Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, August 25, 1900, Page 6

TTS TCS CCS CSE CCS CCS TEES A SIREN’S VICTIMS By Frances Warner Walker. SUETECETITULTOTELITELT ETD, CHAPTER HI. (Continued,) “Why not?” he asked ,and in his voice rang a challenge.” ‘‘Have I not had a whole month for my recovery? Women need not more than a single hour in which to effect their convales- cence. But, be this as it may, we do but waste words. Rise, madam, I beg of you. Ills of the body are less read- ily healed than those of the heart, and you are running very great risk from this exposuré.” But she resisted the effort which ac- companied his speech to lift her to her feet. Instead, she bent her head upon the hands she held, and pressed her lips passionately upon them. “Harry, Harry!” she pleaded, “think of the effort it must have cost me to come to you like this, and, oh, let one touch of gentleness and pity steal into your voice. You are so cold, so stern, that between us rises a great. barrier, beyond which I cannot recognize you. Listen to me, dear. In mercy,, listen! I am not the false, heartless woman If t you have been led to believe me. were, would I come here to-night? Would I kneel at your feet and plead with you as I plead now?” “Women are loth to let their victims escape, even when they cease to yield them amusement,” he interrupted, bit- terly. Slowly she raised herself once more to her feet, and let his hand drop from her clinging touch, while she threw back her little head haughtily. “I see,” she said; “and new and qui- et dignity had crept into her tone, marked, however, by infinite sadness. “The new life has wiped out the old. For it, for me, you have not even one tender memory, and I—I thought you loved me so well that, though a month, a year, a Ifetime had elapsed, I should find the flame burning as brightly as when last we parted. You see that I ‘was wrong. Let us speak no more, then, of the past, except the few words I came here to speak—the few words whick will tell you how you have wronged me. You thought me false to your vows of love. You were told that I was receiving Lieut. Barclay’s atten- tions in your absence. A man jealous | of me told you that Lieut. Barclay and I were engaged to be married. You came to me and made me promise not | to see him again. You said you did not } like the man, that you @onsidered his | attentions idle and meaningless, and | compromising to the woman who stood to you in the position I held; and I] promised--did I not? “Well, I meant to keep my promise. I forgot at the time that when last I had seen Mr. Barclay, he had picked | up your ring, which I had drawn from my finger in putting on my glove, and slipped it upon his own. I meant to ask him for it before we parted. It} escaped my mind, .as, with my glove upon my hand, I did not miss it. It} was the evening of that day when I promoised you not to see him again. “That same night you met him, and recognized the ring that he still wore. | Some one present jestingly asked him if it had any meaning, and he an-| swered, falsely, that it was a pledge. “Before I slept that night I wrote | and begged him to return it to me at} once. T told him at the same time that | there were reasons why I could not | again receive him. “He replied that only into my own hands would he restore the ring; that my determination was too unjust and | too unkind for him to accept other than by word of mouth—in short, that hhe must see me once more. I dared not tell you the truth, as I should have done, and ask you to ask him for the ring. I feared your anger. So, weak- ly, I consented to see him, and ap- pointed that afternoon for the inter- view. “It so happened that you, who had been angrily brooding all day over the scene of the evening previous, came at the same hour to demand of me an ex- planation. I had given orders to be denied to every one. Hearing this, | your suspicions were newly awakened, and you insisted upon entering. What was the result? You walked into the} brary and saw the picture which, in your jealous rage, seemed confirmation stronger that holy writ. You turned, and, without word or glance, walked out of the house. I called you; but, for once, you were deaf to the sound of my voice.~ “And it is for this man, this jealous brute—you have thrown me over?’ said a mocking voice in my ear. “I could not answer. Tears choked me. I turned my face toward the win- dow and forced them back. When I| again met Mr. Barclay’s glance I was! smiling. The world, at least, should not suspect that my heart was break- ing, I vowed, secretly. ““T may come again?’ he asked. “And, though I hated him for all the misery he had brought upon me, I an- swered yes—that he might come. ‘Well, days went by, and each day I thought would bring you, even as each day the pride that upheld me grew less, and the wound at my heart bled more, until my weakness forced me here to you, to learn only that my wound is mortal—that—that another holds my place!” The last word ended in a long, quiv- ering sob. She turned, as if to leave him, but one stride brought him to her side. The indifference had gone from his face—gone the cold sternness—gone the icy disdain. The pallor, perhaps, had deepened, but his eyes were aglow with light and his lips trembled with feeling. “Helen, is it true—this story that you have told me?” “Yes, it is true,” she answered, al- most defiaptly. “And now that my cup of b lition is drained to the dregs by its confession—a confession made to the lover of another woman— let me leave you. I need not ask you | reptile of the two, e’en though it wore to forget me. That teaching you have already acquired. I can but pray God to send forgetfulness to me!” Again she moved away, but his de- taining grasp fell on her arm. “Helen!” he murmured, face, as he looked down into hers, was all aglow with passion’s fire—‘Helen, forgive me?” “Never,” she answered—‘never! I could forgive you all but that you have ceased to love me. Ceased, did I say? You only played at love. Those to whom it is real cannot thus forget.” “And you think I have forgotten?” “What else am I to think? Oh, Har- sia vind she turned toward him, with all her anger and defiance fled, and threw her arms about his neck. He caught her and strained her to his heart. He bent his head until his lips met hers in voiceless ecstasy. Thus he held her while the minutes | passed and the moon sank herself be- hind a passing cloud—heart to heart and lip to lip, her arms fast locked about his throat. Suddenly she released her hold, and let her arms drop to her side. “Oh, Harry.” she cried, “I ought not to have come! How late it is! How) can I return?” “You will go back with me,” he said, “and to-morrow, Helen—to-morrow— will make you my wife. That course will silence all remarks—all question— should question arise.” “To-morrow? Oh, my love, you will | not think me unwomanly that I thus | came to you—thus plead with you my own cause? You are sure—quite sure —that the future will bring you’ no re- gret—that it is not your chivalry which spares me?” “Did my chivalry welcome you?” se | answered. “How can I forgive mys>f that such a welcome met you! Poor) child! You deserved—” He paused. His repetition of the | phrase of tender, pitying love mecalled| to him her of whom he had thought as, | | standing alone in his tent, he had felt how little love he had to offer the child who dared murmur his name that night in her sleep, even as she already, had murmured in her prayers. Poor child, indeed! Yet she was. but | a child. She knew naught of love's realities. Thank God for that! In weeks-—almost in days—she would forget him. His first duty lay, not to} Obeying the sudden tmpulse which moved her, she rose and, coming he- hind him, clasped her arms about his neck. “Never tell me anything that could pain you, dear uncle!” she whispered. “Why should you? And let us forget to-day that pain or suffering exists in the world.” She bent her head until the bright chestnut hair mingled with the streaks of gray,and her lips touched his brow. He raised his hand and softly stroked -her cheek then rose, as if in repressed impatience, and walked to the window. “f wish the boy would come!” he said. But, one by one, the hours went slowly by, and still his wish brought no fruition. To-day, as she wandered in and out of the house, no day had ever seemed so long. It was past noon, when, curling her- self up in a corner of the summer house, she tried to read; yet another hour had glided by, and she had turned no single leaf of the book she held. A romance more engrossing than that spun out on “its pages absorbed her thought—a romance in which her hero too so conspicuous a part that she for- got herself as heroine. Her reverie deepened, and she softly closed the book, and, almost, uncon- sciously, her waking and her sleeping dreams merged into one. Suddenly she started, roused by her lover's voice. What was he saying? To whom speaking? She sprang up to welcome him, but something held him still and dumb, Evidently the two men, father and son, had met outside the house, and now paused in their walk, not five feet distant from her. “Listen to my story and its justifica- tion, father,” she heard Harry say; “then: condemn me if you will.” And then he’ told the story through— the stcry of his love and jealousy, of his injustice and its reparation. Had the girl, sereened from his view within the rustic summer house, been converted into marble by his words? Instinctively, two little, ringless hands, white and soft and dimpled, were pressed tight over her heart; her eyes were dilated, and their hue had changed to black; her lifs were parted and colorless; her breath came be- tween them in short, difficult gasps. Her head,was bent forward in’ her eagerness, lest word or syllable should escape her; yet she was not conscious | that she played the role of eavesdrop- per. ‘At last her guardian spoke: “It is the work of a villain,” he safd, in strangely-altered