Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, July 7, 1900, Page 6

| | —y i ae" PEELE eee0¢ Or Under a Spell. eee0o0¢ CHAPTER XXXV. Herbert's Revenge. Like one not yet awakened from a Deauteous dream, Herbert watched the little boat floating back to the island villa, and then, slowly retracing his steps to the village inn, he strove to wealize what had pass Sybil! e, it was no delusive rvis- Yon, but Sybil's self who had spoken to him of Jove! And Sybil was Made- moiselle Laponte. Ah, he had found the missing clue at last. The sick giri on board the Ocean Qveen, the midnight songstress and rthe midnight vision, the dark-veiled nurse of Le Providence, and the water- nymph of the Parisian ball room, were all the same living, loving Sybil—no al- luring phantom, but a sorrowing wo- man, whose web of fate, as she her- self had said was too darkly and strangely woven for his eye to pierce. And she loved him, suffered with him, mourned for him, even as he had mourned for her. Ab, there was hope and happiness in the thovght! ‘This world cannot be ut ened, when Love beams up- perfect light! her—this Gark-browed man, ~tate—it was her father who stood be- “tween them. It must be her father’s “shadow, then, that lay so mysteriously -on her life. Some outlawed desperado, whom she feared to name— who had made a fortune by lawless deeds and was com- pelled to fly his native land to enjoy his ill-goiten gold. Perhaps, even— and, though Herbert shrunk from the thought seemed to explain much of the m) that enshreuded Sybil’s fife—per ws some criminal, hiding from offended justice! Was it strange that Sybil should deny his suit, was it strage that one 80 delicate and gentle sh ie from un- veiling, even to a lover's eye, the mys- tery of a father’s crimes? Ah,y as Herbert thought of the wild threats of the ruffian who had met him in Clive Woods ,and_ the fierce anger of the masked monk in Madam la Marquise’s ball room, he be- came more and more satisfied that his eurmises were correct—that Sybil Wraye was the daughter of one who had ced his children and dishon- -ored name—of one to whom she eleng in pity and tenderness, but also in shame and sorrow; and never, until the shadow was removed from her ‘path, could he hope to win her—never while that father lived, would she con- sent to link her fate with that of the proud and honored Clives. And with the picture of his pure and beautiful Sybil floating before his eyes—with the echo of her tender though hopeless words still sounding in his ears—it s no wonder that Her- bert felt a fierce indignation swelling t against the man whose sross the sunshine of his Yove—a the father who had blighted the happiness of his ¢hild. Absorbed in thoughts like these, Herbert walked on slowly, and it was Yong past midnight when he arrived at the little inn. Yet, late as was the ‘hour, the place seemed astir with some fanusual excitement. Lights twinkled in all the windows; voices could be heard raised in loud ‘discussion in the little bar room: and Dame Marguerite, whom he had left modding sleepily over her knitting, was a very wide-awake and angry little wo- man, judging from the vituperative re- marks that reached the ears of het evest. “Coward, idiot ,knave and fool that ‘thou art! to come back to St. Gothard ‘with a story like that on your lying vou, that I, too, recommended ieur as faithful and _ trust- -worthy! What will the mademoiselle ‘say to me, in her anguish, in her des- pair?) What will the world say of you, the guide, the traitor, who could leave his master and friend to perish? ‘Knave. coward, villain that thou art! ‘old, then, if thou wilt, good vas the gruff rejoinder. “A s dear to him as a gen- § that Jean Baptiste Fe- wre would turn his b: ty—none sean say that of him Dame Marguerite, ‘and he has been gide at Mount Goth- ard for well-nigh a score of years.” “IT say nothing of the past!” ex- elaimed the dame. shrilly. “It has been geod enough—too good for it made me trust your courage, your hon- or, your truth. I never thought Jean Bantiste Fevre would turn his cow: ardly back upon the master who had put his life in his hands, and leave him xto perish in the mountain snows.” “Sacre blue! Have I not told you that he sent me for help?” answered the man, whose sluggish nature seemed to be at last stirred to impa- tience. “Have I not told you that his foot was crushed, and he could not walk? Have I not told you that, al- though I might lift weights against ‘him in the canton, not even Jean Bap- tiste Fevre could