” “I’m not at all coldnow, sir,” an- swered Laurence, as he obeyed the oid doctor's hospitable injunctions. “I | came up home for the holidays last evening, and have taken the earliest opportunity—” “Of paying your respects to me, eh?” said the doctor, grimly. “Come, young man, out with it. What's the matter? I don’t doubt your ndly feelings; but they wouldn't have brought you out for a social eall on a day like this.” “I was up at the Towers last night;” | continued Laurence, gravely, “and I could not help noticing the change in— in Mr. Clive. My deep interest in all that concerns Herbert and’’—he paused ere he added—“his sister, makes me, perhaps, unduly observing; but it » attly be to me, the woman I love, with a love that has changed my life, | \ Blasted my future, broken my heart! “No, no!” she whispered, in tremu: Vious aceents; “not that—not that! The ‘heart never breaks—never breaks. It’ -ean suffer all things, even the death- | pang itself, and still beat on. Oh, ‘there are those who-earry hearts that even in such scenes as these quiver awith death-throes, and yet cannot die.” “Do you, too, suffer?” he asked, s novel ‘by the passionate sorrow of her t ‘Oh, my love—my lost love— -what need is there of this pain, this sorrow, this myster; Why do you “hus madden me by brief gleams of hope, that only serve to darken more -ernelly the night of despair? I am like one fossing on a sea of doubt. All things have failed me—faith, hope, courage, reason, energy—all but love. ‘Leve, that ignis fatuus that leads me -on deeper and deeper Ynto the darkness —tove that I cannot turn from—that I vmust still pursue!” “Is it indeed so?” was the low, quiv- ‘ering answer. “Alas, alas! Must your darkened life, too, atone? I—I—oh, E would have spared you this—Herbert, Herbert! I would have spared you this! I thought, I hoped, that mine alone would be the sorrow, the doom!” “Sybil! Now it is indeed Sybil who speaksY’ was his rapturous re- foinder. “Oh, Sybil, my beloved one, only trust me with your sorrow! Tear from your life the mystery that en- shrouds it! Let the eye of love read ali! In death cr in life, you are—’ “Mine!” said a fierce voice at his ~side, and a tall form, shrouded in the ‘flowing garments of a monk, loomed up behind the shrinking Lurline. “Again, again? Girl, girl, have I not <warned you that—that—” Jie stopped, as if checked with rage. -“"%q, go!’ she pleaded, turning to “Herbert—“ge, for God’s sake, and leave us!” “Never, never! till I know the mys- tery of your fate!” was the determined answer. “Neyer, until I know who it fs that dares to stand between me and the woman I love!” : “Do you ask who?’ cried the monk, tearing the mask from his face, and -diselosing the features of the one man -on earth whom he remembered as an senemy—the artagonist whom he had -encountered three years before at Sun- set Hill. “Traitor and robber that you are, would you steal from me the only «treasure I have left? Begone, or I - will forget myself and be again a mad- seems to me, sir, that he is much brok- en within the last few months—so mucii so that I determined to consult you as to the propriety of informing Herbert of his father’s condition at once.” “Humph!” muttered the old doctor, giving Laurence a keen look over his spectacles; “do you happen to know where Herbert is, young man?” “[ have not heard of him for several | months,” answered Laurence; “but I suppose a letter addressed to his bank- ers in Paris will find him.” “No person else has heard of him for several menths,’’ continued the doctor, drily. “He ought to be at home now, sir—he ought to be at home. It’s none of my business, for Robert Clive has never consulted me either as to his health or prudence—but he’s breaking fast. He has never been the same since the wreck of the Ocean Queen. He first weakened then, body and mind, and he’s been weakening ever since. That one week during which he thought his son was lost, broke his spirit forever. Yes, sir—yes,’ added the dector, abstractly resting his hand on the ivory miniature he always wore hidden in his breast; “let skeptics talk as they please, a just God rules the world, and, sooner or later, His justice triumphs over all things.” “Miss Fannie’—the young man's hes- itating mention of her name was not lost on his listener—“Miss Fannie tells me her father keeps to his room nearly all the time—that for days together she never sees him. She seemed very much depressed, and anxious for her broth- er’s return. Poor girl!” added Lau- rence with a sigh; ‘sorrow is new to her. She needs a friend.” “Where's that young jackanapes she is going to marry?’ asked the doctor, abruptly. “What's his name—Wood, Grove, Forest? Oh, yes, Forest. Where is he?” “Fenton Forest,” answered the young man, somewhat stiffly. “He is off on duty just now.” “Glad to hear it. Best to keep him on duty,” said the doctor, gruffly. “I hope he'll stay on duty for the remain- der of his life. Women are foois—the best of them—when it comes to choos- ing a mate for life they look at the fine feathers first. A pair of shoulder- straps and a dozen gilt buttons have made many a wretched match. Well, it’s none of my business, of course, hut’ I like that little girl ard her brother, and if there’s to be a crash, I'd like to have them stand clear. But I don’t know—I'm not much of a Bible schol- ar, but there is a verse you may have man! Begone! I tell you she is mine!” “Sybil!” exclaimed Herbert, turning “his white face toward her, as if he “heard neither the insults ror the men- caces of the other—“speak to me, Sybil. Choose bet weeu us—for, by heaven, no man shall force me again from your -@ide! Speak to me, and tell me, if you } heard of keeps running in my head.” And, with a solemnity that puzzled Fannie—see Robert Clive, if he will let me,” the doctor said) more cheerfully, as Laurence rose to go, “and I'll give you my opinion then about writing to Herbert. No use alarming the boy un- necessarily; trouble will come to him fast encugh.” “Trouble will come to him> fast enough!” These words, and the doc: tor’s solemn Scriptural quotation, haunted Laurence Grey, as he rode homeward through the bleak winter woods, past the white wastes of mead- ow land, the shrouded gardens and de serted lawns of Clive Towers—the Eden of his boyhood’s and manhood’s dreams. Orly a few months ago, and the sun light shimmered through the rich foli- age of spreading trees upon springing fountains und blooming flowers. Only a few months ago birds warbled their love songs in the fragrant shadows of the grove the brooklet laughed in the sunbeam; a summer sky smiled upon a summer world. Young hearts bound- ed joyously to the whispers of love and hope; young voices blended in gay song and merry laughter; young lives, bright with beautiful promise, made these still and Lifeless paths a paradise. Now, Laurence Grey was not a ro- martic dreamer, but the dark, heavy snow clouds, hanging like a_ pall around Clive Towers; the dead silence that reigned over lawn, the garden and terrace; the shadow that dwelt within —all seemed ominous of coming evil. He reached home. Miss Marian was watcbing for him at the window, He little knew the secrets of his sister's envious heart, or he would never have confided to her the object of his mis- sion. He little guessed the secret joy and triumph that filled her breast at sight of the gathering clouds that caused him such generous and heart- felt pain. ‘ And so he told her, without reserve, the substance of this interview with Dr. Bond, adding that he feared some heavy trouble was impending over Clive Towers—some secret sorrow crushing its master to the earth, Miss Marian listened with the great- est apparent sympathy. It was sad for poor Fannie, very; but she had sus- pected for some time there was a skel- eton hidden in Clive Towers—some trouble known to none. “Hewever that may be, sister,” in- terrupted Laurence, gravely, “it is our duty to keep all we have heard sacred, as though entrusted to us under the seal of friendship. There is a poisoned sting on the tongues of gossips that in- flames every wound.” “Dear me, brother!’ exclaimed Miss Marian, indignantly, “how could you suppose for one moment that I would gossip about anything which concerns poor, dear Fan Nevertheless, when Miss Felicia dropped in that evening, after the storm, the dark allusion of Miss Mari- an to the trouble at Clive Towers har- rowed up her “recollections to such an extent that she could talk of nothing else. She was compelled to drop in at the sewing society, on her way home, and relieve her mind by a few moments’ chat with several of the oldest inhab- itants, who shook their heads gravely, and “always thought Robert Clive was a-hiding something behind that sol- emn face he wore.” Sybil’s strange coming, and strange disappearance; Herbert’s sudden de- parture and prolonged absence—all were brought forward to swell the tide of gossip that, before night, ran high and dark against the unhappy Clives. Something was wrong at Clive Tow- ers—something that kept its master a gloomy misanthrope, in his secluded study. and made its heir a_ homeless wanderer in foreign lands. Something was wreng, rumor whispered, darkly— very wrong. } CHAPTER XXXII. _ The Fall of the Mighty. The winter sunset was burning over the snow-clad hills, and touching with its lurid glow the turrets and windows of Clive Towers, as Dr. Bond mounted his sturdy litile pony for his promised visit. It was no very pleasant duty to him. Rebert Clive and he had never been congenial spirits, but in the children whom he had watched blossoming into a beautiful youth, and ripening into a promising maturity, the good old doc- tor felt an almost paternal interest, that was only intensified by his know- ledge of the dark shadow that lowered over their young lives—the wrong for whieh they must innocently suffer—the injustice for which they must atone. As he rode along over the snowy hills his thoughts wandered backward through the clouds and sunshine of for- ty. years, and a_ strange conviction came over him that he was deter- mined to unravel the web of mystery that surrounded the story of his early love. He was the chosén champion of Sybil Lee—the Sybil who, perhaps, from a brighter world, was watching the fortunes of her children, and smil- ing as she saw, with a clearer vision than that of earth, how all things pak: slowly yet surely, to a rightful end, Fannié was waiting for him, stand- ing in the lofty doorway, guarded by the “lions couchant,”’ that was the ar- morial crest of the old baronial Clives. She was paler and a trifle, sadder than of yore, but far more beautiful. The shadow of sorrow that darkened her laughing eye, and rested upon lip and brow, gave a new charm to her girlish loveliness. In her soft, flowing crimson dress, with a few ‘white snowberries twined in her waving hair, anda single pearl clasping the delicate lace at her throat, she looked so fair and win- some that the doctor thought he had never seen a sweeter picture, more fit- tingly framed by the stately grandeur of a noble home. “Oh, doctor, I am so glad you have come!” she said, eagerly, as she grasped his hand. “Papa won't con- gent to see a_ physician, ugh T know”—the dark eyes filled—“I know he is very unwell. I haye\been so wretched and.anxious about him, and I did not know what.to do, until last night, when—when Laurence came, and he said he would get you to come, and make a call as a friend. Only as a friend; for both papa and Mrs. Wyl- lis say that he is not sick. They will Laurence, the old man laid his hand | not hear of a doctor visiting him.” upon his arm, and added, impressive- ly: “The sins of the father shall be visited upon the children, even to the | mistress of Clive third and fourth generation.” I’ll go up to the Towers this evening and see | with papa now,” answered Fannie, . “They!” echoed “they! I thought the doctor, drily; ‘ou were. the the ywers.” “Mrs. Wyllis has all the influence sadly. “He seems to trust to no one else. Sometimes I do not see him for days together. Herbert is away, and Fenton, and I—I—Oh, doctor,” she con- cluded ,with a burst of tears, “I am so lonely and miserable and wretched!” “There there!” said the doctor, bur? riedly, “don’t cry, my dear—don’t cry. Vl see your father, and if there’s much the matter, we'll have Herbert home at once. Don’t cry! There, there! be a woman, and not a baby. So, Mrs. Wyllis has all the influence?) Humph: A pantheress in petticoats, if ever there was one. Been waiting to take a spring this twenty years, and, I rerk- on, has done it at last.” The concluding, portion of the doc- tor’s speech. was delivered entirely to himself, as he followed Fannie through the richly-carpeted halls and ante-rooms that led to her father's study. The room was already ,darkened, though the last rays cf sunset had not yet faded in the west; the carved lamp that stood on the marble center table was turned down. to a feeble