tones, “and that her, but to one to whom he must atone for a bitter wrong. ‘Close he clasped to his heart the | yielding form of her who leaned there. | Again he bent his head and tasted the delicious sweetness of her lips. | “My love! My own” he murmured | low. But, even while he spoke, something rustled at his feet, and in a moment a tiny, bright-hued snake crept across his path. She screamed, turning pale in sudden fright. ® It vanished in the brushwood, and he, | holding her closer to his heart, reas- | sured her with tender, loving words. But no one warned him that he’ warmed in his embrace the deadlier the wondrous beauty of a woman's | form. “Until to-morrow,” he said, a half- | hour later, as he left her at her own door, and, in the impatience and ardor | of his great love he scarce could wait | the dawn‘of that wonderful new day | which was to crown his life with per- fect happiness. Nor in his busy thoughts was there any room for the child for whom the to-morrow was to | bring the first tasting of Mahbra’s| fruit—the fruit his hand would offer | to her young, pure lips, and bid them taste. CHAPTER Iv. The shadow of premonition reste1 on | Grace Hawthorne’s spirit, when, in the early dawn of the new day, she shook off the lethargy of slumber from her r-d slowly uplifted the | lids from the slcep- young limbs, weary- fringed fiushed cheeks. A smile lurked in the corners of her | mouth, as, though born of her dreams; | the light of joy sparkled in the violet | eyes. She was scarce awake, but already she remembered. The world hell new} meaning to her to-day. She had interpreted its secre‘—the | secret which gives to the birds’ song | their music, to the flowers their fra- grance and their beauty, to the heart its pulse. Yesterday she had existed; she had begun to live. She rose and dressed. The servants | were not yet stirring when she de-/ scended the stairs, and, drawing the fastenings of the great outer door, went out into the garden. But early as she was, the birds and | flomers were earlicr still, though from | the latter the sun’s rays had not yet | kissed away the sparkling dewdrops, | and the birds sang with hushed notes, as though fearing to awaken the sleep- ing world. “Do you know?” whispered the child to the flowers. And she fancied the answering rustle of their tiny leaves breathed assent to her question; for she was but a child still. Love had fallen into her grasp, but it was a child’s hand which held it. When that hand unclosed to empti- ness, how would it be then? Would it be child or woman who looked down with startled eyes of.fear at—nothing- ness? The coming day must solve the problem. With new tenderness her guardian’s kiss fell on her brow, as, two hours later, she greeted him in the breakfast room, and took her accustomed seat at the board. “I scarcely could tell you, Grace, last wight,” he said, “how happy I am in Harry's choice—happier than I evet dreamed I should be in life again. I think, child, one of these days, befor: you are Harry’s wife, I shall have the courage to tell you that I scarcely de- served that God should be so good to ” to-day | His voice broke. Instinctively the | would have sinned against her; girl felt his need of sympathy and comfort, though his words conveyed to her no special meaning. villain is my son. You ask me to wel- come this adventuress as my daugh- | ter. How, then does Grace stand to- ward me, who only last night held that honored place?” “Adventuress, father,” answered | Harry, sternly, “is not the word to be | applied to your son’s wife. Exc2pt that I hastily committed myself lest | night to Grace, I can reproach myself | with nothing. Doubtless she will czy} | herself to sleep to-night, poor chitd, | but to-morrow her own roses will not | be fresher nor fairer; her tears but | the dew which enhances their beauty. | I spoke to her of love and the child) dreamed that my words wakened en echo in her heart. Would that I could spare her even the fleeting unhapr!- ness of my falseness; but a week! hence and she will have forgotten. | Father, don’t let the memory of her} wrong make you unjust to Helen.” “Hush! Spare me the utterance of | that woman's name. Once undeceived | as to the character of her to whom you | have given your own proud old name, blinded by the infatuation which now masquerades as love, your punish- ment will be as bitter as your treach- | ery toward Grace has already been. Yet how dare I condemn you—I, who I, who have also proved unworthy my sacred trust—” And, staggering against the trunk! of a tree for support, he bowed his| head in his hands, while a deep groan burst from his white, quivering lips. “Father, in G@od’s name, tell me, what do you mean?” “I mean that we are two thieves— | you and I, father and son—and that} Grace Hamthorne is our innocent vic- tim. You have robbed her of love and happiness; I, of her inheritance. No, do not shrink away in horror. Of the two, my robbery will affect her less. Besides, I have not