carry like an infant a form such as Col. Lanonte? I came ‘for hel have I not told you—I came dame. guide tema said the dame, in a thrilling whisper, as 2 dull, booming sound ech- oed in the distance. “You came for help, you say? Jean Baptiste, what man will take his life in his hands and fbrave the Pass, with that noise in his ears? No, no, it is too late—too late! Alas for poor monsieur—it is too late!” “What is too late?” asked Herbert, entering. “What has happened, ma- dam?” “Ah, woe, misery, desolation, Mon-'| ssieur Clive!” cried the good dame, ‘wringing ber hands. “This knave, this fool, this idiot here, who has been guide in St. Gothard for twenty years, ‘has turned coward, traitor, Judas, at Yast! He has betrayed the master who trusted him: he has turned his back on brave Monsieur Colonel Laponte, and left him to perish in the snow!” “If the gentleman will listen to me.” ecouticned Jean Baptiste, his swarthy eheek flushing, “I will prove to him ‘Secret | swer, Her Heart’s By Jean WARNER. PPP RAP ALAA that I ath no coward. I will tell him how monsieur slipped and. sprained his leg, so that he could no longer walk; I will tell him how the dark night was coming on, and there was no one near to aid, for there have been avalanches of lite that have frightened the herdsmen from the mountains, and I came quickly back to St. Gothard for hel “Help! help!” repeated the dame, who, with the unreasoning anger of a warm-hearted woman, could not be soothed. “What help will avail poor Monsieur Laponte now? What help will ayail peor mademoiselle, why loved her father as the apple of her eye? Ah, they were everywhere to- gether—at the church, and in the groves and on the lake—poor mademoi- selle, who is even now, doubtless wait- ing and watching for the father who will never come!” Her father—Sybil’s father—in deadly peril? The father whose life was the one dark shadow cn his pathway, alone and helpless in that vast wilderness of ice and snow? A thousand conflicting emotions seemed surging like the waves of a tempestuous sea in Herbert's breast, as he turned to the guide and asked him: “You came for help, you say; why do you not procure it? moment must be precious.” “I can’t find a man willing to cross the Pass to-night,” was the gruff an- | swer. “All the best men of St. Goth- ard’s have gone down to the Christmas. tide games. Only the old men and the cowards are left behind. They do not like the music cf the snows.” As he spoke, the dull thunder of the yvalanche s emmed to give awful mean- ing to b “Sybil’s father—the father whom she loved!” the words kept echoing and echoing in Herbert's ears—“Sybil’s father in danger of a frightful death!” Ah, it needed not even this echo to | arouse the generous soul of Herbert- A fellow-creature was in peril, and he must aid him—a helpless being needed the assistance that he could and must besto “I will go with you,” he said, turn- ing to the guide. “I am young and | strong, and do not fear the terrors of the mountain pass. Let us start at once, for every moment seems an hour to the wounded, helpless man.” In vain the dame wept and protested against the departure of her guest—in vain she warned him of the fearful ay- alanches that only a few weeks before had spread ruin and devastation over | an crtire hamlet. Herbert was not to | be turned from his purpose now, and | in less than an hour from his separa- tion from Sybil, he was setting out, armed with a stout Alpenstock; and in company with the sturty thoug mt ch- abused Jean Baptiste, to save her fath- er and his enemy from impending | death, “And there is no message the brave monsieur wovld leave?” said the tear- ful dame, fcllowing him to the door. ’ yeplied Herbert, cheerfully. | “Only—only,”> he hesitated, “if—if 1 should not return, let Mademoiselle Laponte know that I went as—her |} knight, to my death.” As they left the village, Jean Bav- | tiste cast a practical eye around him. The night was still clear, but a faint haze was gathering around the moon. The guide’s brow érrkere1 at the sight. “Monsieur should know what risk he, runs,” he said, gravely. “There is a storm coming with the coming day—a storm that will take brave hearts and | strong limbs to meet. ss “We have beth,” was the terse an- “therefo we should not fear. Let us make haste while we can.” They hurried op. Soon the little hamlet w: ar behind them—an oasis searcely visible in the waste of ice and snow. All was white, bare, frowning and desolate. Herbert seemed to have left the beautiful dreamland