glimmer; and in his easy chair before the hearth, sat Rébert Clive, with bowed head and tolded arms. As the door opened, a slender, black- robed figure moved noiselessly out of the shadow at the farther end of fhe room, and Mrs. Wyllis faced the vikit- ors. “Papa, here is Dr. Bond,” said Fan- nie, regardless of the housekeeper’s murmured remarks that Mr. Clive had requested her to invite all visitors into the parlor, as he was desirous of being alone. “Papa, you know dear mam- ma’s friend, and our old friend, Dr. Bond?” Robert Clive raised his head slowly, and, prepared as the doctor was, for a change, he was, for the moment, shocked by the haggard countenance, the hollow eyes, the worn and aged expression of the man who, but a few morths before had been seen in all the vigorous prime of manhood. “Dr. Bond!” he repeated, rising, with a feeble assumption of his former stateliness. “Of course, my dear, 1 am pleased to see Dr. Bond. ‘ake a Beat, doctor. It is very—very cold without. Mrs. Wyllis, a little .more light, if you please. And perhaps the doctor will have something warm after his ride. It is very cold this evening —very, very cold!” He sank back in his chair, rubbing his wasted hands together before the fire, as if he would infuse some of its glow and fervor into his weakened frame. “J stepped in to see how all were,” said the doctor, cheerily. ‘This sort of weather makes a dried-up old bach- elor long for a glimpse of bright home fires and glad young faces, Miss Fan- nie don’t look as blooming as I have seen her of yore. You must keep an eye on your roses, my dear. They ought to bloom both winter and sum- mer, on such cheeks as youts.” “Miss Fannie confines herself too much,” interposed Mrs. Wyllis, softly. “I often tell her a brisk walk through the weods would be good for her health. Thqe young need change, re- creation, excitement.” “Yes, yes,’ said Mr. Clive, nervous- ly; “Fannie needs a change. I have been thinking that she cught to go to town for the winter. Mrs. Wyllis tells me that it is lonely for a young girl here.” “Go to town without you, papa?” ex- elaimed Fannie, in dismay. “Go away and leave you here alone? Oh, you surely do not mean it! I could never Teave you here alone!” “Wyllis would give me all the atten- tion I require,” answered Mr. Clive, in a constrained voice. “It is quite un- necessary to think of me. I am quite well—very well! Mrs. Wyllis, as you | know, my dear, attends perfectly to my comfort and well being. There is ba ag in your remaining here—none at alr’ “When did you hear from that wan- dering son of yours?’ asked the doc- tor, changing the conversation, in pity for the young girl, whose quivering lip and tearful eves showed how keen- ly she felt her father’s words. “It is time he was thinking of a homeward journey.” “Herbert? When did we hear from Herbert?” repeated Mr. Clive, thought-, fully. “Do you remember when we heard from Herbert, Mrs. Wyllis? Take a seat;' I did not observe you were standing. When was it we heard from my boy?” “About two months ago, I think, sir,” | said Mrs. Wyllis, whose light eyes emitted gleams of crafty triumph whenever her master thus referred the conversation to her. “You remember, it was a very short note from Paris, stating he was about to travel Eas’ “Yes, yes; I remember; a very short note—very short, indeed. We have not heard from him since then.” “T should advise you and Miss Fan- nie here to run over and look him up,” said the doctor, as, after a few mo ments” longer stay, he rose to take his |. leave. “The trip would do you both good, and so would the change,” he added, with a glance toward the figure’ in the shadow—the noiseless woman, who, with her mittened hands, folded one above Ye other, saw the visitor out, amd then returned to her post in the darkened room, where Robert Clive again bowed his head before the fire, like one stricken by sorrow or shame. “You haven't taken your tonic, sir,” whispered the crafty temptress. “It is past the time. I was about to hand’ it to yon when Miss Fannie insisted upon introducing the doctor, much against my remonstrances; for I knew you wished for no professional atten- tion at all.” “Certainly not—certainly not!” he answered, sharply. “Admit no such visitors again, Mrs. Wyllis, no matter who introduces them. Hand me the drug. It is