impoverished her. | More than half her fortune still re- mains to her. I, who talxed of disin- heriting you, am a beggar. Four years ago I put at least half my fortune and a portion of my ward’s into an invest- ment which promised the richest re- sults—which seemed absolutely secure. | The panic which, you remember, took place just then, and shook to its center | the financial world, swept the money from my grasp, leaving me only secur- ities, for the time absolutely valueless. Aghast at the stupendous loss, I un- dertook to retrieve it by speculat’ors. I was badly advised, and little by little my entire fortune has been swept a way. I have, however, not hazarded further a dollar belonging to Grace in this terrible struggle. Moreover, the | securities I hold in her name and my | own are beginning to gain in value. Had she been your wife, by still hold- ing control of her fortune, I might | have averted this pitiable confession | until I had made good her loss, or at least have gained courage to tell her) all.. Now she must know the truth at once, for I am no longer able to sup- port the style and living of a rich man. House, horses and carriages—all must go. Your father ts a beggar!” .A shudder passed over Harry Rey- nolds’ frame as he listened. Then he streched forth his arm, and laid his hand upon his father’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself too greatly, father, Grace’s fortune is still ample. You acted, as you thought, for the est. If I had but known this before!” “What difference could it have made?” interrupted the older man. “How would it have interfered with your mad infatuation for the scheming woman who holds you, at last, fast in her toils? What—’ “Hush, father! Not another word! Must I remind you that the woman of whom you speak is my wife? It were, indeed, better we should part, if in my présence, her name be not spoken with respect. As for your losses, I only wish to remind you that the little for- tune left me by my mother is yours to command. I am young. I can work for Helen. But you are growing old. Take it. It And as Let me Please do not hesitate. will at least give you comfort. for Grace—let me go to her. tell her all!’ “It is not necessary; Grace has heard all!" interrupted a voice. Both men started and looked up. In the door of the summer “house stood the slight, graceful figure, which had long grown so familiar to their sight; but the child’s cheek was blanched to the whiteness of her dress, and a pitiable look of suffering was clearly to be read in the azure-tinted eyes. “Yes, I have heard all,” she repeat- ed, coming slowly forward, her gaze fixed on her guardian, her glance stedi- ly avoiding him who, last night. had left upon her lips the kiss of a lover, “Uncle,” she whispered, twining botn arm around Mr. Reynolds’ neck, “I know now what you meant this morn- ing, when you spoke of something you might have to tell me. Only that you have lost some of my money. Never— never let us speak, or even think of it again. And never while you live, and anything remains to me, call yourself a beggar. You said a moment ago I was still rich. Well, then we are both rich; and, as for Harry’s fortune, you cannot touch that—that goes to his—"” She paused. She had thought herself brave enough to speak the words “his wife,” but they choked her in their ut- terance. And, uncle,” she contin- ued, after this little pause, “she is your daughter now. Don’t forget that, and promise me that you will grant Harry’s prayer, and accept her as your daughter.” “Merciful heaven!” cried the old man. Grace, you can plead for him!?” For the first time the girl turned her eyes toward the spot where Harry Reynolds stood. “What he says is true, uncle,” she said. “I was but a child—and he—he loved her even—last night. To-day I think that I have grown into a woman. Something deep down in my heart tells me what the love was which could have prompted him to act as he has done. If he wronged her, uncle, he owed her—not me—reparation. He —he did right—quite right. Unete— dear uncle, if you owe me anything, forgive Harry, and let me pay that debt!” “I thought right,” mused the young man, silently. ‘She will not even shei a tear for my lost love. She took it as any other plaything I would have of- fered her.” But, even as the thought passed through his mind, he met the glance of the blue eyes upraised to his, and saw in their depths such a look of dumb, hopeless anguish as caused his blood to chill with sudden dread. It was the look of one stricken to death, and stricken by the hand best loved on earth. He started forward and caught in his the little hand. “Grace! Grace! cried. “Hush, dear,” she said, gently. “It is not for me to forgive, unless uncle will let me put the words in his lips. Will you, Uncle Edgar? May I answer Harry in your name??” “I can’t! I can’t!” groaned the old- er man. “That woman in your place— the woman who schemed and toiled to win.my boy, my proud old name—hers to drag, if she wills