of hope and love forever, and to be chmbivg the rugged heights of the frowning future alone. Then the tempest burst upon them— the white, driving snow, that blinded, dazzled and bewildered them—the tem- pest that grew fiercer and wilder, until the dull, leaden sky above them was totally obscured, and Herbert could only grasp the stick the guide held out to him, and grope through clouds of falling snow and citting sleet, know- ing not where he trod. ill Jean Baptiste kept on, silently, y led, it seemed, more by dumb an human intelligence; pick- along precipices, over footed, patient and un- some strong, well: trained beast who follows the same then Every ing chasms, track without a word or sign to guide. Thrice the thunder of the avalanche, rolling from the neighboring peaks, had resounded with awful majesty through the silent wastes they trod. Thrice Jean Baptiste had paused, bent his head and crossed himself in devout thanksgiving as the danger passed. At last the guide stopped and tur ned to Herbert. “It was there I left him,” he said, poirting to a huge black rock, that lifted itself from the snows around like some grim monster watching o’er the scere—‘just there on the sheltered side. Ah, monsieur, our labor, per- haps our lives, have been given in vain —he is buried beneath the snows.” “Where?” said Herbert, eagerly. ‘Do not give up hope so soon, man. After. what you have done to-day we must make one more struggle for a human life. There may be’ hope tee let us search.” “Help, help!’ Was it a sigh of the wind or a human cry, that echoed through the snow? “Help, help! in God’s name!” “Hurrah, hurrah!’ The glad cheer of that sound was nevér forgotten by the well-nigh despairing one it reachea. The strong young voice seemed to shout the clear note cf hope. ge rah, he lives! Ore more cry, friend, and we'll fin? ~ov. Help, un | gratitude. | lanche resounded ominously | the snow-clad heights, and a party of sturdy help, is at hand. Once moref “Here, here!’ cried the faint voice at the right of the rock. “I am’ well- nigt. perished. Who is it that has come to ald me? Who are the brave men who have dared a storm like this to save a friendless man?” “Tis I, monsieur,” said the guide, as he and Herbert lifted the giant form of Col. Laponte from its recumbent po- sition—“I, Jean Baptiste Fevre, your faithful servant, and this brave young moe, who so kindly gave me S. “Herbert Clive!” As the helpless man was lifted in those strong young arms his dark eyes fell full upon his savior’s face. “Herbert Clive!” he re- peated, hoarsely. “You—you! What avenging fate has sent you here?’ “I came to save your life,” was the quiet reply—“a life which is dear to one who is dearer than life to me.” “And you have periled your life for me—for me?” repeated the helpless man, in a husky whisper. “For me, the sworn and eternal enemy of you and yours?” “Of my own will I have made no man my enemy,” answered Herbert, gravely. “What I have done for you I would have done for any fellow creature in peril. This faithful fellow beside me has the only claim on your He knew the dangers of the search; I did not.” “I told. monsieur,” said the honest Jean, who felt this an imputation on his fair dealing—“I told monsieur the risk, and he took it all. We cannot go back this evening, but there is a hut a mile away from here, to which we ean carry Monsieur Laponte till the worst of the storm is passed.” “Oh, see, he has fainted! Thank the good Ged, we came not a moment too soon!” Not a moment, for the powerful man lay in their strong, brave arms, passive and helpless as a child. Thus they car- ried him, painfully and_ perilously, through the driving snows, until the deserted hut was reached; and through the long, dreary hours of the stormy night that followed, while the winds roared wildly through the mountain pass, and the dull thunder of the aya- around them, they watched beside the couch of straw where the dark-browed man lay motionless and silent—buried, so it seemed, in a heavy stupor from which he could not awake. What he saw, what he heard, what he thought and felt, in that seeming trance, no mortal ever knew. Once only he started up wildly, and, as Her- bert fancied, whispered hoarsely his father's name—the name ‘of “Robert Clive!” yy the morning the storm was over; the sun rose in unclouded majesty over stout young men from the neighboring valley came up to find the brave res- cuers, whose story had reached fitting ears at last. The still unconscious patient was borne home on a