the best physician, after all. It soothes body and mind, heart and soul. A potent nervine—a potent nervine. That is all—yet how it aids me to bear with life!” She handed him a silver box that contained a white, crystalline powder. He swallowed a portion of it eager- ly, and then asked: “Has the doctor gone?” “He is talking to Miss Fannie in the parlor,” answered Mrs. Wyllis. “Poo. girl! it is so lonesome here for her now that she is glad even of an’old man’s company.” “Yes, yes, she must go away—must away,” repeated Robert Clive. “Make arrangements so that she can go to town immediately, Wyllis. We must save her, no matter what hap- pens. She is young and—and innocent. She knows nothing of injustice and wrong.”” : * to, “I must beg you again to be careful, sir,” said the housekeeper, in a warn- ing whisper. “Careful, woman—careful?” he cried, angrily. “Am I not careful? Has not my whole life been a carful, studied lie? Has not every look, and word, and gesture for the last five-and-twen- ty years been careful? Did I ever o&ce, even to the wife of my bosom, the chilaren of my love, lay aside the mask that guarded me from their glances of tender watchfulness? Did not my gentle Agnes die on my bosom believing me an honest and honorable man? Have not my children grown into manhood and womanhood honored: and courted as the children of Robert Clive? And you speak to me of pru- dence now! Am I going mad, think you? Do I nevd a keeper for the se- cret that has been corroding my heart, eating out the core of every joy how- ever pure, every success, however mer- ited, every bliss, triumph and mem- ory for five-and-twenty years? Am L likely to free the monster now?’ “I trust not, sir, now that all danger is over,” was the softly-purred reply. “But the first night after the tidings of Mr. Herbert’s loss, when—” “When you saw the proud man laid low, the strong man crushed?” contin- ued Robert Clive, whose cheek began to flush and eye to brighten under the subtle influence of the drug to which he had beeome a slave—“‘when you came to me as an evii genius, and—’ “Saved you from yourself, sir,’ she added—“saved your children, saved your name. What weuld repentance have availed you then? What would it avail you now? Your path was chosen five-and-twenty years ago. It is too late to retrace it now.” “Too late! aye, too late!’ repeated the wretched man. “I must keep en now until the end—the end. But the dead man’s curse is falling upon me and mine. It is falling, slowly, slowly. I see it in my daughter's fading cheek; I feel it in my silent home; I recognize it in the docm that hangs over my silent house, darkening, darkening. day by day. Do you remember the night, Wyllis—the night that the old man died? How the wind shrieked around the lonely mansion? How the Novem- ber vain beat against the window panes? How the storm raved and sobbed without, as if Nature were be- moaning the coming wrong? There were demons around that night—de- mons who had broken their chains, and roamed the earth to tempt and de stroy.” (TO be Continved.) UGLY GIRL’S ADVANTAGE. As an Actress Her Merit Is Acknowl edged—Is Not Flattered by Fools. - To a beginner with any serious am- bition beauty gives her a prominence which her inexperience and incomplete art cannot justify, and when, with years of bard work, her talents reach their dramatic fulfillment, her recog- nition as an artist is likely to be mucl more grudgingly given because, for- sooth, a beauty, and therefore. pre- sumably, a fool, says Maxine Elliot. “The ugly girl, who begins her career at the same time, possessing no more ability than the beauty, has the ad- vantage of working out her salvation in comparative obscurity; that it, she has no unfavorable impressions to efface from the public mind because it has never even noticed her struggling up, step by step, in the same little parts the beauty played with more or less adverse comments. “Finally the ehance that is worth while comes to the ugly girl when she is properly equipped to take advantage of it, and lo! an artist is recognized, and the credit due her work is given to it. Fools do not whisper in her ear, ‘L loved you in the part, yow looked so beautiful.’ Emphatically, looking beau- tiful never made an audience love a player, and she can lay the flattering unction to her soul that something bet- ter than that brought forth the compli- ment, even though the giver did not recognize the fact. Beauty is a gift that will not let an actress go far un- less supplemented with the tempera- ment, intelligence and industry re- quired. Dispense with beauty alto- gether, and the last three qualifications mean success.”—Leslie’s Weekly. SPARROWS IN TEXAS. The Unwelcome Interloper Is Said to Be Crowding Out the Mocking Bird and Others. The mocking bird, so. numerous. in. the suburbs of Dallas five years ago,. is becoming scarcer with each. return- ing spring. hey are not being threit- eningly decreased. by. the trap of the fanciers or gradually exterminated by bad boys, but are- being driven from city shade trees, bushes and vines into the timber and brakes beyond! the: su-~ burban hedges. by the English spar- row. ‘The sparrow {ts a game. bird). but’ is no match for the Southern. songster a a fighter. The supremacy of the Eng- lish importation will not be achieved by talons and beaks, but as the se- quence of the coming of the voracious pest. Its presence means starvation to the bluebird, cardinal, jay aud the Mexican cansry, #s well as the mocker, and these feathered tribes are being forced by hunger to seek food further. and further beyond the range of the ever-increasing and endless eater from the British isles. The damage which it does in destroying fruit and grain, in disfiguring buildings in cities and towns and in driving away ether birds makes the sparrow one of the worst of feathered pests.—Dallas News. Peasant Boxed the Archduke’s Ears. The arehduke, with some boon com- Austrian emperor, and heir presumpt- ive to the. throne, is in disgrace with his imperial uncle because he kissed a peasant’s daughter, and had his aristo- cratic ears soundly boxed by the girl’s father. ; + ‘The archduke, with sofe boon com- panions, was on a spree, and attended a,picnic ball in the suburbs. A very pfetty peasant girl was the “wall flowers.” The tipsy noble ap- proacked her, and, without saying, “By your leave, miss,” threw his arms about her neck and kissed her ardent- ly. ‘The girl’s father resented the arch- duke’s familiarity, and boxed his ears. The archduke wanted to fight, but his companions dragged him away. The emperor was indignant when he heard of the younth’s pranks, and exiled him stupid Meran, far from the the capltalVienna Letters wrong. | In the life of every woman |and no mistakes should NO REMEDY EQUALS PERUNA, 80 THE WOMEN ALL SAY. iy; lil) ~ Miss Susan Wymar, teacher in the Richmond school, Chicago, Ill., writes the following letter to Dr. Hartman re- garding Pe-ru-na. She says: “Only those who have suffered as I have, can know what a blessing it is to be able to find relief in Pe-ru-na. This has been my experience. A friend in need is a friend indeed, and every bottle of Pe-ru-na I ever bought proved a good friend to me.”—Susan Wymar. Mrs, Margaretha Dauben, 1214 North Superior St., Racine City, Wis., writes: “I feel so well and good and happy now that pen cannot deseribe it. Pe- ru-na is everything to me. I have taken several bottles of Pe-ru-na for female complaint. 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Always a Starter. “Arthur, we haven't had a quarrel for weeks and weeks.” “Haven't we?: Well, we can eas get one up by discussing who was mos to blame for the last one we had.”"— Indianapolis Journal. Long drawn out—the tape measure. The playwright doesn’t stand such a very good show if the actors play Fine Ranck Property for Sale. 800 acres, in the best part of North Dakota. Good buildings, protected by timber: 600 acres of unfailing hay land; large lake; part of land ean be broken and cropped for feed. Ranch will accomodate 500 head of stock. This offer is limited in time and mt be taken advantage of at once. maps and particulars write immed: ately to Cc. A. Grettum, Rugby, N. D. t Her Instrument. “Does Miss Giddy play? Delsegno of Mr. Hunker. “Oh,. yes. She’s playing young Cal-- lowiill now.”—Detroit Free Press. The judge is about the only man who can speak as long # sentence in two or three words as he can in twenty. e Turn of Life This is a critical period he made. The one recognized and reliable help for women who are approaching and passing through this wonderful change is —— semen RES iene: Wities t \