it, in the dust. O, God! what have I done to deserve of | heaven. such punishment as this?” With a muttered articulation of bit- terest wrath, Harry Reynolds turned away, but there fell on his arm a gen- tle,sdetaining grasp. “Uncle, you are speaking of Harry’s wife,” said Grace. And this time there was no hesitation in her pronunciation of the word. “I think you must for- get” “I do forget,” he said. “Grace is right. But not in a miute can I pre- pare myself to look on things different- ly. For yourself, my son, I forgive you. God grant the day may never dawn when, in bitter repentance for | the act for which the rash dlood of | youth is answerable, you may find it more difficult to extend that forgive- ness to yourself. Say to your*-wife, that, just yet, I cannot meet her, but | that I will try later to prepare myself | for our future meeting. Come,. Grace, | let us go into the house.” As though ten years had fallen dur- ing the last hour on his broad shoul- ders, he drew the little girl's hand | within his arm and turned his foot- steps, suddenly feeble, homeward. “Good-bye, Harry!”’ whispered Grace, pausing to lay her little, cold fingers into his. “Give her my—love!” He stood motionless and watched the two retreating figures until a turn in forgive me!” he | the path lost them to sight. A cold, dull weight fell on his spirit as they disappeared from his view, 4 | | sudden premonition of evil, a sense of loss; and yet, in a private suite of rooms at the Arlington, the woman whom he so passionately loved await- ed his coming. In the remembrance of her beauty, he shook orf the cloud which had dared obscure the sunlight of such an hour, and, turning, walked hastily to- ward the hotel. © With loving welcome the young wife met him. With her head resting on his shoulder she listened silently to the story—all that had taken place during the hour. “Your father is no longer rich, then?” she said, when he had paused. The question jarred on Harry Rey- nolds’ ear. “My father, to-day, is a poor man,” he replied; ‘“‘but so much of Grace’s fortune still remains, that, doubtless, she will keep the old house as it al- ways has been—at least, until she mar- ries. Then, doubtless, it must pass in- to the hands of strangers.” “But, with your fortune, Harry, you would not permit that?” “My fortune, child!” he echoed, with a careless laugh. “At what figure do you estimate my wealth?? It scarcely would keep the house for one year’s time. I thought you knew you were marrying a comparatively poor man, Helen, although I had been taught to imagine that my father’s death would make me rich. In my own right I pos- sess but thirty thousand doilars. You see, dear, I shall have to join the army of workers to provide fitting nest and plumage for my bright-hued bird.” He stooped and kissed her. But her lips were cold and unresponsive. He guessed not that the one little hand was clenclied so that the nails hurt her flesh. On some pretext she dismissed him for a few moments from her presence. It gave her time to readjust her mask. ee ee eee she might have one long, free breath. “Harry, Harry!” “you have deceived me. And your pur- pose has been—what? So, even the -pretext..of wealth can be kept up sa long as this girl is unmarried! ell, she shall never marry, then! Oh, God, I thought I had done with scheming, and lo, all former scheming has been but the prelude to the play!” (To Be Continued.) CASE OF LADY AND THE TIGER. A Caged Animal in the Zoo Is Far Different From One in the Woods. Suddenly there was a sound—monk- eys trooping through the jungle, high in the trees, grasping the pliant braneh- es and shaking them well With rage. A tiger must be in the neighborhood. Another second — the jungle grass waved and cracked ,and out into the open emerged and advanced slowly a picture of fearful beauty. A tiger seen in the Zoo gives no faint idea of what one of his species is, seen, under its proper conditions. Beasts in captivity are underfed and have no. muscle, but here before us was a specimen who had always “done himself well,” was fit as a prize fighter, every square inch of kim developved to perfection. On he eame, his cruel eyes lazily blinking in the sun. His long, slouching walk, suggestive of such latent strength, be- trayed the vast muscle working firmly through the loose, glossy skin, which was clear red and white, with its dou- ble stripes and the W mark on the head. The sight of such majectic pow- er, as he swung majectically along, licking his lips and his mustache after his feed, was one of the things not soon to be forgotten, and, while it had a bracing effect on the nerves, at the same time struck.rather a chilling sens- ation. . . . . With my last barrel I fired. There was no time for a long and steady aim, but, as the smoke cleared away, what relief! The tiger had dropped to the ground. With nine lives—catlike—he was not dead; he walked off and disappeared.