litter, and with the bright sunlight gilding the dazzling peaks around, and the blue of an Alp- | ine sky above—with the Christmas car- ols of the gay young mountaineers ech- oing from the icy crags, and the sweet peace that fotlows a noble deed filling his bast, Herbert found no terrors in his second journey through the mountain pass. There seemed. a strange stillness in the little village as, he reached .jt-a sort of Sabbath hush in the air. Good Dame Marguerite forgot her matronly propriety, and fairly hugged the re- turning wanderer as he crossed the threshold. . “Ah, Monsieur Clive, Monsieur Clive! ‘to think my sharp tongue should have sent you and poor Jean Baptiste on such assearch! Ab, mademoiselle heard of it, you may be sure! Poor made- moiselle, who is nearly wild with ter- ror and gricf. Ah, ah, I forgot the let- ter monsieur was waiting for is here. Ah, mon Dieu, how black and sad it looks!’ And Dame Marguerite turned the black-sealed envelope over in her hand. “I trust it has no sad news from monsieur’s home.” Herbert broke the seal with trem- bling bands; then sunk, with a low moan, into the seat behind him.) His father was dead—the master of Clive Towers was peremptorily summoned home! CHAPTER XXXVI. Home Again. On the wings of steam Herbert hur- ried homeward. Anguisa at his loss was deepened by the sting of remorse at his long absence and seeming neg- lect. It had been months since he had re- ceived tidings from home. The letter containing the sad news of his fath- “ decease was already several weeks old. Poor Fannie! Who had sustained her during this terrible bereavement? Who bad taken a brother’s place at her side? For the moment, even Sybil’s image faded from his mifid before the pic- ture his imagination drew of loving, sunny-hearted Fannie in her anguish and despair. It was a dull evening in February when he jumped from the cars at the little station near Clive Towers, ana, satchel in hand, ascended the steep ac- clivity that led from the river side to his home. His home, indeed, though the re- flection brought him’no thrill of tri- umph. He was the master of Clive Towers now. The thought gave him only pain. All nature seemed in accordance with his saddened mood. There was no life, no glow, no glitter, either on earth or sky. All was sere, brown and dead. Inyoluntarily, the poet's de- Serintan of a similar scene recurred to m: “The day is ending, The night descerding, The marsh is frozen— The river dead! Through clouds, like ashes, The red sun flashes ‘ On village windows H That glimmer red!” 3 The charm that bad hung over hill, and vale, and river, in the sunny sum: mer time, had gone- All was cold, and gray, and hopeless, as if there would be no more spring. He reached the house—the stately mansion his father had reared with so much pride, and Whose massive grandeur seemed so characteristic of the stern, strong man. . How. dark and gloomy it looked now! The windows al lwere closed, | father’s honor unsts | eyes, and then, folding her mittened fountains silenced, the flowers dead! The hall door swung open noiselessly to receive him’ a strange servant eyed him dubiously; he crossed the thresh- old of his home without a word of wel- come, ‘and found himself, like a strang- er in his father’s house, asking for Miss Clive. Everything was in perfect order; no wheel of the well organized household system seemed disarranged by the stoppage of the master hand; yet there was a strange hush, an unnatural re- pression, over the whole house that op- pressed Herbert like breathing a pdis- oned air. He entered the drawing room, and, in his mother’s ebony rocking chair, b; the marble hearth, a woman sat busy with her knitting—a pale, slender wo- man, who rose to meet him with a certain still, crafty triumph in glance, and manner and tone. “You are late, indced,” she said, with a sigh, and, lifting her black-bor- dered handkerehief to her eyes, “and you come to a sorrowing home, Her- bert, poor boy!” “My sister—where is my _ sister?” asked the young man, in a husky yo'ce, while his spirit rose at the unusual fa- miliarity of the housekeepers address. “Where is Miss Fannie?” “Dear Fannie is in her roem,” an- swered Mrs. Wyllis, in her lowest tone. “Indeed, she seldom leaves it- She is mueh broken—sadly broken! You would searcely know her now. Your poor father—” “Has her health failed?’ interrupted Herbert, who felt an indescribable ob- jection to hearing the details of his father’s death from this woman’s lips. “Where is she? I—I must see her av once!” The white eyelashes were lifted for one moment, and the steel-gray eyes were fixed upon the speaker with a glance, half ef pity, half of scorn, as he thus quietly assumed the master’s tone- “There were some matters of which I wished to speak—” she began- “Which I can hear at some other time,” interrupted Herbert, haughtily. “My present duty is first to my sister —my poor, broken-spirited darling. After that [ am ready te diseuss any household arrangements you desire to mention. ” “He lerds it grandly,” murmured Mrs. Wyllis to herself, with her still smile, #s Herbert left the room. “Ab, yes! yery grandly, with his ‘must” and ‘shall.’ But I will tame him, too— tame him, even as I tamed his proud, strong father. The honor of the Clives—the Clives!—ha, hat! it is my trump card—the honor of the Clives! T hold it in my p—aye, I hold them in my power. heir dead father’s name must be kept sacred—their dead ned! Even ag that dead father sinned and suffered for them, so must they sin and suffer for him. Ah, yes, yes! it is a doub.e game, that works charmingly. nd I—I, Re- becea Wyllis, the charity child, whom they all thought too stupid to notice, too blind to see—I sit in the mistress’ velvet chair and hold the stakes!” She tapped her breast, while a tri- umphant light glittered in her white hands, she bent her head and gazed steadfastly into the fir Up sta in Faunnie’s little boudoir, brother and sister sat, clasped heart to heart. The first few moments of that meet- ing were too full of emotion for words. With one glad ery of mingled joy and sorrow, Fannie sprang into her broth- er’s arms, and sobbed out her pent-up anguish on his breast. For one mo- ment Herbert held her pressed to his heart, well-nigh bursting with its weight of grief. Ah, she was changed—sadly changed. Even in the uncertain light he could | see how delicate was the face, erst round and rosy as a laughing Hebe’s— how hollow the once ‘sunny, laughing ey! ree—how frail the graceful fopm! nni4, Fannie, my poor little sis- ter! you have suffered much, and alone —all alone!” “All alone!” she repeated, sadly. Oh, Herbert, you know not how much alone! If you had not come soon, dear, I weuld have died—died broken-heart- ed! Alas, alas! the prophecy was true —the old woman’s prophecy was true! The very day she spoke, sorrow came upon me—scrrow and’’—she bowed her head on Herbert’s breast. and whis- | pered the word—“disgrace!” “What de you mean?’ he exclaimed, starting. “I’annie—sister, what word is that to come from lips like yours?” “Have you not heard?” she mur- mured, casting an affrighted ‘glance around her. “Oh, brother, brother, such cruel whispers, such cruel ru- mors! I could bear all, ally’ she sobbed cut, “if they would let poor papa rest in his grave but evil tongues have followed him even there!” “What do they say?” asked Herbert, fiercely. “I am here now to defend my father’s memory, and, by Heaven, I will do it!) Who dares to cast a slur upon the name of Robert Clive?” “Hush, hush!’ Fannie whispered. “Do not speak so. I—I cannot tell you how or whence the rumors came, but they say papa had no right to Clive Towers; that he held it only by—by— oh, how can I speak the word of my own papa?—by fraud! And she’— Fannie shuddered as she spoke—“she seems to know. She has hinted that she knew what, for our sakes, she would rot reveal!” “She?” repeated Herbert, angrily. “Who—that old cat dozing by the fire— old Wyllis, whom I have always de- spised? Has she had her claws upon you, my poor little pet? Has she dared to torture you by her lying whispers? By heaven, I will wring her secret, if she haye any, from her slavering lips!” “Do not speak quite so loudly, if you please, Mr. Clive,” said a soft voice be- hind them. Farnie started with a cry of terror that showed in what dread she held the quiet sneaker. “There are servants in the house on whom I cannot entirely depend. I in- truded, perhaps, too soon; but it is well to learn i. time what reward I am to expect for twenty years of faithful and untiring devotion to you and yours. It is well to know in time exactly how I stand with” —oh, the bitingscorm ot her words!—“the new, master of Clive Towers.” “I spoke hastily ‘aad angrily,” said Herbert, who was teo cl coe to | wittimgly use rude words to any wo- man. ‘We have never been very good friends, Mrs. Wyllis—that you know, still you have, as you say, done your duty’ faithfully, and, to. my certain knowledge, you have always received a fitting recompense. I believe,” he add- the porches silent and deserted, the | ed, with cold hauteur, By ss there out Ree mutual obligations en “Herbert! Herbert!” interposed Fan- nie, nervously. “Let him go on, my dear—let him go on,” said Mrs. Wyllis, with malicious triumph. “As I stated before, it is well to know exactly how we stand. I have done my duty faithfully, as you say, Mr. Clive—very faithfully. I dia it five-and-twenty years ago, when 1 was an humble charity child, se.t to wait upon a miserly, tyrannical old man. I was too low, and too ignorant, and too stupid to see or hear, and so, I suppose, they paid no attention to my presence. I was too,low and too mean to have a presumptuous thought to- ward the fine young gentleman, Mr. Robert, who sent me on messages and. gave me sixpences, and told me I ought to go to school and learn how to rise in life. I did go to school, and I did rise in life;. and, humble as I wa., I did dare to dream a woman's dream —a dream that had Robert Clive for its central figure. He was poor, then, as well as I, and he was the only one who had ever given me a kindly word. Aye, at seyenteen, Mr. Clive, I did dare to think ard dream—aye, and pray for your father’s love—” “Yeu?” interrupted Herbert, in seorn- ful tmazement. “You dreamed of -my tather—of Robert-Clive?” “Five-and-twenty years ago, what was Robert Clive?” was the low whis- per. “What is Robert Clive now? Is he apy better tham the pauper who rots in six feet of earth beside him? Where is his strength, his pride, his grandeur now? Where? where?” “Be silent, woman! thundered Her bert, im her ear. “Do you forget that you speak to bis children?’ “I forget nothing,” she said, calming down to her usual feline manner. “He never knew my one dream, and I never told him. Only once, five-and-twenty years age, some one laughed at him about pretty ‘Becky Nobody,” and I heard the prowd, scornful words with which he flung back the taunt. Aye, I heartl, and [ never forgot! Since them I have lived with but one purpose im my -mind—either to raise myself to Robert Clive’s level, or drag him down to mine. I succeeded; your proud father, Herbert Clive, died in my pow- er, even as yow now hold your own by my mercy. I have succeeded. The humble elmrity child is willing to treat with the master of Clive Towers, and to yield him quite as generous terms as be was willing to accrod her.” «fo Be Continued.) AWAY EIN DREAMLAND, The Girl Who Got On the Uptown Car Tried To Pay Her Fare With Samples of Foulard. The young woman’s. mind was prob- ably way off in the land of eut-on-the- bias, and yokes, and flarings, and pleat- ings, and applique and ruffles, and things like that, whatever they may mean. Anyhow when she got en an uptewn Ninth street car the other afternoon, she dreamily opened her pocketbook when the conductor came around for her fire, stuck a glowed } “t finger and thumb into one of the com- partments of the same, extractea @ couple of foulard samples, and, with that far-away expression still in her eyes, handed them to the conductor. He smiled aud waited for the young woman te come out of her trance. Eut she heid the foulard samples out to him, with her eyes on: vacancy, un- til the conductor, still grinning, bad to bring her ba to earth “Yes, they’re pretty, miss,” he said, “and I'd like te get my wife a dress off that piece on top, Dut she’s—” The yeung lady blusied like a red- hot steve lid, dug inte anether com partment of her poGket for a ear tick- et, and she looked real embarrassed when the brutal male passengers across the ear aisle grinned.—Washing- ton Post. The Sub-Editor. | The sub-editor is obliged to be Iynx- eyed over every: word, lest he should make his, paper ridiculous. Some of the blunders are stealthy, creep into type and disturb the editor, or enter- tain the reader hext morning at break- fast. Others are easily detected, and cause simply a mild flutter of amuse- ment to the sub-editer, as he ruthicss- ly strikes them out with his blue pen- cil. For instance, comparatively little acumen was necessary to correct the ezbinet minister's whimsical appeal to the great political meeting: “We are now at the parting of the ways—will you, gentlemen, take the, path that is full of feotballs and precipices?” But the sub-ecitor who received a telegram of a bishop’s speech, in which his lord- ship solemnly asserted that in Chris- tian life the inexorable condition was “No cows, no eream,” was reduced to a piteous state of perplexity till the conviction flashed into his brain that the words should’ have