—From “A Sportsman in India.” TO BE FOUND IN YORKSHIRE. More Quaint Characters Here Than in Any Other Part of the Country. In this county of Yorkshire there are probably more interesting and histori- eal churches than in any other part of the country, and yet we find in an ar ticle on “English Churches, Small and Quaint,” that the rarities of Yorkshire are entirely overlooked. At Adel, for instance, there is probably the one per- fect Norman church in England, with its lion’s head on the door for sanctu- ary. At Lastingham there is the won- derful church founded by St. Ceadda which has a hole in the aisle down which one descends to find himself in another church, acting as the founda- tion for the edifice above. At Kirk dale stands the ancient church built by Brand, the priest, which was actually restored some years before the Con- queror set foot on British soil. Among the other numerous rarities in church- es which Yorkshire boasts may be mentioned the Saxon frescoes on the walls of the aisles in the parish church at Pickering. In addition to the rarities too numer- ous to mention, it may be stated that Yorkshire has more abbeys thah all the rest of Engiand put together. It ts interesting, however, to learn from the article, which exeludes Yorkshire churches, that we have in England two thatched churches, one built of logs and a black and white timbered church.—Newcastle (Eng.) Chronicle. SELF-EDUCATION, It is the Best Part of Every Person's Knowledge. Sir Walter Scott, whose authority is indisputable, once remarked that the best part of a man’s education is that which he gives himself, and the bios- | raphies of many of our greatest gen- iuses afford ample proof of the truth of this statement. Bacon declared that “studies teach rot their own use, but that is a wisdom without them, ana above them, won by observation,” and again end again in the long roil ot fame, of which as a nation we are justly proud, sppear the uames of those who, independent of tutors, univers ties and colleges, have given them- selves the finest education, developed | intellectual powers in the face of insu- perable diffieulties and attained posi- tions of the highest eminence. God has dowered rich and poor alike | with gifts of mind and heart, so that | distinction and culture, genius and tal- ent, are not the prerogative of one class alone. The men who have achieved the greatest triumphs in sci- ence, art or Litersture have frequently been severely ha idicapped at the out- set of their careers by poverty and. un- congenial environment; but these hind- rances, instead of deterring them or diminishing their enthusiasm, have served as wings on which they rose to high attainments. Mamma Got Tired. “Mamma, does money make man?” “I am sorry to say it does, some- times, Tommy.” “Money will make @ man go any- where, won't it?” 5 “I suppose so.” “If it was down in Cuba, would mon- ey make a man go to raising man- goes?” “Don’t bother me.”” “Do monkeys eat mangoes, ma?” “IT presume so, talk so much.” “Then if money makes the man go to. raising mangoes, and monkeys eat mangoes, why don’t monyeys make the mango ?—' Whack! Whack! “Ouch!"—Chicago Tribune. the mam- I wish you wouldn’t A Slight Mistake. Two negroes in Atlanta were dis- cussing the political situation. “McKinley am sho’ly 2 right good man,” said one. “He sholy am,” said the other, “but I ain't gwine to vote fo’ him.” “Why not?” , “Cause dat wife of his done all dis heah trust business—dat_ wife o’ his, Harna.”—Atlanta Journal. Proved: Patient—Look here; you’ve taken out the wreng tooth. This one is perfectly sound. Dentist’s Assistant (triumphantly)— And you distrusted my ability to take out even the loose ones—New York World. : Bs oe she murmured, |- Taking a Mean Advantage. “How is your husdand’s divorce case going on?” “I don’t know; the stingy wretch won't buy me a new costume, and so I can’t go to the court to defend myself.” —Pick-Me-Up. $25,000 For Flying Machines. Our government is to devote $25,000 for experimenting with flying machines for use ia the ammy. This is a large sum and yet it cannot compare with that spgnt by those who experiment with so-called dyspepsia cures. Tak> Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters. It is made expressly to cure constipation, dyspep- sia and all stomach disorders. Honeymoon Cruelty. “Nay, madam, the day I married you I gave you the key to my heart.” “Yes; and then you went right off ae had the lock changed.”—Brooklyn ife. Best for the Bowels. No matter what ails you, headache to a cancer, you will never get well unti! your bowels are put right CASCARETS help nature, cure you without a gripe or pain, produce easy natural movements, cost you just 10 cents to start getting your health back. CASCARETS Candy Cathartic, the genuine, put up in metal boxes, every tablet has C. C. C. stamped on it. ware of imitations. Contradictions. Well, Digby, I'm surprised! getting gray!” “Yes—yes; I’ve lots of gray hairs and precious few of them.”—Detroit Free Press. 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