been tele- graphed “No cross, no crown,”—Good Words. Criticism is Easy. “We have come,” they said, to the great war critic, “to offer you the com- mand-.of the army.” “Why, really,” he expostulated, “I have not had the experience to exactly qualify me for so great a responsibili- ty.: 4—" “For months,” they urged, “you have been explaining just what the various generals ought to do and pointed out the errors they have maile.” “Yes, yes, of course.” he adniitted; “put that’s different, you know.” Of course, they knew; but the as- tonishing feature was that he should admit it—Chicago Post. Happy. Hogan—It do stroike me thot yea is lookin’ moighty happy fur a mon ez hez jist recaved a dommed hard lick in’. The Varquished—Oi’m falin’ happy: Thot paste Murphy giv’ me on th’ mout’ knocked out a tooth thot hez bin kapin’ me: frum shlapin’ fur a week.—Judge. The Eclipse Explained, . Mr. Jobnsing—Now, den, yo’. see how de moon slides in between de‘earth and de sun? Pompey Washington—Uhpah, - “well, den,, de sun is naterally put out.” * Governed by Circumstances. *. Mabel—Would you marry a Be who had been refused? fusing had been by e tag ago saat ,in it beside me. Dolly—If he were rich, and the re | Fractions Red: Ola Gentleman—And have you any brothers or sisters, my little man? Bobby—Yes, sir. I got one sister an’ one-an’-a-bals brothers. Old Gentleman—What? Bobby—Yes, sir. Two half-sisters ane. three half-brothers.—Philadelphia Tess. What Will Become of China? None can foresee the outcome of the quarrel betwen foreign powers over the division of China. It is interesting to watch the going te pieces of this race. Many people are also gong to pees because of dyspepsia, constipa- ion and stomach diseases. Good health ean be retained if we use Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters. Mixed. “You're a horse thief, sir!” “Excuse me, but are you not mistak- ing my brother for me?” “Your brother? Your brother is @ scholar and a gentleman.” “Now you are mistaking me for my brother.”—Cleveland Plain Dealer. Cy tS) kK at ag ! Is your face covered with pimples? Your skin rough and blotchy? It’s your liver! Ayer’s Pills are liver‘ pills. They cure constipation, bilfousness, and dyspepsia. 25c. All druggists. >» Want your moustache or beard # beautiful drown or rich bi BUCKINGHAM’S DYE fer.the.. 50.018. oF ORUGGISTS. Of RP. HAUL A Co. Nasuus, NH al PATENTS. List of Patents Issued Last Week to Northwestern Inventors. Charles I’. Babcock, Minneapolis, Minn., machine for casting printers’ Page Charles W. Brown, Mitchell, S. , broom holder; Charles W. Christ stil Waterville, Minn., photographie yignetter; John E. Erickson, St. Paul, Minn., dovetailing machine; John Gil- bert, Fisher, Minn., land roller; Eu- gene Jacquemin, Minneapolis, Minn., ear axle brass; William T. Rolph; Min neapolis, Minn., sofa-bed (reissue); John W. Stevens, St. Paul, Minn., rail- way rail joint. Merwin, Lothrop & Johnson, Patent Attor- eeys, 911 & 912 Pioneer Press Bldg., St Paub Just Like Milk. “Mamma,” exclaimed the little fish, hat worm I just sneaked off the hook seemed to be to be quite sour.” “Well, my dear,” replied the mamma fish, ‘the weather's quite warm, and ‘the worm will turn,’ you know.”— Philadelphia Press. Important to Mothers. Examine carefully every bottle of CASTORIA, ssafe and sure remedy for infants and children, and see that it Bears the sisoture ot arf eledith In Use For Over 30 Years. ‘The Kind You Have Always Bought. One Beside Her. “Is this hammock strong?” asked the summer girl. . “Oh, yes,” said the clerk; “that is, medium strong. Is anybody eise to use it beside you?” “Yes, indeed. There will be several That is.” she added, “one at a time.” For she looked fer- ward to a busy and not monotonous summer, as usual.—Philadelphia Press. Ladies Can Wear Shoes. One size smallerafter using A llen’s Foot Ease, a powder. It makes tight or new shoes easy. Cures swollen, hot,sweating, aching feet, ingrowing nails, corns and bunions. All druggists and shoe stores, %c. Trial package FREE by mail. Ad- dress Allen S. Olmsted, Le Roy, N.Y. Bixey’s Cordial Way. “Bixey was a hospitable fellow.” “Yes; I have never called on him without his inviting me to call again.” “Did you have business relations with him?” “Yes; I was a collector.”—Cleveland. Plain. Dealer. Don’t Stor TOBACCO SUDDENLY It injures nervous to GURO 1s ihe only our notifies you wi tee that three boxes Swiltcure ‘eure any case. B -CUR jonas joven erty meine Tt has at a eect id 31a do so. BACO- ¥ CURES Se eae